In panic and fury, Chief Kletchi turned his head and shouted the one thing he should not have shouted.
“The phone! The recordings!”
The second the words left his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake.
Amaka stopped dead.
Her head turned slowly toward Bissy.
“What recordings?”
Bissy froze.
Amaka smiled, but now it was the smile of a knife.
“Oh,” she said. “This just got interesting.”
She turned to the guards.
“Lock her in. I will deal with her later.”
Bissy screamed as she was dragged away.
Chief Kletchi fought harder now, but the guards were trained, disciplined, and fully committed. They hauled him through the hallway toward the main house while every instinct in him roared with two truths at once:
His wife was in control.
And the only person who had tried to save him had just been marked for punishment because of him.
Then, through a window, he saw headlights sweep across the compound.
A car had arrived.
The doctor.
He was dragged into the bedroom and shoved inside. The room glowed with soft luxury—white sheets, carefully arranged pillows, quiet art, drawn-back curtains, air-conditioning humming gently. It was the kind of room meant to suggest safety, wealth, comfort, marriage.
Tonight it looked like a staged execution chamber.
Amaka entered behind him and closed the door.
The lock clicked.
She leaned against the wood and crossed her arms.
No more performance.
No more wife.
Only power.
“You should sit,” she said.
Chief Kletchi remained standing.
His chest was rising fast, but his voice came out steady.
“So this is how you planned it? In our bedroom?”
She shrugged.
“It’s poetic. This is where everything began.”
There was a knock.
Then the door opened.
A middle-aged man in a white coat entered carrying a black medical bag. Neat. Quiet. Respectful. The kind of man rich families often keep near for convenience and discretion.
“Madam,” he said.
Then he saw Chief Kletchi and paused.
“Oh. Sir, you’re back.”
“Yes,” Chief Kletchi said coldly. “And I’d like to know what you are doing here.”
The doctor glanced at Amaka.
She moved toward Chief Kletchi and laid one hand lightly on his arm, performing concern with almost supernatural ease.
“My husband collapsed earlier,” she said smoothly. “Too much stress. He has been overworking. He needs something to help him sleep.”
Something strong.
The doctor nodded.
“Of course.”
He opened his bag.
Chief Kletchi watched the vial appear.
