The first few weeks of physical therapy were a blur of frustration and pain. Her body, once a source of strength and vitality, was now a rebellious stranger. Her legs felt like they were filled with lead, and her speech, a once-fluid stream of words, was now slow and halting. She couldn't speak, so she had to write down every thought, every plea, on a small notepad. Her hands, thankfully, were working, and they became her only outlet for the rage and despair that consumed her. She would throw her pillow at anyone who dared to enter her room, her face a mask of frantic desperation as she scribbled down,
"Where are my kids?! Let me out!"
The staff, though patient, were a wall she couldn't break through. For more than a week, she refused to eat, to sleep, to do any of her exercises. She would throw herself on the floor, her body wracked with tremors, until they promised they would help her find her children. They laid out their terms, their voices gentle but firm.
"We can only help you look for them if you eat, take your therapy seriously, and stop trying to hurt yourself. You need to be in good health to meet with your children."
The promise, a fragile thread of hope, was the only thing that kept her from shattering completely. She had to be healthy. She had to get back on her feet. During one of her therapy sessions, she learned the devastating truth. She had been in a coma for one year and eight months. The words were a physical blow, a confirmation of her worst fears. She had lost so much time.
"How did I end up here?" she wrote to Rachel, her hand shaking as she pressed the pen to the paper. It took so much effort writing down what she wanted to know.
Rachel looked at the question, her face a mix of sympathy and caution.
"I don't know,"
She said, her voice low.
"I only started working here after you arrived. Aren't you close to Mr. Ziko?"
Amy's brow furrowed in confusion.
"Mr. Ziko? Who is that?"
She wrote. Rachel's eyes went wide, and she slapped her hand over her mouth, muttering to herself.
"Never mind that," she said, her voice a little rushed.
"Just focus on recovering. When the boss comes back, maybe he can help you look for your children. Unfortunately, we can't do anything without his permission. He's the one who brought you here. Our main job is to make sure you are healthy again."
Amy's hand froze on the paper. Amy was deeply sceptical of this mysterious
Mr. Ziko.Who was he? Why had he saved her? Why was he taking care of her?
Questions swirled endlessly, but there were no answers. And without access to any technology—the staff carried no phones, no laptops, only a heavily password-protected medical iPad—Amy was a prisoner of her own body and her ignorance.
Racheal was right about one thing, though, and she clung to that thought to stay sane:
The faster I get better, the sooner I find my babies. My husband.
She needed to tell him the truth about everything that had happened. The children, their illness, her attempt to get the money for their surgery. She hoped with every fiber of her being that her children had received the transplant. She believed that even with the rumours, Duru would still care for his children. This belief, this desperate, fragile hope, was the only thing that kept her from going insane. She poured herself into her rehabilitation, giving it her all. But several Questions were still on her mind
Did she shed all that weight while she had slipped into coma? also, was her husband aware of her accident and perhaps looking for her?
"Hello, Amy."
Clarissa greeted, her soft, dimpled smile brightening the sterile room. She looked to be in her sixties, elegant even in simple cardigans. But her eyes—those eyes always looked sad to Amy. She was her speech therapist.
"You look chipper. That's a good sign, no?"
Amy nodded her head in agreement.
"Right then, today, we are going to work on rhythm and flow." Clarissa took out her video recorder and set it up before sitting across from her. She then took out her iPad and looked through their previous sessions. "So far, your articulation has gotten much better than it was previously. Your resonance has exceeded my expectations significantly. We need much work on your Dysarthria, though, and before long, you'll be back to yourself. So, shall we get started?"
Amy nodded.
"No nodding. Take your time; there's no rush. I want you to open your mouth slowly, slowly, follow me. Make a circle with your mouth like this, oooh, and aah, Ee. No, no. Place your mouth this way. Smile and put your upper and lower teeth together. Try keeping your upper and lower lip separate."
Amy tried, her mouth muscles trembling with effort. Clarissa clapped softly.
"Better! Much better. Now, relax your mouth, lips puckered. Hold for six seconds. Move side to side—no tongue. Yes, just like that."
Clarissa demonstrated, and the next few hours were spent practising speech and exercising her muscles, the small, repetitive movements showing her determination.
A GAME OF PAWNS
Some months later, Tonna sat in his red Porsche parked beside a black Mercedes S-Class on a lonely road overlooking a tall skyscraper, a giant structure of concrete and glass just above him.
"Thank you, Arnold," he said, his voice as smooth as polished stone.
"You got it, boss!" Arnold, his shadow winked and drove off, leaving Tonna alone.
Ziko smirked, flipping the file open. Inside were the files of eight men. Their information was meticulously laid out, a map of their lives, their strengths, and their weaknesses. He scoffed as he flipped through them one after the other.
In order to fight with devils, you must become one yourself
These men secretly bought shares from SMART POWERS ENERGY, his company, worth over twenty billion Drex. They were trying to become its owners after they rejected his proposal to build a refinery. These men used their minions to undermine his authority and refused every project he had put out in the last three years. They were trying to make him seem incompetent so they could dismiss him as the CEO. They really saw him as a kid, and he had been letting them get their way for a long time. Now, he was going to deal with each of them so badly, they would wish they had never set their sights on anything of his.
He sneered, tossing the list aside. "Let the games begin."
Picking up his phone, he dialled. "How is she? … That well? Good. When can she resume normal activities? Already? Perfect. Time to let her know. Give her the phone I sent."
He hung up, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
"Drive," he ordered, and the car purred into the night.
A MOTHER'S DESPERATION
Meanwhile, back at the Bem household, tension brewed.
"Duru!" Mama's voice cracked through the house like a whip.
"I'm here," he called, descending the stairs.
"Where's your sister?"
He knew exactly who his mother was referring to. She had been acting weird anytime he was close to his eldest sister.
"Sis went out with Onyinye and Joy. You've been complaining lately that we only spend time by ourselves, leaving you three out."
His mother gestured for him to sit down next to her. As soon as he sat down, she turned to look at him, her eyes holding a deep, unreadable concern.
"Duru Bem! Stop getting closer to your sister."
He turned to look at his mom, a shocked and Stunned expression on his face. Shock because his mom never called out his full name unless she was angry. He broke into a laugh.
"This joke isn't funny, Mom."
He kept laughing, but she had a straight face on. He stopped laughing to watch her expression, but it was as serious as ever; not even a crack of a smile could be seen.
"S-seriously-y, mom? B-but why-y?" he asked anxiously, seeing how tense his mother was.
"You don't need any reasons; you just have to listen to me."
"But-t m—"
"Enough about that. Just listen to me and stay away from your sister. In the meantime, my friend's daughter just finished her YCS, and she's running her marketing agency. She's young, smart, and very resourceful. A very good fit for you."
He sighed, wanting to roll his eyes. "Mom, not now, please. I have barely gotten over what Amy did. I just want to focus on the projects I have in mind to run. I am not ready to mingle with anyone just yet."
His mother looked at him, her eyes narrowing. "Really, you think I don't know what you've been up to?"
His chest tightened, and he shifted in his seat.
"What did you use Amy's life insurance money for?"
The colour drained from his face.
"What? Did you think I didn't know?"
He was speechless.
"I don't want to ask more of your business. Here!" She handed him a card.
"I set up a meeting for you two this afternoon. Behave! And make the most of it. Make sure something good comes out of this meeting. And by 'good,' I mean with marriage in sight."
She stood up to leave but then turned around.
"It would be wise if you don't meet up with your sister alone during this time, and also, don't let her find out about this. I have my eyes on you."
She stood up and left while her son just looked at her, wondering what on earth was wrong with his mother and why she was acting so strangely because of his closeness with his sister. There was no escaping this. He definitely had to meet this girl because he wouldn't hear the last of it. His two-month holiday was coming to an end in a few days anyway. At least after meeting her, he would go back and not come back for a while. He needed to think of a long-term plan to get his mother to back off. He went to his room, showered, and got dressed.
In a few minutes, he was already at the restaurant. His outfit was sharp yet effortless—an open hooded jacket layered over a crisp white shirt, paired with black wide-leg trousers and clean sneakers. His hair was freshly cut into a sleek undercut, giving him an edge that drew attention without him even trying.
She wasn't there yet, and honestly, he wasn't interested in meeting this person. He sighed, picking up the menu, though his eyes barely scanned it. The truth was, he wasn't particularly eager about this meeting.
Women had never been scarce in his life. With his expressive eyes, lean and toned frame shaped by the demands of his work, and an easy sense of style, people gravitated toward him. He wasn't just attractive—he carried himself with a quiet confidence, never socially awkward, always knowing how to make those around him feel at ease. And when he smiled, flashing that perfect dentition, it wasn't hard to see why hearts fell so quickly.
That was how Amy had fallen for him in the first place.
"And what would you be having, sir?" The waitress appeared in front of him so suddenly that he jumped.
"I am so sorry, sir; I didn't mean to startle you."
"No, it's not your fault. I am just waiting for someone. We'll let you know once we are ready."
She nodded and excused herself. He looked around the restaurant. It was a high-end restaurant and was in a good location. Although he wasn't well off, Amy always supported him and never made him feel small. She was the main reason they had a house, and she had never once complained about the amount of money he sent her monthly. He knew that it wasn't enough, but sadly, that was all he could afford at the time. But she never touched the money. Instead, she had saved it in their joint account in case of any emergencies. At least that was what he thought until he learned the truth.
And then, there was the day he got that email. It explained who they were, told him they would be calling at a certain time, and then provided him with a code. He was to keep that code handy as they would ask him for it. He thought it was a scam. But then, two weeks after the inspectors visited them, they called him.
"Hello, may I speak with Mr. Duru Bem, please?" A voice he didn't recognise came through the phone's speakers.
"This is he. May I ask who this is?"
"Good day, sir. My name is Stanley, and I am calling from Stringent. We are an insurance company, I believe we sent you an email earlier with regards to this "
"Right what can I do for you?"
He had asked
"This is regarding your wife, Mrs. Amy Bem. She has you here as a next of kin, so I was wondering if you could come into the office with proof of identity that you are her husband before we proceed any further. Please understand that this is for security purposes. I need to confirm a few things with you. Is that okay?"
"Yes."
"We sent you an email with an 8-number code on it. Could you please repeat the code back to me?"
"10039293." It was a combination of his and his wife's birthdays.
"Can you please confirm your name and DOB?"
"Duru Bem, born 19 October 1992."
"Good. Can you confirm the home address we have for you, please?"
"XX Greek Avenue Court, Renwick."
"And your email address?"
"Okay. After the call, please have a look at your email. We will send the list of proof of identity we need from you, and also our office address. Please be on time for the appointment. Thank you very much for your time and patience. Before I leave, is there anything else you would like to ask?"
"May I know what kind of insurance company you are?"
"We run a lot of insurances: car, home, life, and certain appliances."
The line was quiet for a second, and then he asked what he really wanted to know. "May I ask what kind of insurance you are calling about?"
"Unfortunately, sir, due to BDPA, I can't give you that information. You'd have to come in to confirm your identity before you can be given that information."
"Okay, I understand. Thank you very much."
"No worries, sir. Thank you very much for your time today. This has been Stanley, calling you from Stringent. Do enjoy the rest of your day."
The line cut off. And just as promised, he received an email. The verification process had been long, demanding proofs of marriage, IDs, and contracts. Only then had they revealed the truth—Amy had been paying life insurance for both of them since the day he proposed, which was a little over ten years ago. She had also put him as a next of kin and had left clear instructions: in the event of either of their deaths, no one aside from the kids could have full access to the money. But unfortunately, the kids had passed away, and he was the sole kin. He never knew any of these. The money had grown into an astronomical value in millions. So he got paid - her's and the kids. He didn't tell his family about it, so when his mother mentioned it, he was shocked and didn't know how she found out about it. He had simply put the money in their joint account and left it there at first, but then had started spending it when his anger renewed. That was why he felt guilty when his mother mentioned that she was aware of what he was doing behind her back. He felt guilty touching the money or spending it.
And then—
A familiar scent drifted past. Vanilla. Fruity, floral. The perfume Amy used to wear.
His chest clenched. Slowly, he turned.
Through blurred, tear-stung eyes, he saw her.
Petite. Familiar silhouette. The same delicate walk. The same aura.
When his vision cleared, his breath caught.
It was Amy.
And yet—not.