She laughed out loud, the sound cutting through the quiet kitchen like a sudden burst of sunlight. It was one of those genuine, belly-deep laughs that made her eyes crinkle at the corners, and it was infectious. That got Amy laughing too, though hers was softer, more tentative, like she was testing the waters of joy after so long in the shadows. Rachel passed the cut apple to Amy, who gratefully took it, popping a slice into her mouth with a small, appreciative hum. The crisp snap of the fruit echoed faintly, but now, with the laughter fading, Amy felt stuffy in the house, she felt caged.
"Can we go out? I feel so stuffy in the house," Amy said, her voice carrying a hint of plea, her eyes flicking toward the window where the late afternoon light filtered through in golden shafts. Rachel paused, knife still in hand, the half-peeled apple forgotten on the cutting board. She seemed to think for a while, her brow furrowing slightly as she weighed the request. Then she sighed, a soft exhale that spoke of caution mixed with empathy.
"How about I ask permission from the boss first and see if he allows it?" Amy nodded, watching as Rachel stood up to grab her phone from the counter. She dialled quickly, pacing a little as she waited for the call to connect. Amy could hear the faint ring on the other end, then a muffled voice. Rachel explained the situation in low tones, nodding along to whatever was said. A few minutes later, she was back with a smile that lit up her face, phone still clutched in her hand.
"The boss says we can go out, but he's letting a driver come with us," Rachel announced, setting the phone down. She put the rest of the apple aside, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
"Give me a sec to change—can't go out looking like I just wrestled with fruit all day." Amy managed a weak chuckle at that, watching Rachel disappear down the hall. Soon, they were out, the front door clicking shut behind them with a sense of liberation. The driver was already waiting, a stoic man in a crisp uniform, engine humming softly. Amy needed to think, to sort through the tangled mess in her head, so she asked the driver to take them to the beach. Odd as it seemed to others, she could only think while staring into the waves of water. There was something mesmerizing about the way the current of the water's body moved—rhythmic, relentless, yet calming—like it mirrored the ebb and flow of her own chaotic thoughts, helping her think more clearly and calmly. They arrived as the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose. Amy sat on the sand, the grains warm and shifting under her, tiny shells crunching faintly.
The driver wandered off to grab them something to drink, his footsteps fading into the soft roar of the ocean. Rachel sat beside her, close enough for comfort but giving her space, the two of them watching the waves crash in foamy white curls. The evening was fast approaching, making the orange sunset hanging over the horizon exquisitely pleasing to the eyes, like a canvas of fire and sea. Amy just stared into the abyss, unmoving as her mind strategised. She believed that Duru would eventually come to see what his family was like when she explained the whole situation to him—the lies, the manipulations, the hidden truths that had torn their world apart. She thought of going to the house but remembered what had happened the last time she did that: the accusations that still stung like fresh wounds. Pulling out her phone from her pocket, Amy decided on a different approach. She created a Snapgram account on a whim, her fingers tapping swiftly on the screen, the glow illuminating her face in the dimming light. She still remembered Joy's SG's name—Duru's sister, the one who always posted with that polished, performative flair. Amy searched for it, scrolling through the profile with a mix of curiosity and dread. The first thing that caught her eye was a pinned video post from two days ago. The thumbnail showed a pretty face she had never seen before, smiling sheepishly, all bright eyes and effortless charm. Her heart skipped—there was something familiar in those features. She opened the video, and it started playing, the sound tinny against the beach's ambient hum. But as the scene unfolded, Amy dropped the phone onto the sand, her hands trembling. Her eyes grew large, tears slipping down her face unchecked, hot and salty like the sea air. She hadn't even realized that Rachel had already scooted close to her, peering into the phone she dropped to see what had upset her so profoundly.
"Wow, she's so pretty," Rachel murmured, tilting her head at the screen.
"Is that your sister? But you never mentioned that you have a sister." Amy didn't respond at first, her gaze locked on the horizon where the sun was sinking, pulling the light with it. Rachel took Amy's hand, giving it a warm squeeze when she saw how upset the other woman was, her thumb rubbing gentle circles on the back of Amy's palm.
"Are you upset that she's getting married and you aren't there?" Rachel asked again, her voice soft and probing, laced with genuine concern. Amy just sat there staring into the darkness slowly taking over the beach's horizon, the waves now edged in twilight shadows. She seemed to have lost all her energy, deflated like a balloon pricked by reality. She just silently wept, but this time, her sorrow felt different—deeper, more visceral. She was clutching her chest, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt as if to hold her breaking heart together, trying so hard not to cry out loud. But she couldn't control the whimpers that constantly let themselves out, small, choked sounds that blended with the distant call of seabirds.
"Oh, Amy, talk to me," Rachel whispered, squeezing her hand tighter.
"What's going on? That video... who is she? You look like you've seen a ghost." Amy shut her eyes tight as her body shook uncontrollably, waves of grief crashing over her like the ocean before them. She even covered her mouth with her free hand to try and stifle the whimpers, but they escaped anyway, raw and unfiltered. It felt like the pain inside her was about to explode—a pressure building in her chest, hot and unrelenting. She wanted to keep it in, didn't want to let it out, terrified that if she did, the pain would overwhelm her completely, drown her in its depths. But the intensity was too much; she lay on the sand, curling into a fetal position, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around herself as if to shield from an invisible storm. Watching her, Rachel's worry deepened, her own heart aching at the sight. She had never seen Amy act this way—not even when she woke from the coma and learned she had been locked in her body for a little over a year, trapped in a limbo of awareness without escape. Nor did she act that way when she learned about the deaths of her children, that devastating blow that should have broken anyone. Rachel went to her, cuddling her close, wrapping her arms around Amy's shaking form as her own tears began to fall, silent and sympathetic.
"It's okay, let it out," Rachel murmured, rocking her gently.
"I'm here. Whatever it is, you're not alone." Meanwhile, the video kept playing in a loop on the dropped phone, the cheerful music playing from it. The young woman in the video, who bore striking similarities to Amy—small and dainty face, soft eyes, full lips, chocolate skin that shone under the lights—was dressed in a vibrant traditional outfit, beads and fabrics swirling as she moved. She was handed a glass of what looked like palm wine, its cloudy liquid catching the light. The woman danced around a spacious living room, smiling with infectious joy, her glass held high as she searched the room like she was on a playful quest. Then a big smile appeared on her face when she noticed something—or someone. The camera panned smoothly, revealing the reason: a man in matching traditional attire, smiling back with warmth that radiated through the screen. He was very good-looking, with a dainty nose and full lips that Amy knew all too well—Duru. Her Duru. The woman danced towards him, her movements graceful and teasing, and when she was close enough, she knelt down, taking a sip from the wine before passing it to him. Duru drank the contents in one go, his eyes never leaving hers, then fished out some bills from his pocket, stuffing them into the empty glass with a flourish. His smile broadened as she stood and sat on his lap, the room erupting in screams of celebration before the video cut off. Rachel, still holding Amy, glanced at the caption below:
"Congrats, Bro! Here's to a better chapter 🥂 #kairaduru2023."
"Oh God," Rachel breathed, piecing it together. She opened the comments section and instantly regretted it. The comment section was not kind—it was a venomous storm directed not at the post, but at one name that kept coming up: Amy's.
'OMG, what has that fat piece of shit done to your brother? This is your previous sister-in-law all over again if she wasn't so damn fat!'
one read.
'At least this one is more attractive to look at'
Another sneered.
'Honestly, wherever that evil sister-in-law—oops, I mean ex-sister-in-law— of yours is hiding her face now, I hope she dies of a heart attack looking at your brother and his new wife.'
'This one looks way better than her, and they do not look anything alike. Who said they looked alike? You need to get your eyes checked! Please don't compare this gorgeous woman with that horrible pig!'
'Seriously, I sincerely hope that this one is nothing like that one. With her disgusting body, she still dared to cheat on your brother. Some women truly scare me.'
'Hoi! That woman was truly something. Like I suspect she went spiritual to have those men attracted to her, and had the guts to give children of unknown origin to your brother. She'd better hide or, better still, do plastic surgery because if she's caught, she's dead. She's still one of the most hated women in our country.'
'LMAO, did you guys see her page @youronlyfatpig? She's really owing to her name. Just look at the ridiculous pictures she posts. Wow, she's so disgusting. Who told her anybody wants to see her disgusting body?'
Rachel's stomach turned. She knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't help herself—she clicked on the shared username, and sure enough, it was a page dedicated to mocking Amy. There were videos and pictures of her, intimate ones: looking into the camera, talking and smiling, some naked, exposed in ways that screamed violation. Even her children weren't spared, their innocent faces twisted into cruel memes. Rachel covered her mouth, horrified. Could Amy really have done all these things she was being accused of? The cheating, the deception? But from what the netizens were saying, were those kids not truly Duru's? The descriptions painted her as a monster, but that clashed with the gentle, broken woman Rachel knew. Yet the videos and pictures on this page didn't look forced—in fact, they all looked like Amy was very comfortable in them, smiling and laughing as if it were all consensual, her mind clear and willing. Every comment under the posts was either body-shaming her or saying some ridiculous things, making fun of her in the most vicious ways. Rachel threw the phone away angrily, the device landing with a soft thud in the sand. She didn't know what to think, her mind swirling with confusion and pity. So she copied the username and also Joy's username, the sister-in-law's. Maybe the boss could help—after all, he was the one who brought Amy in, sheltering her in this strange limbo, and he had instructed them to report anything unusual to him. Rachel took a deep breath, glancing at Amy, who was still curled up, her back shivering with suppressed sobs. Amy had already gone through so much hurt—so much that she even considered taking her own life, that dark edge she'd teetered on before. Rachel was afraid of the same thing repeating itself, that this fresh wound might push her over. She stepped a little bit away from Amy so she wouldn't hear her, but kept her eyes on her at all times, watching for any sign of deeper distress. She called the boss, her fingers shaky on the dial. After three rings, he picked up, his voice steady and authoritative.
"Mr. Ziko, something's happened," Rachel said, her words tumbling out in a rush.
"I have texted you two usernames. I'm unsure what's going on, but the first video upset the miss, and she has been crying nonstop. I am actually scared that she might do something to harm herself. She's... she's in a bad way, sir. Curled up, shaking, like she's breaking apart." The voice from the other end of the phone asked where they were, his tone clipped but concerned. Rachel told him—the beach, the specific stretch near the old pier. The call ended swiftly, no goodbyes, just a click. She went back to sit quietly beside Amy, who was still in a fetal position, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. Rachel didn't know what to do but just stayed by her side, a silent guardian, rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles.
"Hang in there," she whispered.
"Help's coming. You're stronger than this, Amy. You've survived worse." Soon, she saw the boss, Tonna, walked down towards them at a brisk pace, his silhouette cutting through the twilight, sand kicking up under his hurried steps. He didn't even acknowledge Rachel, his focus laser-sharp on Amy. He just walked straight to where she still lay, scooping her up in his arms with surprising gentleness, her limp form cradled against his chest. Amy whimpered softly but didn't resist, too lost in her pain. Tonna started walking towards the car park, his strides long and purposeful. Rachel quickly followed them, her heart pounding, but by the time she reached the lot, they had already driven off, tires crunching on gravel as the car sped away into the night. She entered the waiting car with the driver, who had returned with the drinks now not needed.
"Follow them," she said breathlessly, and they drove off as well, the city lights blurring past. By the time they got home, Amy was shaking so badly, her body wracked with tremors that made her teeth chatter. Tonna took her straight to her room—He called Doctor Chidi immediately, who arrived in a flurry of medical efficiency, bag in hand. Amy was foaming at the mouth now, white froth at the corners, her eyes rolled back in what looked like a serious epileptic episode—though Rachel knew it was grief manifesting as something physical, her body betraying her under the weight. Doctor Chidi, with the help of the butler who had appeared silently, held her down on the bed, their grips firm but careful.
"What happened?" the doctor barked, checking her pulse.
"She was fine earlier!"
"It was a video—her husband, remarrying," Rachel explained quickly.
"She just... collapsed into this." Doctor Chidi nodded grimly and turned to Rachel as soon as she burst into the room.
"Prepare 0.05mg of midazolam. Now!" She immediately did as she was told, hands steady despite the chaos, drawing the sedative into a syringe from the medical cabinet. She brought the injection over and took over from the doctor, holding Amy down with all her strength, feeling the woman's muscles spasm wildly beneath her. The doctor took the injection and yelled for them to hold her tighter as he searched for a vein amid the jerking limbs, the room filled with the sounds of struggle and laboured breathing. He finally found it on her arm, the blue line pulsing erratically. But Amy kept jerking, fighting unconsciously.
"Hold her down tighter!" he yelled again, sweat beading on his forehead. They did as they were told, pinning her with combined effort, and he finally injected her, the plunger depressing slowly. After a few tense minutes, the jerks slowly came to an end, her body relaxing as she drifted off to sleep, eyelids fluttering shut in exhausted peace. Tonna was watching all this from the far end of the room, his cigarette in hand, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. His face was a mask of controlled fury, eyes narrowed. He pulled out his phone, dialling without a word.
"Yes, boss," the deep voice came from the other end of the line, efficient and ready.
"I sent you a snapgram page," Tonna said, his tone ice-cold.
"I want you to investigate the authenticity of the posts, and I want them gone before the next hour. Scrub it clean—no traces."
"Got it, boss!"
"Also, contact Ms. Kim and tell her I want her in Belvaria before 7 a.m. tomorrow. No delays."
"Okay, Boss, will get right into it."
He dropped the phone, exhaling a long plume of smoke. He had let her play long enough—Amy, with her fragility and her pains. Now, it was time to take the bull by the horns. She needed motivation to stay alive and deal with things, to face the world that had chewed her up. She needs to stop being weak and grow strong for the constant pain and sadness thrown her way. She needed to pick herself up, and if it took tough love or intervention, so be it. The game was changing, and he was ready to steer it.