CHAPTER THIRTEEN: A NEW ME,A DARKER ME.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. I tried to heal, to find joy in the little things, but nothing truly worked. The only time I felt any satisfaction was when I saw anger in the eyes of those who had wronged me. Their suffering became my medicine.

Pain and betrayal had shaped me—friends, neighbors, even family had all played a part in molding this new version of me. I no longer believed in trust or care. The only things that mattered were my culture, my spirits, and the lessons my suffering had taught me.

Something inside me had awakened.

A part of me I could no longer control.

I no longer craved love, friendship, or acceptance. Instead, I wished for revenge—but not the kind that required blood or violence. No, my revenge was much sweeter. I wanted to succeed, to rise above, to watch those who doubted me drown in the reality of my greatness.

So, I called upon all the forces that mattered—God, my ancestors, and most of all, my father. I needed their strength to accomplish what I had planned.

And they answered me.

I made a wish for a strong mind, a mind that could not be broken. A mind that was cold, calculating—wicked, if necessary.

And I got it.

The only true love I recognized now was the love of my mother and my siblings. They were my blood, my responsibility. Everyone else was an outsider, an enemy in disguise. I made a promise to myself:

"Never again will I have friends."

The laughter of others irritated me. Their joy was meaningless to me. But their suffering? That brought me peace. A twisted happiness bloomed in my heart whenever those who had looked down on me faced difficulties.

Then, I realized something terrifying.

Everything I spoke into existence came to pass.

Whenever I cried, it was as though my tears rang like a bell, summoning the spirits. My pain was power. My words were commands. And with that power, I knew one thing—I was born for greatness.

So I used it.

I cursed my haters in silence, wishing them misfortune. And it worked. Each time, it worked. Their pain, their failures, their struggles—it all filled me with a happiness I had never known before.

But no matter how much I changed, one thing remained the same—pain was my nature. It was my therapy. I wrote endlessly about betrayal, about hurt. I listened to calm, emotional music, drowning in the weight of my own emotions. People called me strange, weird.

I didn't care.

Wickedness felt good. Wickedness made me happy.

I only had a soft spot for beggars and my family. The rest of the world? They meant nothing to me.

As time passed, something unexpected happened—I felt something for Paul.

It wasn't instant, nor was it overwhelming. But it was there.

Despite the many men who wanted me, who chased after me, I ignored them all. I played with them, used them for entertainment, but nothing more. I was careful, too careful. I had no friends, but I had no direct enemies either.

But the old me was gone.

I was no longer the weak, emotional girl who sought love and approval. I was calm—dangerous in my silence, unpredictable in my actions.

I decided to devote myself to my culture, to work for it, to embrace the power I had been given. God and the spirits spoke to me, guiding me. People hated me for it, but I hated them just as much.

It was mutual.

I started seeing myself as the head of my family.

I prayed for my mother and siblings, protected them in every way I could. My devotion did not go unnoticed—the spirits blessed me. Doors opened, opportunities flowed in. Everything I touched prospered.

And Paul—he became an assistant, someone who stood by my side as I rose higher.

But with success came gossip. People talked about me, spread rumors. I didn't react with words—I acted.

I took an oath.

"Whoever speaks my name in vain, let the spirits answer them. Let them be punished."

And once again, the spirits listened.

I grew to hate other women. I didn't trust them, didn't relate to them. I stopped dressing like a girl, choosing instead to dress simply, in a way that didn't attract attention.

This made people call me a lesbian.

I didn't care.

It was my life.

And I loved who I had become.

Wicked happiness had taken root in me, growing, flourishing. It gave me peace. And then, at long last, I graduated—with a good result.

I was happy.

But my story was far from over.

Years later, I married.

Not just married—I was blessed.

I made my own money, became a trillionaire. Power, wealth, influence—they were all mine. And with my success, I lifted my family.

My siblings thrived, becoming wealthy in their own right. My elder brother left the country, chasing even greater dreams.

We were happy.

We were sad.

My mother, my everything, smiled through her tears. She thanked God for our journey, for our transformation.

And as I stood by her, holding her hands, I knew one thing for certain—

We would grow old together.