CHAPTER FOUR

I barely keep up with Uwar as we hurry through the dimly lit hallway. My legs are weak, raw from earlier, but curiosity pushes me forward. Whatever is happening with Sisi must be serious, because Uwar looks really worried.

I adjust the loose boubou I threw on, my heart pounding. The silence between us is heavy, but I can't break it. Not when my mind is still reeling from Alhaji's cold words, the ache in my body, the terrifying reality of my new life.

When we reach Sisi's quarters, Uwar doesn't knock. She pushes the door open, and I follow.

Sisi is no dying woman.

She sits on a plush cushion near the window, a half-empty glass of champagne in hand. Her black kaftan clings to her curves, and perfectly manicured nails tap against the glass. She doesn't flinch at our entrance—she was expecting us.

Her gaze is distant, fixed on something unseen, but a faint smirk curls her lips.

Uwar raises an eyebrow. "Did you resurrect?"

Sisi's smirk deepens. "Disappointed?"

Uwar huffs. "You said you were dying. I don't see anyone gasping for air."

"I am dying," Sisi says smoothly. "And only you can save me."

I exchange a glance with Uwar, trying to make sense of this bizarre scene.

"Save you from what?" Uwar asks, folding her arms.

Sisi drains the last of her champagne before setting the glass aside. Silence stretches unbearably before she exhales a dramatic sigh. "I'm pregnant."

The words hit the room like a slap.

I blink. "Isn't… isn't that good news?"

Sisi turns to me, her full attention unsettling. She studies me slowly—dissecting, judging. My skin crawls.

"You must be new," she says, condescending.

Uwar rolls her eyes. "Sisi retired from childbirth years ago. A new baby means stretch marks, weight gain, sleepless nights. None of that fits her agenda."

"And Alhaji is okay with that?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Sisi laughs—low, humorless. "I already gave him four. That should be enough—I'm not a dog." Her irritation sharpens as she glances at Uwar. "And why is the new wife here?"

Uwar ignores her. "So, how do you plan to escape this 'death sentence'?"

Sisi leans back against the cushion, impossibly relaxed. "Women miscarry all the time," she says casually, then winks.

Cold shivers run down my spine. I know exactly what she means.

Uwar shakes her head in disgust and grabs my wrist. "I swear, Sisi, you always drag me into your madness."

I barely hear her. My mind spins.

When the door shuts behind us, I can't hold back my question. "Is she serious?"

"She always is," Uwar mutters, striding ahead.

My heart pounds faster. Call me crazy, but I already admire Sisi. She looks unbothered, and in this hellhole, I can't wait to feel the same way.

To be a woman who drinks champagne and cares less.

By the time I reach my room, exhaustion crashes into me. My body aches in places I don't want to think about. My head is heavy with everything—Alhaji's cruelty, Sisi's indifference, Uwar dragging me away like a child.

I barely slip out of my boubou before collapsing onto the bed. Sleep swallows me whole.

When I wake, the sun is already high, casting soft shadows across the room. My throat is dry, my skin sticky. Without thinking, I head to the bathroom.

For the fourth time since becoming a wife, I scrub my body—hard, as if I can wash away everything I feel, yet the weight of Alhaji's touch clings to me like an invisible stain. No matter how much soap I use, I can't shake it off.

After drying myself, I slip into jeans and a loose white crop top—clothes my father would've called haram without blinking. His angry voice echoes faintly in my head. He tried everything—beatings, prayers, threats to make me the perfect Northern girl. But nothing about that life ever felt like mine.

The hijabs, the rules, the endless expectations—I rejected them when I could. I barely speak my mother tongue properly, and when I do, it feels foreign on my tongue. The music that stirs something real inside me isn't from here either. I crave songs about rebellion, pain, fighting back.

I slip in my AirPods, scrolling until I find it.

Monsters You Made by Burna Boy.

The beat kicks in, and something inside me settles. Music has always been my escape. As I step outside, the evening air is cool against my skin. I let the song wash over me, drowning out the noise in my head.

I've spent the day mourning my situation. It's time to loosen up before I lose my mind.

I stroll toward the garden, practicing leg moves I saw on TikTok. I'm not a dancer, not really, but moving to music no one else can hear makes me feel free. For a brief moment, I could be anyone, anywhere—except here.

Raised voices tug me from my thoughts. From the front of the compound, an unusual buzz—loud, excited. Something is happening.

Two maids brush past me, giggling like schoolgirls. Their crisp uniforms mark them as part of Alhaji's endless staff. I swear, the man thinks he's building his own personal empire.

I roll my eyes and beckon one of them, slipping out an AirPod. "What's going on up front?"

The younger maid—dark-skinned and shy—glances at me briefly before lowering her gaze. "Sir Ali is coming back soon," she mumbles.

"Ali?" I repeat, raising an eyebrow. The blush on her face doesn't escape me.

The bolder maid smirks, stepping closer. "He calls himself Alhaji 2.0, ma."

My stomach twists.

She tilts her head, studying my reaction. "He's Alhaji's first son and magada—the heir."

My breath hitches.

Alhaji 2.0?

There's someone worse than Alhaji?

I swallow hard, forcing my expression neutral, but inside, my thoughts race. I barely survived my first encounter with the father.

What kind of man did he raise?

And why does the idea of meeting him make my skin crawl?

The bolder maid giggles, as if imagining something pleasant. "He's not like his father, sha. He's… finer." Her voice dips into admiration.

I should feel relieved. Instead, unease slithers through me.

If Alhaji buys young brides like property, what kind of heir did he raise?

And why do I feel like my life is about to get even more complicated?