Episode 2
I started avoiding her.
That was my solution. Cowardly, maybe—but necessary. I woke up earlier than usual and left the house before she stepped out of her room. I stayed out late, wandering the village, sitting with friends who didn’t know my mind was slowly tearing itself apart. When I returned, I went straight to my room.
But avoidance is a lie you tell yourself.
Because even when you’re not in the same room, the thought remains.
Her voice.
Her eyes.
That moment in the dark kitchen.
It followed me everywhere.
My father returned two days later. The house came alive again—his loud laughter, his commanding presence, the way Amara suddenly became the perfect wife. She served him food, knelt to greet him, smiled when he spoke. Anyone watching would think she was happy.
But I noticed the cracks.
She avoided my eyes now too.
At night, while my father slept heavily beside her, I lay awake in my room, staring at the ceiling, asking myself questions I was afraid to answer.
Was this just desire?
Loneliness?
Or something far worse?
One afternoon, my father announced he would be traveling again—this time for five days.
The words landed like a curse.
As soon as his car disappeared down the dusty road, silence returned. Thick. Dangerous.
Amara stayed in her room the whole day. I tried to distract myself by fixing a broken fence outside. The sun was hot, sweat poured down my face, but my mind refused to rest.
By evening, hunger forced me inside.
She was in the kitchen.
Our eyes met.
The air shifted.
“Welcome,” she said quietly.
“Good evening, ma.”
The word ma felt like a knife.
She nodded, then turned back to the pot on the fire. I sat on the wooden bench, keeping my distance. For a while, only the sound of boiling soup filled the room.
“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly.
I looked up. “For what?”
“For that night,” she said, still facing the pot. “I shouldn’t have said your name like that.”
My heart thudded. “We both know it shouldn’t have happened.”
She turned then. Her eyes were red—not from smoke.
“I pray every night that this feeling will go away,” she whispered. “But it’s not.”
I stood up immediately. “Please. Don’t say this.”
“Why?” she asked softly. “Because it’s wrong… or because it’s true?”
Silence swallowed us.
“This house is not safe for this conversation,” I finally said. “Someone could hear.”
She nodded slowly. “You’re right.”
That should have been the end.
It wasn’t.
Later that night, rain returned again—soft, steady. Power went out. Darkness wrapped the house. I lay on my bed, restless.
Then I heard it.
A soft knock on my door.
My entire body stiffened.
“Chinedu,” she whispered.
I sat up. “Go back to your room.”
“I can’t sleep,” she said. “Please.”
I opened the door just a little. She stood there, wrapped in a light cloth, rain sounds echoing outside, eyes shining with fear and something else.
“This is a mistake,” I said again.
“I know,” she replied. “But I’m already inside it.”
I let her in.
We sat on opposite ends of the bed like strangers pretending not to feel electricity burning the air between them.
“I feel invisible in this house,” she said quietly. “Your father is kind, but he doesn’t see me. I’m just… duty.”
I clenched my fists. “You’re my father’s wife.”
She laughed bitterly. “And you’re the only one who looks at me like I’m alive.”
That was when something inside me snapped.
“I hate myself for this,” I said. “But I think about you all the time.”
Her breath hitched.
The distance between us disappeared.
Not because we planned it—but because restraint finally lost the fight.
When our lips met, it wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. Confused. Heavy with guilt. The kind of kiss that knows it shouldn’t exist.
She pulled away first.
“This can never happen again,” she said, tears streaming down her face.
I nodded. “Never.”
She left.
I didn’t sleep that night.
Neither did she.
The next morning, she avoided me completely. Packed her things quietly. When I asked where she was going, she said she needed to visit her sister in another village.
“I need distance,” she said. “Before this destroys us.”
I watched her leave, my chest burning.
Three days later, my father returned unexpectedly.
He didn’t greet anyone.
He walked straight into the sitting room and sat down heavily.
“Chinedu,” he called.
I came out.
“Did anything strange happen while I was gone?”
My heart stopped.
“No, sir,” I said, my voice barely steady.
He studied my face for a long time.
“Amara has been distant,” he said slowly. “She barely speaks to me. She avoids my touch.”
I swallowed.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“I’m beginning to suspect something.”
The room felt smaller.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I realized the truth:
Love was no longer the biggest danger.
Discovery was.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Join Our WhatsApp Channel For Fast Update Or More Novels: 