P2: Ten years later, the iron gate creaked open.

The same gate Ifeoma had slammed shut every night while laughing.

A tall, elegant 16-year-old girl stepped into the compound. Her skin glowed. Her posture was straight. Her eyes were calm, but carried the kind of silence that made people nervous.

Behind her were two lawyers and a court bailiff.

Ifeoma stepped out onto the veranda, hands on her hips, still wearing Adai’s mother’s favorite wrapper.

“Who are you?” she snapped. “And what are you doing in my house?”

Adai looked at the woman who had made her sleep with dogs for a decade.

“I am Adai Nkechi Okoro,” she said, her voice clear and steady. “Daughter of Nkechi Okoro. And this house, the three plots of land behind it, the savings account, and everything inside… belongs to me.”

Ifeoma laughed loudly at first — until the bailiff handed her the legal documents.

The will was ironclad. Dated and signed two weeks before Nkechi’s death. Properly witnessed and registered. It left everything to Adai, with a trusted uncle as executor until she turned 18.

Ifeoma’s face slowly twisted in disbelief, then rage.