Part 5: The Ultrasound and the Truth
Two days later, a luxury town car was sent to Auntie Joy’s apartment to bring me to the most exclusive private hospital in Victoria Island. The contrast between my current living situation and the marble-floored, mahogany-trimmed maternity ward was enough to give me vertigo.
I lay on the examination table, a cool gel applied to my swollen abdomen. A technician in a crisp lab coat moved the transducer over my skin, her face intensely focused on the giant monitor next to the bed.
The door opened silently, and Kingsley Otiba walked in. He wore a cashmere sweater and carried an aura of absolute, unyielding power, yet his eyes were entirely fixed on my face with a terrifying tenderness.
“Congratulations, sir,” the technician smiled, pointing at two distinct gray blips pulsing on the screen. “Baby A is a girl. Good size, healthy heartbeat. And here is baby B…” She adjusted the angle. “Little underweight, but good height. Baby B is a boy. Twins, Mr. Otiba. Both healthy.”
Kingsley let out a long, ragged breath. He stepped closer to the table, his large, warm hand covering my trembling fingers. “Thank you, Shola,” he choked out, a thick emotion in his voice. “Thank you.”
I looked up at him, the clinical detachment I had promised myself rapidly dissolving. “It’s a pleasure, sir. I’m glad I can help.”
He stayed with me for the entire hour, insisting that the hospital staff arrange for a private recovery suite. But later that evening, as I sat in the plush armchair overlooking the twinkling lights of the lagoon, my phone chimed.
An unknown number. I swiped it open, and a gruff voice filled my ear.
“Schola? This is Emanuel. Please, don’t block me again. Hear me out.”
My blood turned to ice. “There is nothing I want to hear from you except that you have my money.”
“Yes, I have your money. Not all of it, but I still have seven million naira I can return,” he babbled, panic lacing his voice. “Shola, I’m really sorry. It was the devil.”
“You blame the devil for your own greed? You lured me into this with promises of marriage and a future, just to run away!”
“I will still marry you! I just needed to get my soccer career started in Europe first,” he pleaded. “Please, let’s meet up. I’ll explain everything. Just don’t call the police.”
I hung up on him, my hands shaking so violently I dropped the phone onto the carpet. The betrayal was a deep, festering wound.
The next morning, Kingsley walked into my recovery room, his expression grave. He held a thick manila folder. “I had to tell the doctor everything about the surrogacy arrangement. She’s cool with it. But my main concern now is that the pregnancy is high risk. Baby A is resting too much weight on Baby B, affecting his growth. The doctor recommends we monitor you closely, which means you need to live close by.”
I pulled the blanket over my lap. “What do you mean?”
“I need you to move into my estate in Ikoyi. Marco will handle your transport. I will get maids and a car to carry you around for appointments.”
I shook my head, terror peaking. “No. Claire… I mean, Sir, I can’t. Nowhere in the agreement does it state that I need to move in with a man.”
“But you are carrying my children!” his voice rose in sudden, commanding frustration. “Respect me. Don’t put me under this pressure. If you leave this hospital for that slum in Abakpa, and anything goes wrong, you will be liable for damages, including the sum of seventy million naira my company paid the agency.”
The threat hit me like a physical slap. He didn’t see me as a mother, or a person; I was just an incubator with a legal price tag.
“Fine,” I whispered, tears of absolute humiliation stinging my eyes. “I’ll sign the papers. I’ll move into your house. Just don’t threaten me.”
Part 6: The Ultimate Betrayal
The transition to Kingsley’s Ikoyi mansion was surreal. I was given a massive, beautifully appointed suite with adjoining nurseries, waited on by two maids and a private nurse. Yet, it was a gilded cage.
Kingsley was rarely home, and when he was, he was distant, formal, and careful to make it clear that he had not chosen this arrangement for anything other than the safety of his biological heirs.
One evening, unable to bear the confinement of the room, I wandered down to the expansive hallway. I found an elderly woman sitting in a high-backed chair, staring intently out the massive bay windows overlooking the front gates. It was Madame Joy—or “Auntie Joy,” as I had come to know her from the old neighborhood. She had been brought to the estate at Kingsley’s explicit instruction to act as a comforting, familiar presence for me.
“Madam, good evening,” I said softly, approaching her chair. “You sent for me?”
“Yes, Schola. Please sit,” she said, her voice heavy with a profound exhaustion.
I sat on the ottoman opposite her, noticing the deep, dark circles under her eyes.
“I know I’ve been busy trying to do a lot of things,” she began, her eyes locking onto mine. “I haven’t had time to talk to you, and I need to thank you for everything. I wanted you and Kingsley to live here. I want you to be a mother to these kids.”
“Ma, I totally understand your concerns, but this is a delicate situation. It involves two adults and a lifetime commitment,” I replied, keeping my voice level.
“I just feel bad for those innocent babies who would be raised by a reckless father and nannies,” she sighed, gripping her cane. “I really wish to make things right this one time.”
“I’ll do my best, Ma, but I can’t force his decisions.”
Suddenly, the heavy double doors banged open.
“Mama! I didn’t see Schola!” a frantic voice shouted. It was Toby—my younger brother—standing in the foyer, looking absolutely terrified. Right behind him stood my mother, her face etched with panic.
I scrambled to my feet, my heavily pregnant belly pulling at my back. “Mama? Toby? What are you doing here?”
My mother let out a loud, theatrical wail, throwing her hands into the air. “You are pregnant! Oh, my God, my only daughter! You have finished me. Now my enemies will laugh at me!”
“Shut up, woman!” Madame Joy barked, rising from her chair with surprising agility. “Does she look like who married? She looks like she’s suffering more than you!”
My mother blinked, taking in the grand foyer, the maids, and my swollen belly. Her expression instantly shifted from shame to pure, unadulterated greed. “Who is the man? Take us to that man! At least he must pay your bride price, otherwise today we are taking you back to the village in shame.”
Before I could scream, the front doors opened again. Kingsley walked in, flanked by Marco. He took in the chaotic scene—my wailing mother, my opportunistic brother, and me, hyperventilating in the corner.
“What is the meaning of this?” Kingsley growled, his eyes flashing like chipped flint.
My mother puffed out her chest. “I am Schola’s mother. Who are you?”
“I am her… boyfriend,” Kingsley said, stepping in front of me, shielding me from their greedy eyes.
“We want her bride price!” my brother shouted. “Name your price, or we take her back to the village!”
“Five hundred thousand,” my mother demanded.
Kingsley didn’t blink. He pulled out his checkbook. “Make it two million. I’ll double it right now. Just sign a legal document stating you have no further claim to her life or her children.”
My mother snatched the checkbook from his hand, her eyes wide. “Deal! Where do I sign?”
Within five minutes, the papers were signed, the money was transferred, and my family walked out of the grand mansion, leaving behind nothing but the cold realization that they had sold me like an old piece of furniture. The shock of the betrayal was so profound that my vision swam. A sharp, searing pain tore through my lower abdomen, dropping me to my knees on the marble floor.
Part 7: The Rented Womb
“She’s stable for now. Thank God you got her here on time, Mr. Otiba. Her blood pressure was dangerously high, and she seems to be having early contractions,” the doctor said, wiping her hands as she stepped out of the emergency trauma bay.
I was wheeled into a private recovery room, the rhythmic beep of the fetal monitors providing a frantic soundtrack to my misery. My family had sold me, and the man who fathered my children only viewed me as an incubator.
The door opened, and Kingsley walked in. He looked completely dismantled, his usual cold composure stripped away. He sat in the chair beside my bed, taking my clammy hand. “I am sorry, Schola,” he whispered, a tear escaping his eye. “I’m so sorry for everything. I never wanted to treat you like a transaction. I was just… I was so afraid of being vulnerable.”
I stared at the ceiling, the pain in my stomach mirroring the ache in my heart. “You don’t have to pretend, sir. I know I’m just a rented womb.”
“You’re not,” he choked out, leaning his forehead against my arm. “When I saw you collapse yesterday… I realized I don’t care about the agreement anymore. I want you, Schola. I want our family. Please, give me a chance to make this right.”
I turned my head away, the betrayal of the last few months too raw to forgive so easily. “It’s too late, Mr. Otiba. Just let me have my babies, and then I’ll leave. Love was never part of the deal.”
He didn’t argue. He just sat there in the quiet room, holding my hand, bearing the weight of his own cruel choices.
Two weeks later, I was discharged and brought back to the Ikoyi mansion. The atmosphere had shifted entirely. Kingsley was no longer distant. He spent every waking hour in my suite, reading to my belly, ensuring the maids prepared the most nutritious meals, and looking at me with a soft, desperate adoration that terrified me.
One evening, a sharp, searing pain ripped through my midsection. It was unlike anything I had ever felt. I cried out, doubling over on the bed.
“Doctor! Get the doctor, now!” Kingsley shouted, panic taking over his voice as he caught me before I hit the floor.
I was rushed down the hall to the emergency surgical wing. Labor had started at only thirty-two weeks. The medical team swarmed around me, and through the haze of pain, I heard the doctor’s urgent voice. “Mr. Otiba, the twins are in distress. We need to perform an emergency C-section. There’s a risk. We might have to choose…”
“Save her!” Kingsley screamed, tears streaming down his face as he gripped my hand. “Save Schola! Forget the pregnancy, just save her!”
“No,” I gasped out, summoning the last ounce of my strength. “Save the babies. Please… save my babies.”
The anesthetic hit my IV line, pulling me down into a dark, swirling sea.
I woke up hours later to the soft, rhythmic hum of the recovery ward. The room was dim. Warm sunlight filtered through the blinds.
A nurse smiled gently, stepping up to my bedside. “You did it, Mama. You have two beautiful, healthy babies. A boy and a girl. They’re in the NICU, but they’re fighters.”
I let out a ragged breath, tears of pure relief falling onto the hospital linen. The door swung open, and Kingsley walked in, carrying two tiny pink and blue bundles. He looked at me with an expression of profound, awe-struck love that made my breath catch.
He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning down so I could see their tiny, peaceful faces. “They have your eyes, Schola,” he whispered.
I reached out with a trembling hand, brushing a dark curl from the little boy’s forehead. The hysterectomy, the pain, the betrayal of my family, the coldness of our initial arrangement—all of it faded away, replaced by the staggering, undeniable reality of the family we had accidentally created.
Kingsley reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box, setting it gently on the white sheets beside the twins. “I know this isn’t a fairy tale, and I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness yet,” he said softly, his dark eyes holding mine with absolute sincerity. “But I want to spend the rest of my life earning it. Marry me, Schola. Be my wife, and let’s raise these beautiful children together.”
I looked at the simple, elegant diamond ring resting in the velvet, then up at the billionaire who had finally learned what it meant to love something more than his money. The storm had passed, and for the first time in my life, I knew I was exactly where I belonged.
