The first light of dawn was a pale, accusing smear across the Abuja sky. It found Adams still on the curb, a hollowed-out shell wrapped in the tattered remains of his silk pajamas. The frantic energy of his search had burned out, leaving behind a cold, heavy ash of certainty.
She was gone. And it was his fault.
The front door opened. Hajiya Zainab stood there, her figure silhouetted against the warm light of the chandelier. She looked immaculate, her displeasure a more potent force than any mere all-nighter.
"Get inside, Adams," her voice cut through the morning quiet, sharp and low. "You are making a spectacle of yourself. The security patrol has called twice. This is unbecoming."
Unbecoming. The word echoed in the hollow chamber of his skull. His wife was missing, and his mother was worried about appearances.
He didn't move. He couldn't. His limbs were made of lead, fused to the concrete by the weight of his failure.
"Adams," her tone hardened. "Now."
Slowly, mechanically, he pushed himself up. His body ached, his leg screamed in protest, but the physical pain was a distant echo compared to the agony in his chest. He shuffled past her, not meeting her eyes, and collapsed onto the nearest sofa in the grand living room.
She followed, standing over him like a displeased deity. "This hysterical display is beneath you. She has chosen to be dramatic. She will return when she is hungry enough or when her point has been made."
He finally looked at her, and the sight of her perfect, untroubled composure unleashed something inside him.
"Her point?" His voice was a ragged scrape. "What point, Mother? That her husband is a coward? That he lets his family treat her like an outsider? That he… that he…" He couldn't say it. The memory of his hand connecting with her face flashed behind his eyes, a searing brand of shame. "She wasn't making a point. She was escaping. From me."
Hajiya Zainab's lips tightened into a thin line. "Do not be melodramatic. Every marriage has its tensions. A strong woman endures. A strong man leads. You have failed to lead, and she has failed to endure. That is the simple truth."
The simplification of his cataclysm into a lesson on leadership was so grotesque it stole his breath.
"Get out," he whispered.
She blinked, genuinely startled. "I beg your pardon?"
"Get out!" The words erupted from him, a raw, guttural roar that seemed to startle even the expensive art on the walls. "Get out of this room! Get out of my head! For once in your life, just leave me alone with the mess I've made!"
For a moment, sheer shock held her still. Then, her face settled into a mask of cold, furious dignity. "Very well. Wallow in your self-pity. But remember, when you are done, this family's reputation remains. Clean up your mess before it stains us all."
She turned and left, her heels clicking a final, disapproving judgment on the marble floor.
Alone, the silence rushed back in, but it was different now. It was no longer empty. It was filled with ghosts.
He saw Mina on their wedding day, laughing, her eyes full of a future so bright it hurt to remember. "I choose you, Adams Dared. Every day, I will choose you."
He saw her in the hospital, holding a newborn Trisha, her face radiant with a love so profound it had humbled him. "Look what we made."
He saw her in the flooded penthouse, clutching that single folder of documents, her world destroyed but her spine straight. "We'll figure this out. Together."
And he saw himself. Himself turning away. Himself staying silent. Himself choosing the path of least resistance, over and over and over, until the path led him directly to that moment in the study, his hand raised against the best part of his life.
A dry, heaving sob broke from him. He buried his face in his hands, but no tears came. He was too desolate for tears.
I didn't choose you, he thought, the words a torturous confession in his mind. When it mattered, I never chose you. I chose my pride. I chose my mother's approval. I chose the easy silence over the hard truth. I chose everything but you.
The marriage wasn't just lost. It had been murdered. And he had held the weapon.
The sun rose higher, painting the room in a light that felt too cheerful, too normal. The world was moving on. Somewhere, Mina was… where? On a bus back to Lagos? Sleeping on a park bench? Hurt? The possibilities were a gallery of horrors, each one painted by his own failings.
He thought of calling the police. But what would he say? My wife left me because I'm the reason her life became a living hell? He imagined the polite, skeptical looks. He imagined his mother's wrath at involving outsiders in their "private business."
He was trapped. Trapped in this mausoleum of a house, trapped by his own guilt, trapped by the crushing certainty that he deserved every second of this agony.
He didn't deserve to find her. He didn't deserve the relief of knowing she was safe. This despair, this gnawing, unknown terror—this was his penance.
He finally understood the true cost of his silence. It wasn't just the loss of his wife. It was the loss of himself. The man he had been—the man Mina had loved—was gone, erased by weakness and compromise. All that was left was this hollowed-out shell, sitting in a perfect room, drowning in a perfect silence, finally aware of the monstrous price of keeping up appearances.