The Wedded Whore (Completed)

Book 2; Forbidden Woman

There were reporters all over the premises. It had promised to be a media circus from the very moment the news had first turned out into the media twenty-four hours ago. They all had their cameras ready, so that when the suspect stepped out for her arraignment, they would be able

to have a field day taking snapshots of her and her entourage when she appeared.

A glittering black Toyota Land Cruiser pulled into the court premises, and it drove

speedily up to the courthouse and then slid smoothly to a halt. All eyes were trained on the car,

and the moment Obi Obiekwe stepped out of the car, looking as smooth and as chiseled as he

always contrived to do whenever he stepped out in public, the reporters all pounced on him.

'One moment!'

'Do you think that the court is going to grant your wife bail for what she had done?'

'Will this affect your relationship with her?'

'Are you going to leave her and choose between the other women in your life?'

And the barrage of questions continued mercilessly, the cameras flashing at him, but he

blocked them away as if they were nothing more than an inconsequential attack of gnats on him,

his Prada sunglasses masking his eyes against the mad flash of the lights on him. And then he

escaped into the court, angry now more than ever. He wanted to make all this go away, but there

was nothing that he could do now, for Adamma was a far bigger celebrity than anything he had

ever imagined, and the media were eating this up all too raw.

He was here not because she had asked him to come to her_ she would rather die than

ask for his help in her life; she was that crazy_ but because he wanted to lend her his presence,

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give the people something of the home front to see that she had her family firmly behind her in

what she was doing.

But God, why had she done? And with that beautiful face, that cool detachment that

defied the whole world and dared all to oblivion_ soon, they would call out for her head and that

would contribute to the end of her.

When he stepped into the gallery, his eyes scanning for a chair to sit on, and knowing that

his secretary had saved one for him because the entire court was filled up to the brim with

spectators looking to see the queen fall from her high throne, he saw his children seated together.

He smiled at them but they maintained a collective straight face, particularly Helen, who was

wearing a huge pair of glasses, though colorless. He knew better than anyone that it was more

than a fashion statement; she was wearing it to hide the bruises on her beautiful face. It was as if

they were not seeing him at all, as if they were seeing through him rather than seeing him. And it

hurt, like mad.

He sighed, his heart beating faster at the thought that this girl was beginning to look more

and more like her mother with the passage of each minute, each day, each week, and each

passing year.

God help us all, he thought; for he knew that he had hurt them badly, and he deserved to

be ostracized by them. But what he did not deserve was to be dragged into all this mess that was

a criminal case, and against his wife no less!

She would be the end of him!

Dear Reader,

Herein lies the beginning of the real tale about Adamma. This tale will set your teeth on edge.

I hope to publish it through mainstream channels via a traditional publisher. So, patience my dears. . .