THE OTHER PART OF ME

CHAPTER THREE

Later, sleep finally found her, not as rest but as escape. A heavy, uneasy kind of sleep that came after hours of weeping and whispering prayers into the dark.

The early morning sun had barely broken through the curtains when she was stirred by the soft creak of the bedroom door. Her eyes fluttered open, puffy and heavy from crying all night. The first thing she saw was Bernard’s silhouette stepping into the room with a tray of food. He didn’t say a word. He walked over and placed the tray gently on the table beside the bed.

Princess’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded as her mind raced, trying to grasp how to face him after everything.

As Bernard turned to leave, she sat up sharply. “Bernard,” she called, her voice hoarse.

He paused, then slowly turned around.

“Yes?” he replied coldly, his eyes flat, unreadable.

Princess slid off the bed and rushed to him, her knees hitting the floor as she grabbed his hand tightly. “Please,” she begged, her voice trembling. “Please, pity me. Don’t take my son away from me. He’s the only one I have—he’s my whole life.”

Bernard looked down at her, a mocking smile creeping across his face. “Really, Princess?” he said with a low chuckle. “You have me. And Jane. At least until we’re done with you.”

His words pierced through her like a blade. Her grip loosened a little as she stared up at him in disbelief.

“And let’s correct something,” he added, squatting to her level, his voice calm but menacing. “Jason isn’t your son. He’s mine. You were the one who got pregnant, yes. But I’m the father. I made that happen. Don’t get it twisted.”

She gasped quietly, her body trembling. Tears filled her eyes again, but she held them back, staring into the face of the man she once believed would protect her.

Bernard leaned in slightly, brushing a strand of hair from her face in a gesture that once might have been sweet, but now felt like mockery. “I paid everything they asked for,” he whispered. “I’m not owing anyone anything. You were given to me. Bought and paid for.”

Princess flinched, her lips parting but no words coming out. It felt like the ground beneath her had collapsed.

“And for the record,” Bernard said, standing up and dusting off his hands as if the conversation bored him, “I really did love you… maybe I still do, in a way. But love wasn’t part of the contract. My hands are tied, Princess. This was always the plan.”

She stared at him, frozen in place. Her breath hitched. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “What did I ever do to you?”

Bernard sighed and gestured toward the tray. “Eat your food,” he said, casually stepping away from her. “You didn’t eat last night. That’s not good for the baby.”

He turned toward the door, but paused one last time. “Don’t worry. You look scared… but I won’t let anything happen to you. At least not now. Once you’ve given birth, we’ll take my child and leave. You can have the house… the cars… start a new life or whatever. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Princess remained on her knees, staring blankly at the closed door, her heart thudding in her chest, her tears silent now. There was no more doubt. No more excuses. Everything she thought was real had been carefully built to deceive her.

She wasn’t a wife.

She was a vessel.

She was still on her knees, staring at the door in stunned silence, trying to process everything Bernard had just said. His words echoed in her head like thunder: "You were given to me. Bought and paid for." Her arms wrapped around her belly as if shielding the baby from the cruelty of the world it hadn’t yet entered.

Then, without warning, the door creaked open again.

She jumped, startled, her heart skipping a beat.

Bernard stepped back inside, his expression unreadable, one hand still on the doorknob. He looked at her for a moment—down there on the floor, shaken and silent—before speaking again, his voice flat and final.

“And one more thing,” he said. “You are not allowed to leave this house. For any reason. Do you understand?”

Princess’s eyes widened, and her lips parted, but no words came. She just stared at him.

He raised an eyebrow. “Did you get that?” he asked again, his voice sharper now.

She nodded slowly, her body trembling as if her voice had been stolen from her. Her throat burned with the need to speak, to plead, to scream—but the fear had locked everything inside.

Bernard gave a short nod of satisfaction. “Good,” he muttered. “Make sure you remember.”

Then he shut the door again—this time with a click that sounded more like a prison cell than a bedroom.

Outside the bedroom door, Jane stood silently, her arms folded and a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. She wasn’t just listening—she was supervising. Making sure Bernard said exactly what he had been instructed to say. She wasn’t about to let her carefully constructed plan fall apart because of some weak moment of affection or remorse. Not now. Not after everything.

She had worked too hard, lied too long, and destroyed too many lives to lose Bernard over something as foolish as love.

Bernard, the man behind that door, was never truly hers by heart—but he was hers by control. And she knew exactly how to keep him in line.

He wasn’t always like this. Once, he had been just a young Nigerian man with big dreams, who left his homeland in search of a better life in the U.S. He was bright, hopeful, and willing to work hard. But then he met Jane—wealthy, glamorous, dangerous. She had everything he thought he wanted, and she offered it all without hesitation.

What he didn’t know was that Jane’s wealth came from a bloody empire—built on drugs and death.

She had been the mistress of a powerful drug lord, her so-called “Big Daddy.” When Bernard came into the picture, Jane had already grown tired of the old man. In a move as cold as ice, she orchestrated his death, making it look like Bernard had pulled the trigger. She planted the evidence, made the calls, and wiped her hands clean—leaving Bernard bound to her by fear and blackmail.

“You leave me,” she once whispered to him, “and the cops will be the next people you see. You’ll die behind bars.”

So, Bernard stayed.

He tried to make peace with the life they had, even as it disgusted him. Jane, sensing his restlessness, suggested a fresh start in a different state. He agreed—not out of love, but for a sliver of freedom, a quieter life. Jane was ready to retire anyway. Her health had started to fail after years of swallowing packets of drugs as a smuggler. The final blow came when a doctor confirmed she could no longer have children. Her womb had been damaged beyond repair.

Jane had wept for the first time in years. But not because of the loss—because she feared losing Bernard next.

That’s when they found Mrs. Gloria.

She was well connected, especially with certain people back in Nigeria. She offered them a way out—or rather, a way to keep their family dream alive. That’s how Princess came into their lives. A vulnerable young woman with no one, no support, no clue what awaited her. She was perfect.

Jane didn’t care about her. All she wanted was the child.

And as she leaned against the wall outside that room, listening to Bernard deliver the cold, heartless lines she had written for him, she felt a sick satisfaction.

She’s broken now, Jane thought. Good.

She adjusted her earrings and turned away, her heels clicking softly on the hallway tiles. Bernard may have hesitated, but she hadn’t.

Princess was never meant to be anything more than a vessel.

And vessels don’t get to ask questions.