Billionaire Redemption

Chapter 4

Mama Tee's POV

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It was past six in the evening, and the sky had started to dim into that warm orange hue that usually signaled time to close shop.

I looked at the white paper bag lying on the workbench, my heart sinking a little.

I had forgotten to give Ayra her medicine.

The hospital visit earlier had been unexpected, but after I saw that nail wound on her thigh, I knew she needed treatment fast. She bled so much, yet she didn’t complain once. That girl was used to pain in a way no youth should ever be.

When we got back, she had thanked me over and over again, then limped away in silence. I was so caught up with a customer who had just walked in that I hadn’t stopped her to hand the meds over.

Now, here I was, pacing, heart uneasy. Something didn’t sit right.

Maybe it was the way she always looked over her shoulder before leaving the workshop.

Maybe it was the way she flinched every time she talked about home.

Or maybe… it was instinct. Because something inside me was screaming that something was wrong.

I grabbed the medicine bag, locked up the shop, and walked quickly in the direction of her house.

**

When I got to their compound, the iron gate was slightly open. I knocked on the wooden front door. It took a while, but eventually Marla opened it, one eyebrow raised like she couldn’t be bothered.

The slut in the neighborhood.

Her face was pinched with a fake smile and her voice was sharp as a blade, as always. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Ayra,” I said, holding up the bag. “I forgot to give her this drugs after the hospital.”

Marla’s face twitched slightly. “She’s fine. I’ll give them to her,” she said quickly, stretching out her hand to grab the medicine.

I paused.

Something in my gut said no, but I hesitated just a second too long and handed her the bag.

“Thanks,” she muttered and moved to close the door.

But I stepped forward, blocking it with my foot.

“I’d like to see her myself,” I said calmly but firmly. “Just to make sure she’s okay.”

Marla’s smile vanished. “No need for that. She’s resting. Why disturb her again?”

And with that, she slammed the door shut in my face.

I stood there, staring at the wooden door like it had slapped me. My breathing grew shallow. That old fear that had built up around Ayra every time she spoke about her home, it wasn’t paranoia. It was real.

I knocked again, harder this time.

Then I started banging. “Open the door! Let me see Ayra!”

Neighbors started stepping out. Some peeked through their windows, others came closer, curiosity turning to concern.

“Mama Tee, what happen?” one woman asked.

“I think they’ve done something to that girl,” I said, breathless with panic. “Please help me. She didn’t come back for her drugs. Something is wrong!”

The door yanked open suddenly. Her father, tall and bitter-looking, stood there, eyes narrowed.

“What’s your problem, ma’am?” he barked.

“I need to see Ayra,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “She has medicine to take, and I must see her with my own eyes.”

The crowd behind me murmured in agreement.

He scoffed. “She’s sleeping. You want to disturb someone because of ordinary drugs?”

“Let us see her then,” a man in the crowd said. “So this woman can leave in peace.”

Ayra’s father hesitated, grinding his teeth. Finally, he turned to Marla. “Go and bring her.”

But Marla didn’t move. Her eyes widened in panic, and she looked between him and the hallway.

“Go,” he ordered more sharply.

Marla nodded slowly, then turned and disappeared into the house.

Then, it happened.

A scream.

A high-pitched, blood-curdling scream that made every hair on my body stand.

Without thinking, I shoved past Ayra’s father and ran inside. He shouted behind me, following. Some neighbors surged after us.

Inside, the house was dim, but I could see Marla holding a torch, frozen in place.

She stood at the edge of a door. My feet rushed ahead of me.

I looked into the room and my heart stopped.

Ayra lay there, crumpled on the floor like a discarded doll.

Blood stained the cement floor under her. Her thigh wound had reopened, the bandage elsewhere. Her skirt was soaked in it. They were blood traces from the middle of the room more like she crawled to the door.

Her eyes were shut, face pale. Her hands were limp. The room was windowless, damp, and small, more like a storage cell than a room.

“Oh my God…” I whispered.

I dropped beside her, shaking her gently. “Ayra! Ayra, wake up!”

Nothing.

I pressed my hand to her cheek, cold. Her lips were pale. Her breathing was shallow, almost nonexistent.

Marla stood there, trembling.

“What did you do?” I screamed at her. “What have you done?!”

“I..I didn’t know… she..she was fine earlier,” Marla stammered.

Ayra’s father didn’t say a word. He looked stunned.

The neighbors were horrified.

“We have to get her to the hospital!” I yelled.

Two men rushed in to help carry her as I grabbed her school bag and the medicine from where it had fallen by the door.

As I followed them out, I looked back once more at the house, at Marla’s pale face, and her father’s silence.

This wasn’t just neglect. This was cruelty.