Netchi stepped forward in a designer gown that cost more than most people’s homes. Diamonds glittered at her ears. Her red-bottom heels clicked across the floor. Her smile was cruel.
“You think because it is your birthday, you can sneak into a place like this? Know your level.”
The room turned to stare.
Phones came out.
Someone began recording.
Adese’s hands trembled, but she did not cry.
Because what Netchi did not know—what almost nobody in that room knew—was that the girl she had just humiliated was about to become the richest young woman in Lagos.
But that story began long before this night.
It began with a phone call that destroyed two families.
Chief Adami was in his office on the thirty-second floor of Adami Towers when his personal doctor called.
“Chief, I need to see you immediately. It is about your daughter.”
An hour later, the doctor sat across from Chief Adami and his wife with DNA results spread across the table.
“Twenty years ago,” the doctor said carefully, “there was a mix-up at the hospital. Your biological daughter was given to another family. The girl you raised is not your child. Your real daughter was raised by a family named Obi.”
Madam Adami dropped her teacup.
Chief Adami’s face stayed calm, but his hands did not. “Where is our real daughter?”
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