BABY MAMA TRAP
PART 2
Onyinye stared at the pregnancy test in her trembling hands, the two pink lines burning into her vision like a brand. Her stomach twisted into tight knots, and for a moment, she thought she might throw up.
Pregnant.
The word echoed in her mind, sharp and terrifying.
She sat on the cold bathroom floor, her back pressed against the tiled wall, trying to steady her breathing. How could this happen? They had been careful—at least, she thought they had been. That night at the hotel was a blur of expensive cologne, whispered promises, and reckless decisions.
Now, she was carrying the baby of a man who had tossed money at her like she was a cheap one-night stand.
Three days later, Onyinye finally gathered the courage to call him. Her fingers shook as she dialed the number Kolawole had given her—"Just in case you ever want to see me again," he had said with that arrogant smirk.
The phone rang once. Twice.
Then, his deep voice answered. "Hello?"
For a second, Onyinye couldn’t speak. Her throat was too tight.
"Kola… it’s me. Onyinye."
A pause. Then, a slow, cautious, "Oh. Hey."
No warmth. No excitement. Just cold recognition.
She closed her eyes, gripping the phone tighter. "I need to talk to you. It’s important."
Another pause. Then, a sigh. "Alright. Meet me at the Royal Gardens Hotel. 8 PM. Don’t be late."
Before she could respond, the line went dead.
Onyinye arrived early, her stomach in knots. She sat at a secluded corner table, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The hotel restaurant was quiet, filled with soft piano music and the clinking of wine glasses.
Then, he walked in.
Kolawole looked even more handsome than she remembered—dressed in a tailored navy-blue suit, his beard neatly trimmed, his cologne subtle but intoxicating. He didn’t smile as he sat across from her.
"So,"* he said, leaning back in his chair. "What’s so important?"
Onyinye swallowed hard. Just say it.
"I’m pregnant."
Silence.
His expression didn’t change. No shock. No anger. Just… nothing.
Then, he laughed. A cold, mocking sound.
"Come on, Onyinye. Don’t play games. You know how this works."
Her heart pounded. "I’m not playing games. I took three tests. They’re all positive."
Kolawole’s smile faded. His eyes turned hard.
"Listen to me very carefully,"* he said, his voice low and dangerous. "That child is not mine. And even if it is, you will never prove it. Do you understand?"
Onyinye felt like she’d been slapped.
Before she could respond, he stood up, tossing a wad of cash on the table.
"Get rid of it," he said. "And don’t ever contact me again."
Then he walked away, leaving her sitting there, humiliated and shaking.
That night, Onyinye cried until she had no tears left. She felt ******. Used. Betrayed.
But then, something inside her shifted.
A slow, burning anger began to replace her sadness.
Kolawole thought he could just throw money at her and walk away? He thought she would just disappear like some shameful secret?
No.
She wiped her tears and picked up her phone.
There was one way to prove the truth.
One way to force him to take responsibility.
And she was going to use it.
Two weeks later, Onyinye sat in a private clinic, her hands resting on her still-flat stomach. The doctor had explained the process—a simple blood test that could confirm paternity as early as 8 weeks.
It was expensive. But she didn’t care.
She needed this proof.
When the results came back a week later, Onyinye didn’t even flinch as she read the words:
"Probability of Paternity: 99.99%."
Kolawole Adebayo was the father.
And now, she had the evidence to destroy him.
To be continued...