He Slept With Me Every Night—Then Paid My Bride Price for Another Girl
Episode 2
Grief makes you quiet. Betrayal gives you a voice. And I was done being silent.
After Raymond blocked me, something inside me cracked—but it didn’t break. Not completely. It transformed. I had spent years pouring every piece of myself into a man who saw me as a placeholder. I gave him loyalty, and he gave another woman a ring. I gave him my womb, and he gave me shame.
But what he didn’t know—was that I was carrying more than heartbreak.
Three days after I saw the post, I woke up with a fever and blood between my legs. I was five months pregnant. I rushed to the clinic alone, praying I hadn’t lost the baby. The doctor ran tests. The heartbeat was still there—soft, strong, defiant. Just like me. That was the moment I stopped thinking like a victim. I started thinking like a mother.
I moved out of the apartment that weekend. Packed my things while crying quietly into folded bedsheets. I told the caretaker Raymond wouldn’t be returning. He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t ask questions. I moved into my aunt’s flat in Iyana Church. She took one look at my face, at my swollen belly, and didn’t say “I told you so.” She just held me.
Days passed. Then weeks. I stayed off social media, but the streets? They talk. A friend of a friend told me Raymond’s wedding was huge. Traditional and white. Chinenye wore four outfits, and Raymond danced like someone who had never known real pain. They called her “the lucky girl.” People said he had “leveled up.” That I was just “a campus phase.” They didn’t know I had been washing his boxers when he couldn’t afford airtime.
I watched quietly.
Then one evening, my friend Uche showed up. She dropped a flash drive on the table and smiled with her eyes. “I thought you might want this,” she said. “From someone at the wedding.”
It was a full recording.
Their engagement. The vows. The dancing. The cake. And then—the speech.
Raymond had stood up, half-drunk and arrogant. “I thank God for giving me a real woman,” he slurred. “Someone who didn’t come to eat my money. Someone who didn’t use me to chase small-girl dreams. You’re not like the others.”
The crowd had clapped. He had smiled. But the thing about recording devices is—they remember. They capture. They preserve.
So I posted it.
Not the whole thing.
Just the part where he called me a user. A leech. A fake. I posted it with a caption:
“He slept with me every night, called me his wife, and left me pregnant—only to say this at his wedding. This is the father of my unborn child.”
And I didn’t stop there.
I sent copies of the pregnancy test, ultrasound images, and photos of us from just three months before—to Chinenye. I didn’t insult her. I simply wrote: “He was mine while he was planning you. You deserve the full picture before you carry his name.”
The post went viral in six hours.
By the next morning, Raymond was trending.
#RaymondTheRunner
#TwoWivesNoHonor
#CampusToAltarScam
My phone rang endlessly. Unknown numbers. Media houses. Instagram blogs. Even Chinenye’s sister texted me, asking, “Is this real?” I didn’t reply. I was already in the hospital—contractions had started. The stress triggered early labor.
It was a long night. I screamed, I bled, I almost gave up.
But then I held her.
My daughter.
Tiny, brown, beautiful—and full of war.
I named her Hope.
As I stared at her face, Raymond called again—this time with a new number.
I didn’t answer.
He thought he broke me.
But he gave birth to my purpose.
To be continued…
Episode 2
Grief makes you quiet. Betrayal gives you a voice. And I was done being silent.
After Raymond blocked me, something inside me cracked—but it didn’t break. Not completely. It transformed. I had spent years pouring every piece of myself into a man who saw me as a placeholder. I gave him loyalty, and he gave another woman a ring. I gave him my womb, and he gave me shame.
But what he didn’t know—was that I was carrying more than heartbreak.
Three days after I saw the post, I woke up with a fever and blood between my legs. I was five months pregnant. I rushed to the clinic alone, praying I hadn’t lost the baby. The doctor ran tests. The heartbeat was still there—soft, strong, defiant. Just like me. That was the moment I stopped thinking like a victim. I started thinking like a mother.
I moved out of the apartment that weekend. Packed my things while crying quietly into folded bedsheets. I told the caretaker Raymond wouldn’t be returning. He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t ask questions. I moved into my aunt’s flat in Iyana Church. She took one look at my face, at my swollen belly, and didn’t say “I told you so.” She just held me.
Days passed. Then weeks. I stayed off social media, but the streets? They talk. A friend of a friend told me Raymond’s wedding was huge. Traditional and white. Chinenye wore four outfits, and Raymond danced like someone who had never known real pain. They called her “the lucky girl.” People said he had “leveled up.” That I was just “a campus phase.” They didn’t know I had been washing his boxers when he couldn’t afford airtime.
I watched quietly.
Then one evening, my friend Uche showed up. She dropped a flash drive on the table and smiled with her eyes. “I thought you might want this,” she said. “From someone at the wedding.”
It was a full recording.
Their engagement. The vows. The dancing. The cake. And then—the speech.
Raymond had stood up, half-drunk and arrogant. “I thank God for giving me a real woman,” he slurred. “Someone who didn’t come to eat my money. Someone who didn’t use me to chase small-girl dreams. You’re not like the others.”
The crowd had clapped. He had smiled. But the thing about recording devices is—they remember. They capture. They preserve.
So I posted it.
Not the whole thing.
Just the part where he called me a user. A leech. A fake. I posted it with a caption:
“He slept with me every night, called me his wife, and left me pregnant—only to say this at his wedding. This is the father of my unborn child.”
And I didn’t stop there.
I sent copies of the pregnancy test, ultrasound images, and photos of us from just three months before—to Chinenye. I didn’t insult her. I simply wrote: “He was mine while he was planning you. You deserve the full picture before you carry his name.”
The post went viral in six hours.
By the next morning, Raymond was trending.
#RaymondTheRunner
#TwoWivesNoHonor
#CampusToAltarScam
My phone rang endlessly. Unknown numbers. Media houses. Instagram blogs. Even Chinenye’s sister texted me, asking, “Is this real?” I didn’t reply. I was already in the hospital—contractions had started. The stress triggered early labor.
It was a long night. I screamed, I bled, I almost gave up.
But then I held her.
My daughter.
Tiny, brown, beautiful—and full of war.
I named her Hope.
As I stared at her face, Raymond called again—this time with a new number.
I didn’t answer.
He thought he broke me.
But he gave birth to my purpose.
To be continued…
He Slept With Me Every Night—Then Paid My Bride Price for Another Girl
Episode 2
Grief makes you quiet. Betrayal gives you a voice. And I was done being silent.
After Raymond blocked me, something inside me cracked—but it didn’t break. Not completely. It transformed. I had spent years pouring every piece of myself into a man who saw me as a placeholder. I gave him loyalty, and he gave another woman a ring. I gave him my womb, and he gave me shame.
But what he didn’t know—was that I was carrying more than heartbreak.
Three days after I saw the post, I woke up with a fever and blood between my legs. I was five months pregnant. I rushed to the clinic alone, praying I hadn’t lost the baby. The doctor ran tests. The heartbeat was still there—soft, strong, defiant. Just like me. That was the moment I stopped thinking like a victim. I started thinking like a mother.
I moved out of the apartment that weekend. Packed my things while crying quietly into folded bedsheets. I told the caretaker Raymond wouldn’t be returning. He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t ask questions. I moved into my aunt’s flat in Iyana Church. She took one look at my face, at my swollen belly, and didn’t say “I told you so.” She just held me.
Days passed. Then weeks. I stayed off social media, but the streets? They talk. A friend of a friend told me Raymond’s wedding was huge. Traditional and white. Chinenye wore four outfits, and Raymond danced like someone who had never known real pain. They called her “the lucky girl.” People said he had “leveled up.” That I was just “a campus phase.” They didn’t know I had been washing his boxers when he couldn’t afford airtime.
I watched quietly.
Then one evening, my friend Uche showed up. She dropped a flash drive on the table and smiled with her eyes. “I thought you might want this,” she said. “From someone at the wedding.”
It was a full recording.
Their engagement. The vows. The dancing. The cake. And then—the speech.
Raymond had stood up, half-drunk and arrogant. “I thank God for giving me a real woman,” he slurred. “Someone who didn’t come to eat my money. Someone who didn’t use me to chase small-girl dreams. You’re not like the others.”
The crowd had clapped. He had smiled. But the thing about recording devices is—they remember. They capture. They preserve.
So I posted it.
Not the whole thing.
Just the part where he called me a user. A leech. A fake. I posted it with a caption:
“He slept with me every night, called me his wife, and left me pregnant—only to say this at his wedding. This is the father of my unborn child.”
And I didn’t stop there.
I sent copies of the pregnancy test, ultrasound images, and photos of us from just three months before—to Chinenye. I didn’t insult her. I simply wrote: “He was mine while he was planning you. You deserve the full picture before you carry his name.”
The post went viral in six hours.
By the next morning, Raymond was trending.
#RaymondTheRunner
#TwoWivesNoHonor
#CampusToAltarScam
My phone rang endlessly. Unknown numbers. Media houses. Instagram blogs. Even Chinenye’s sister texted me, asking, “Is this real?” I didn’t reply. I was already in the hospital—contractions had started. The stress triggered early labor.
It was a long night. I screamed, I bled, I almost gave up.
But then I held her.
My daughter.
Tiny, brown, beautiful—and full of war.
I named her Hope.
As I stared at her face, Raymond called again—this time with a new number.
I didn’t answer.
He thought he broke me.
But he gave birth to my purpose.
To be continued…
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