Rich Mistress Beat And Humiliated Her Pregnant Maid, Unaware The Baby In Her Womb Was Her Son’s…

Part 1
The pregnant maid was dragged out of the Lekki mansion while the daughter of the house recorded her tears for everyone to laugh at. Amara fell on the hot stone outside the gate, one hand clutching her 6-month belly, the other reaching back toward the people who had just called her a thief. Inside the Adebanjo estate, the living room still glittered with wealth: marble floors, imported chandeliers, gold-framed family portraits, and cream sofas that looked too clean for human pain. But in the middle of all that luxury, Amara had been made to kneel like a criminal. Mrs. Kemi Adebanjo, the elegant second wife of the late Chief Adebanjo, stood over her in a flowing lace boubou, coral beads around her neck, her face hard with rage.
—You stole my diamond bracelet, Amara. Do not insult me with your village lies.
Amara shook her head, tears running down her cheeks.
—Madam, I swear before God, I did not take it. Search my room. Search my bag. Search everything I own.
Tara, Kemi’s proud daughter, raised her phone higher, smiling as if she were filming entertainment.
—Look at her. Pregnant and still stealing. Some people have no shame.
Behind them, 2 other maids, Aunty Sade and Favour, whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear. Aunty Sade had always hated Amara’s quiet nature, and Favour followed wherever cruelty looked safe.
—She has been acting too innocent since she came here.
—Yes, always keeping secrets.
Amara looked at them with broken eyes.
—Please, you know me. Tell madam I have never stolen anything.
But no one defended her. Mrs. Kemi lifted her chin.
—Security, remove her from my house. Let her go and deliver that bastard child in the gutter if she wants.
The words struck Amara harder than any hand. The guards grabbed her arms, and she cried out as they pulled her across the living room. She begged them to be careful with her baby, but Tara only laughed and followed with the phone. At the gate, they pushed her out so roughly that she almost fell. The iron gate slammed between her and the only roof she had known in Lagos for 2 years. She sat on the pavement under the burning afternoon sun, her uniform dusty, her throat dry, her whole body shaking. Cars passed. Nobody stopped. She touched her belly and whispered that she was sorry. Then a black Range Rover stopped in front of the gate. The door opened, and Tunde Adebanjo stepped out. He was the late chief’s only son, returned from Abuja after months away. His white kaftan was crisp, his face calm, but when he saw Amara on the ground, his expression changed.
—Amara.
She looked up, stunned.
—Sir Tunde.
He knelt beside her without caring who was watching.
—Who did this to you?