I Became a Prostitute for the First Time in My Life—But That Same Night, I Walked Into a Hotel Room and Found a Deadly Snake Waiting for Me Instead of the Man Who Paid Me

Chapter 8

I sat in the car for a long time that evening, holding the little bottle, turning it over and over in my hands. The liquid inside sloshed gently, dark as old blood.

A king in the spirit world. A ritual sacrifice. A womb that fed spirits.

It sounded insane. It sounded like something out of a nightmare.

But I had seen the green snake. I had felt it watching my belly. I had lost a child because of it. And I had walked into a brand-new house to find its eggs waiting for me on the floor.

None of that was a nightmare.

It was real. All of it was real.

And then I remembered the one person who could help me find him.

I picked up my phone. My hands were trembling as I dialed the number I had sworn I would never call again.

“Hello, Beatrice?”

“Eh, Helen! Long time!” Her voice was bright, careless, unchanged. “How far, my sister? You don’t come out again o. We miss you for the scene.”

“Beatrice,” I said, my voice shaking, “do you remember that guy from the hotel? That first night? The one who paid me big money?”

There was a pause. Then she laughed — that easy, careless laugh I remembered so well.

“Ohhh, the guy still dey naa! He is even richer now! Always asking for new girls, that one. The man has money to throw away. Why, you want to come back to the street? Should I give him your number?”

I closed my eyes. The old woman’s words burned in my mind. Find him. Sprinkle the liquid. Only then can the curse be neutralized.

“Yes,” I said, forcing the word out. “Yes, give me his number.”

I hung up, and the number arrived a moment later, glowing on my screen.

My heart was pounding. My hands were shaking.

I showed it to Jude.

—

We planned it together. We would not do it alone — we would not be foolish. But we needed to get into his house, and I could not go myself. He might recognize my face. And after what had happened in that hotel, I could not bear the thought of being anywhere near him again.

So we found help in an unexpected place.

Our neighbor, a young woman named Amara, had watched us cry and pray and move house for months. She knew pieces of our story — not all of it, but enough. When we asked her for help, she did not hesitate.

“Tell me what to do,” she said, her voice steady. “I am not afraid of any man.”

She called the number. I watched her take a deep breath, compose her face, and let her voice turn sweet and soft.

“Hello, handsome,” she purred. “Beatrice gave me your number. I heard you are a man who knows how to treat a lady. I want to see you tonight.”

I held my breath.

His voice came crackling through the phone — a voice I had not heard in years, but one that made my skin crawl with recognition. He laughed, low and pleased.

“Tonight? I like a woman who doesn’t waste time. Come and meet me.”

“He wants me to come to a hotel,” Amara whispered, covering the receiver.

I shook my head frantically. No. Not a hotel. We needed his house.

Amara put the phone back to her ear. “Why don’t we meet at your place, handsome? I feel more comfortable in a home. Somewhere private, somewhere nice. A man like you must have a beautiful house.”

He laughed again. “Oh, you would like my house. Fine. Let me send you the address.”

The address arrived a moment later.

It was a mansion. A huge, beautiful mansion with a high gate and a long driveway lined with lights. I stared at the name and the street, and something cold slid down my spine.

I had never been to this house.

But I knew — with absolute, bone-deep certainty — that this was the man from the hotel.