“Ah, you’re back already,” Kwesi said. It wasn’t a greeting; it was an accusation.

My heart stuttered. “Kwesi? Why isn’t my key working?”

“Because I changed the locks,” he replied, his body blocking the entrance like a bouncer at a club I was no longer cool enough to enter.

From inside the apartment, a woman’s laughter rang out—crystal clear, sharp, and utterly foreign. “Babe, who is it? If it’s a solicitor, tell them to kick rocks.”

She appeared over his shoulder a moment later. Young. Stunning. Inaya. I recognized her instantly from Instagram—a local model gaining clout, known for her lavish lifestyle and questionable taste. She was wearing my silk robe, the one I bought for our anniversary.