Episode 1
The moment the cold juice splashed down my chest, I knew my life would never be the same again.
They say a woman can only break so much before she turns to stone. That day, I felt myself cracking in places I didn’t even know existed.
I stood there in the middle of the office canteen, frozen like a statue, as the red juice dripped from my hair and stained my cream-colored dress. People stared. Whispers buzzed around me like flies on a carcass.
My hands trembled. My throat burned.
The glass that caused it all rolled across the floor and stopped by my feet. And then I heard it — laughter. Loud, mocking, heartless.
I looked up.
She was beautiful, no doubt. Flawless skin, shiny straight wig, nails polished blood-red, her heels clacking proudly on the tiles. And behind that perfect face was a cruelty that could slice through a person’s soul.
“Ah-ah! Look at you!” she shouted for everyone to hear. “See how you dress like a roadside beggar. Who let you into this place?”
My lips trembled. I tried to speak, but nothing came out.
She took another sip from her juice and stepped closer, inspecting me with a hateful smirk.
“Look at this woman!” she announced to the crowd. “You smell like you sleep under the bridge, and you’re carrying food like a market woman. Can’t you see how you embarrass us in this place?”
A small laugh rippled through the canteen.
My heart squeezed painfully. I swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that burned hot behind my eyes.
She brought her face even closer to mine, her eyes sharp with disgust. “Next time,” she hissed, “take a bath before coming to a big man’s company. We don’t need dirty cockroaches like you here.”
My soul shrank.
I was not dirty — I was only simple. My gown was faded but clean. My sandals were old, but they were mine. Yet to her, that meant I was worthless.
As I tried to turn away, she suddenly swung her elbow with a fake laugh, sending her glass flying right at my chest.
The bright red juice splashed everywhere — on my face, my dress, my scarf, even in my hair.
I gasped, shocked by the cold sting. The food flask I carried for my husband fell to the floor, the lid cracking open, rice and stew spreading in a shameful mess.
The crowd went dead silent.
Then they laughed.
Pointed at me.
Pulled out their phones.
“God forbid!” one girl giggled. “See how this thing is messing up our floor!”
My ears rang. My legs shook.
I wanted to sink through the tiles, to disappear, to run away.
But I could not move.
My heart was pounding so loud, it was all I could hear.
If only they knew.
If only they knew that the same man whose name was printed on their office tags, the man they feared and obeyed, was my husband.
The CEO.
But they didn’t know.
They only saw a broken, simple-looking woman who had dared to enter their territory.
And she — the woman with the juice — was their queen bee, their star girl, their shining social butterfly.

Episode 2
She stepped even closer, her fake concern like acid in my ears.
“Aunty, please, next time find somewhere else to hawk your food. You’re spoiling people’s appetite!”
Her friends roared with laughter, clapping their hands.
Something snapped inside me.
Tears rolled down my cheeks, mixing with the juice that still dripped from my hair. I tried to gather the spilled rice with trembling fingers, but the shame was too much. The hot stew burned my fingers, yet I kept picking it up, unable to leave my husband’s meal on that dirty floor.
That was when I heard another voice — an older woman, maybe one of the cleaners, soft and gentle:
“Leave it, my daughter,” she said, handing me a tissue, “leave it. Dignity is more important than food.”
Those words struck my heart like lightning.
Dignity.
Did I even have any left?
I slowly stood, eyes still wet, juice still dripping. The cleaner’s hands trembled as she helped wipe my face.
“Don’t let them kill your spirit,” she whispered. “You don’t know tomorrow.”
I looked around one last time.
The laughter. The gossip. The shame.
But something deep in me refused to die.
They would see.
One day, they would know.
And this same woman, the one who called me a cockroach, would regret every single word she spit at me today.
I gathered what was left of the food, ignoring the way people moved away from me as if I carried a disease.
My hands were still shaking. My eyes burned from crying.
But I forced myself to walk away with my head high.
Every step felt like a knife cutting my feet. But I kept going.
Because I had a secret no one in that place knew.
My husband, their boss, the almighty CEO — was waiting upstairs for the lunch I had cooked with love.
If only they knew.
If only they knew that the “dirty” woman they humiliated in public was the wife of the man they bowed down to.
That was my power, and they didn’t even see it coming.
As I stepped into the elevator, alone, my heart felt like it would break through my ribs.
What will he think when he sees me like this?
Would he be ashamed?
Would he defend me?
Or would he join them in mocking me?
I closed my eyes, leaning against the elevator wall, letting the tears fall freely.
But as the elevator doors slid open, I froze. Standing right there was the same woman who had mocked and humiliated me downstairs — holding hands with a tall man whose face I could not yet see. And then I heard the woman laugh and say, “Meet my new man — the CEO himself.” My heart stopped. Could it really be…my own husband?

Episode 3
The elevator moved so slowly it felt like torture. Each ding, each second ticking past, made my heart pound harder.
I stood there, drenched in sticky juice, the smell of tomatoes and stew still clinging to me. The cleaner’s soft words repeated in my mind — dignity is more important than food.
I tried to breathe.
Tried to hold on to that tiny piece of courage still left in my heart.
But doubts kept clawing at me.
What if the CEO — my husband — was angry with me for looking so messy? What if he rejected me the same way those women had rejected me?
My knees felt weak.
When the doors opened, I took a deep breath and stepped out, eyes fixed ahead, refusing to bow.
I made it to the waiting lounge outside his office, but he wasn’t there yet.
I sat on the leather couch, shaking, my mind still replaying the hateful laughter, the way they called me a cockroach, the way she looked me up and down like I was trash.
And then I saw her.
She walked right past the reception desk, hips swaying, her wig bouncing with pride. Same shiny nails, same cold, beautiful face.
She stopped when her eyes met mine, and a slow, evil smile spread across her lips.
“Ah!” she laughed. “So you are still here, smelling like yesterday’s dustbin?”
My cheeks flamed hot with shame.
She came closer, the clack of her cheap plastic heels echoing on the tiles. Up close, I could smell her perfume — strong, almost choking, like someone trying too hard to hide something.
I looked properly at her this time — and noticed her ID card swinging from her waist.
My heart nearly stopped.
“Waste disposal unit,” it read.
My eyes widened.
So this was the queen bee who poured juice on me? A cleaner pretending to be a big girl?
She was the one who cleared leftover food and washed dirty bins after hours — yet she stood here, mocking me for being dirty.

Episode 4
Something in me nearly broke from the irony.
Her voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
“Madam,” she sneered, “I swear you people are smelling my air with this your market-woman perfume. Who even let you come to this place?”
My lips parted, but no words came.
She leaned forward, waving her fake designer bag in my face. “Next time, respect your level. Don’t cross my path. If you do, I will slap you so hard your ancestors will feel it!”
And with that, she raised her hand, aiming straight for my cheek.
But this time, I was ready.
I caught her wrist in mid-air, my hand strong, steady, no longer shaking.
She froze, shocked that I had the courage to stop her.
I stood up, taller than I thought possible, eyes locked on hers, voice steady and calm:
“Listen to me,” I said softly, but with so much power her hand trembled in mine, “a woman who wears fake confidence to hide her shame will always find someone she cannot break.”
She blinked, confused, trying to pull her hand away, but I held on.
“You call me dirty,” I continued, “but dirt can be washed away. Your heart, full of hate and pride, will rot you from the inside. One day, no makeup or perfume will cover the smell of your bad character.”
The entire reception went silent.
Even the security guard stared with wide eyes, shocked.
The girl’s lips quivered. I could see the cracks showing in her perfect mask.
For the first time, she looked small. Powerless.
I released her wrist, my hand still shaking, but my spirit burning with courage.
“Try to slap me again,” I told her, “and you will learn the difference between a woman who stands on sand, and a woman who stands on truth.”
Her eyes filled with tears — real tears. Her fake confidence was crumbling right there, piece by piece.
The shock on her face was priceless.
People who were watching held their breath, whispering among themselves.
She stepped back, stumbling over her own cheap heels, and ran out of the lounge without another word.
I sank back into the seat, tears pouring from my eyes, but this time they were tears of relief.
I had stood up for myself.
I had shown them — shown her — that no matter how simple I looked, no one had the right to treat me like garbage.
My heart felt lighter, even in my stained dress.
The receptionist came over, eyes soft with pity. “Madam, are you okay?”
I nodded slowly, wiping my face.
“I will be,” I whispered.
Because life had just taught me a powerful lesson — if you don’t speak up for yourself, they will bury you alive.

Episode 5
Three days later, the morning felt new, like hope trying to rise through heavy clouds. I had scrubbed the smell of stew and shame from my body, but not from my memory. The words still echoed in my mind, replaying like a broken song.
You smell like a cockroach.
But each time the words tried to break me, I reminded myself of how I had held her hand in midair, how I had spoken the truth that shut her mouth.
That gave me strength.
My boutique was finally reopening after a short renovation. It was small but beautiful, a peaceful place where I found healing through creativity, helping other women dress with confidence. I loved seeing women come in shy and leave proud. That was my mission — to remind them they were enough.
That morning, I stood behind the counter, arranging bright fabrics and floral dresses, my heart calmer than it had been for months.
Then the glass door swung open with a tiny bell, and my world stopped.
She walked in.
The same girl.
The one who spilled juice on me, the one who mocked me for smelling “like yesterday’s dustbin.”
Her wig was gone. Her makeup was gone. She looked smaller, weaker — like a defeated bird trying to find shelter.
My mouth went dry.
She didn’t recognize me at all.
She clutched a plastic file to her chest, her eyes darting around, shy and embarrassed. She wore cheap slippers and a faded skirt, nothing like the proud queen bee from the canteen.
My heart squeezed as I realized the truth.
She had lost everything.
Probably lost the small cleaner job too, after all the drama.
She came closer, eyes avoiding mine, voice trembling.
“Good morning, ma,” she said softly, “please…are you hiring sales girls?”
Her voice shook so hard, it nearly broke me.
I took a deep breath, forcing my hands not to tremble.
“Yes,” I answered calmly, “we are looking for one person.”
She swallowed hard, hope shining in her tired eyes.
“Please,” she stammered, “I… I can do anything. I really need this job. Even if it’s to clean. Please, help me.”

Episode 6
I looked at her—really looked at her.
Gone was the loud voice, the mocking laughter, the proud strut.
Standing in front of me now was just a girl… broken, hungry, scared.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
This was the same person who poured juice on me, called me a cockroach, and tried to slap me.
Now she stood in front of me, begging for a job.
My heart wanted to harden. I wanted to say, “No. Get out. You deserve this.”
But something inside me wouldn’t let me.
Maybe it was the memory of that day—the sting of the juice, the sting of her words. Or maybe it was the way the cleaner woman had handed me a tissue and said, “Dignity is more important than food.”
Now it was my turn.
Would I choose revenge?
Or would I choose something higher?
I cleared my throat.
“Sit down,” I said.
She looked confused. “Sorry?”
“I said sit. Down.”
She quickly obeyed, placing her worn file on the counter like it held her last breath.
I sat across from her, hands folded, watching her squirm.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” I asked.
She blinked, unsure. “No…ma.”
I leaned in closer. “Think back. Three days ago. Canteen. Juice.”
Her eyes widened. Mouth parted. She stared at me like she had seen a ghost.
“No…” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said.
Silence.
She looked like the floor would open and swallow her.
“I’m… I’m sorry…” she mumbled, her hands trembling. “I didn’t know…”
“You didn’t care to know,” I said, calm but firm. “You saw someone weak, someone simple. So you attacked.”
Tears spilled from her eyes.
“I lost the job,” she whispered. “After the incident, someone reported me. They said I embarrassed the company. I tried to explain, but nobody listened…”
“That’s what happens when you build power on lies,” I replied. “It always crashes.”
She cried harder now, trying to speak, but no words came.
“I have nothing left,” she finally said. “No family. No money. No place to sleep. I just need a chance. Please…”
I took a deep breath.
“Tell me your real name,” I asked.
“Ebere,” she said quietly. “Ebere Chukwudi.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
I nodded slowly, then stood.
She looked up at me, scared I was about to throw her out.
I walked to the staff room and returned with a small form and a pen.
“This is the application,” I said. “Fill it out.”
Her eyes widened in shock. “You’re… giving me the job?”
“I’m giving you a chance,” I corrected. “The rest is up to you.”
She broke into sobs. Loud, shaking sobs.
“I don’t deserve this,” she cried.
“No,” I said, “you don’t. But neither did I deserve what you did to me.”
She lowered her head, ashamed.
“You won’t be working in sales,” I added. “You’ll be cleaning. Toilets, floors, shelves—everything.”
She nodded fast. “Anything, ma. Anything. Thank you. God bless you.”
I watched her as she filled the form, her fingers still shaking.
She didn’t know that I wasn’t doing it for her.
I was doing it for myself.
To prove that pain doesn’t have to turn us into monsters.
To show that even broken women can still choose kindness—and strength.
And to remind myself that rising above is not weakness. It’s power.
The kind that comes from surviving what was meant to destroy you.
As she handed me the form, I looked into her eyes and said one thing:
“Ebere… never treat anyone the way you treated me. Not even a beggar on the street.”
She nodded quickly, tears falling.
“I swear… I swear I’ve changed.”
Time would tell.
But for now, I let her into the shop and handed her a mop.
And as she began to clean the floor — the same way I once bent down to pick up spilled rice in shame — I felt something deep inside me start to heal.
This was not the end of the story.
This was just the beginning.
Because the same people who break you today might one day ask you for bread.
And when they do, you’ll have to decide:
Will you give them the knife?
Or the slice?

Episode 7
The boutique was quiet after Ebere started cleaning.
I sat by the window, pretending to go through invoices, but my mind was racing.
I hadn’t told my husband what happened in the canteen.
I hadn’t told him that his employees had mocked me, poured juice on me, called me a cockroach.
I hadn’t told him that his own staff laughed while I cried on the floor.
I didn’t want pity.
I didn’t want drama.
But I needed to know.
I needed to know what he would’ve done if he had seen it. If he had been there. If he had heard those words meant to crush me.
And most of all… I needed to know if the man I married — the man I sacrificed everything for — would stand for me… or stand with them.
That evening, when he walked into our home, he looked tired, distracted.
“Work was something else,” he sighed, loosening his tie, tossing it on the chair like always.
I stood by the doorway, watching him.
His eyes met mine, and he smiled faintly. “You didn’t bring lunch that day,” he said. “Hope you’re okay?”
My heart skipped.
He didn’t know.
Of course he didn’t. CEOs don’t eat in the canteen. They don’t see what happens beneath the gold and glass offices.
I opened my mouth to speak — to tell him everything — but something stopped me.
Would he even believe me?
Would he ask questions I wasn’t ready to answer?
So instead, I asked, “Do you know a girl named Ebere Chukwudi?”
He paused.
His brow creased slightly. “The waste disposal staff? Pretty face? Wears too much perfume?”
I nodded.
“She was fired,” he said. “There was some complaint. HR didn’t give full details. Why?”
I stared at him for a moment.
“She works for me now,” I said softly.
His eyes narrowed. “What?”
“She came to my boutique today. Begged for a job. I gave her one.”
He walked to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water. “You’re too soft,” he muttered. “You don’t know the kind of people that exist in this world.”
I did not reply.
Because I did know.
I had tasted their cruelty with every drop of that red juice.
“I want to ask you something,” I said suddenly.
He turned.
“If you were there that day… if you saw someone pour juice on me, laugh at me, call me a cockroach in public… what would you have done?”
His eyes darkened.
“Who did that to you?” he asked, voice sharp now.
I didn’t answer.
He stepped closer.
“Wait… it happened to you?”
I nodded slowly.
“In my company?”
Again, I nodded.
He sat down heavily.
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t know if it mattered to you.”
His head snapped up. “How could you think that?”
“Because I was dressed simple. I didn’t look like the wife of a CEO. I looked like a hawker. And your staff… they believed that’s all I was.”
He stood up again, pacing now.
“I’m calling HR,” he said. “This nonsense—”
“No,” I interrupted. “Don’t.”
He froze.
“Why?”
“Because sometimes,” I said quietly, “the best revenge… is showing people that you can rise without making noise. That you can forgive without forgetting. That you can build without destroying.”
He stared at me for a long time.
Then he whispered, “You’re stronger than I thought.”
I smiled bitterly. “I had to be.”
Silence sat between us like a ghost.
Then he said, “Tell me her name again.”
“Ebere.”
“I’ll make sure she never steps near that office again.”
I shook my head.
“She already lost the job. Let her clean my shop. Let her feel what it’s like to be humbled.”
He looked at me. “And if she mocks you again?”
I gave a half-smile.
“She won’t.”
Because I saw it in her eyes — the fear, the shame, the hunger.
She had changed.
Or maybe life had changed her.

Episode 8
As I arrived at the boutique, I saw Ebere already sweeping outside.
She looked up, eyes tired, body stiff. “Good morning, ma.”
“Morning,” I replied.
She bent back to her sweeping.
Then I noticed something — a faded scar on her ankle.
“Ebere,” I called.
“Yes ma?”
“Come inside. Sit. Tell me something.”
She looked confused, but obeyed.
I sat across from her again. “Who taught you to hate people who look poor?”
She blinked. “Ma?”
“You mocked me for my clothes, my shoes. Where did you learn that? Who taught you to judge people by their outside?”
She looked down, her voice small. “My mother used to clean houses. People insulted her all the time. Called her names. One day, she said to me, ‘Never be poor, Ebere. If you have to lie, lie. If you have to step on people, do it. Just never be poor.’”
I closed my eyes.
That explained everything.
“But she died when I was 16,” Ebere continued. “After that… I just… I became what I thought the world respected. Loud. Proud. Fake everything. Because being real… being small… scared me.”
I opened my eyes.
“You’re not small,” I said. “You’re just lost. And the only way back is humility.”
She nodded slowly, tears in her eyes again.
“I’ll do better,” she whispered. “I promise.”
And as she began to cry — not with pride, but with pain — I walked over and hugged her.
Because sometimes, the loudest cry for help… is hidden behind the meanest voice.

Episode 9 (Final)
Two weeks passed.
Ebere kept her head down, working hard. She cleaned floors, ironed fabrics, and folded clothes with a silence that made the other girls respect her.
But I noticed something strange.
She was always on her phone during breaks. Whispering. Nervous. One day I saw her slip into the back room, lock the door, and take a call.
“Please, just give me one more week,” she whispered. “I’m close to her. I’ll find the evidence.”
My heart dropped.
Evidence?
Who was she talking to?
I didn’t confront her.
Not yet.
Because something bigger was about to happen.
My husband invited me to the company’s annual CEO Dinner Gala — the one event where the entire staff dressed to impress, hoping to sit close to “Oga himself.” I had never attended.
I was always the invisible wife. The background woman. The quiet support.
But this year, he insisted.
“I want them to see you,” he said, touching my cheek gently. “I want them to know who you are.”
I said yes.
But deep inside, I wasn’t ready.
Not because I was afraid of being seen.
But because I was afraid of what I might see.

Gala Night
I wore a soft gold gown that shimmered like morning light. My makeup was light, my earrings simple, my scarf wrapped with dignity.
When we entered the hall, conversations paused.
Chairs scraped. Heads turned.
People stared.
Whispers started.
“Is that… his wife?”
“Wait, HER? The woman from the canteen?”
One girl gasped. “God forbid! She’s the cockroach lady?!”
I held my husband’s arm tighter. He didn’t let go. Not even once.
He smiled proudly, guided me to the front table. Sat me right beside him.
The MC cleared his throat, nervously adjusting the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the First Lady of our company.”
People clapped.
But some clapped with fake smiles.
Some didn’t clap at all.
And among them, I saw familiar eyes.
Ebere.
She stood at the side, in her cleaner uniform, holding a tray of wine.
When our eyes met, something passed between us.
She looked shocked. Terrified.
She dropped the tray.
The glasses shattered.
Wine spilled everywhere.
People turned to look. Security rushed toward her.
My husband frowned. “What’s going on?”
“I’ll handle it,” I said quietly.
I stood and walked over to her.
Her hands shook.
“Ma… I didn’t know… I didn’t know you were…”
“You didn’t need to know who I was,” I said gently. “You just needed to treat people like humans.”
She burst into tears.
But I leaned closer, my voice low enough that only she could hear:
“Who were you calling last week, Ebere? Who are you trying to find evidence for?”
She froze.
Her mouth opened and closed.
Then she whispered something I didn’t expect:
“My aunt. She works in HR. She asked me to find proof that you were faking your identity — that you only married the boss for money. That maybe… you used charms.”
I stepped back.
“Charms?” I repeated.
Ebere nodded, eyes swollen. “They want to fire him. They said if I can prove he married someone ‘low-level,’ it’ll spoil his reputation with the board. She said if I help them, I’ll get promoted. I didn’t know you were this kind, ma. I didn’t know you were this real…”
My heart shattered again.
Not from her words.
But from the truth they revealed.
They were planning to destroy my husband… using me.
Because I looked “too ordinary.”
Too unworthy.
Too… simple.

Later That Night
In the car, my husband asked, “You’ve been quiet. Was the party too much?”
I looked at him, voice barely a whisper. “Do you think I make you look weak?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Because I’m not loud. Because I wear simple clothes. Because I’m not glamorous or from a rich background?”
He frowned. “Where is this coming from?”
“I need to know.”
He stopped the car, right in the middle of the road.
Turned to me.
Then he said something I will never forget:
“I built my empire with brains and blood. But I built my peace with you. You’re the only real thing in a world full of fakes. You are the strongest woman I know. And if the world can’t see your worth, then the world is blind.”
Tears filled my eyes.
Not from sadness this time.
But from being seen.
Truly seen.

Next Morning
I walked into the boutique early. Sat behind the counter. Waiting.
Ebere came in, her eyes red.
“I heard,” she said quietly.
“I know,” I replied.
She dropped an envelope on the table.
“My resignation.”
I opened it.
A handwritten apology. A tear-stained letter. Her words were raw. Broken. Honest.
“I’m not proud of who I became,” she said. “But I want to be better. Even if I have to start from the gutter.”
I looked at her, my heart heavy.
Then I said:
“You don’t need to start from the gutter, Ebere. You already rose from it. The question is — what will you do now that you’ve tasted both pride and pain?”
She nodded slowly.
“I’ll serve,” she said. “Until I can stand again.”
And I saw it — the tiniest flicker of growth. The kind that comes not from being taught… but from being humbled.
In a world where image screams louder than truth, don’t be fooled.
The loudest in the room might be the emptiest.
And the woman they call a cockroach today might be the queen tomorrow.
Because power isn’t about position.
It’s about character.
And when life tests you — stand tall. Not to prove them wrong… but to prove yourself right.

Episode 10 (Ending)
The boutique filled with light.
Ebere kept working, now with humility. She learned to look people in the eye, to apologize, to help without expecting anything.
The company survived the scandal. My husband was defended by truth and integrity. The HR director was fired. The rumors died.
People began to respect not just my work, but my story.
And I learned that dignity cannot be bought or stolen.
It is built every day, with every act of silent courage.
Because a woman’s true power is not measured by her dress, her name, or her wealth.
It is measured by her ability to rise after being humiliated.
And to look the world in the eye, without fear.

THE END