He looked out the window, his expression unreadable.
“You’ll understand,” he said eventually.
The same answer as before.
Annette felt a flicker of frustration.
But also something else.
Curiosity.
His home in Kampala was… quiet.
That was the first thing she noticed.
Not loud like she expected.
Not filled with people or noise or celebration.
Just space.
Clean.
Still.
Almost too still.
When they arrived, the gates opened before the car even stopped.
More guards.
More silence.
Inside, everything felt distant.
Like she had stepped into a place where emotions were kept behind closed doors.
Isaac led her through the house without saying much.
Then stopped in front of a door.
“This is your room,” he said.
Annette blinked.
“…my room?”
He nodded.
She hesitated.
“And you?”
There was a brief pause.
“I have mine,” he replied.
It took a moment for that to settle.
“You don’t have to be afraid here,” he added.
“I won’t force anything.”
The words were simple.
But they landed heavily.
Annette stepped into the room slowly.
It was bigger than anything she had ever had.
Clean sheets.
A window overlooking the city.
A quiet she wasn’t used to.
That night, she didn’t sleep much.
Not because she was afraid of him.
But because she didn’t understand him.
Days passed.
Then more.
Annette began to notice patterns.
Small things at first.
Early mornings where Isaac left before she woke up.
Late evenings where he returned quietly, thinking she was asleep.
Phone calls taken in private.
Conversations that stopped when she entered the room.
But also—
Things that didn’t match the image she had been given.
One afternoon, she overheard him speaking to someone on the phone.
“…make sure the clinic has everything it needs,” he said.
“No, don’t attach my name to it.”
Another day, a message arrived confirming that her father’s treatment had been fully paid.
No explanation.
No discussion.
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