Silent Shadows Of Betrayal E-Book

J. A. Grayson

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 164

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

"SILENT SHADOWS OF BETRAYAL" is a gripping tale of mystery, survival, and the relentless pursuit of truth. Amara, a determined young woman from a struggling military family, has spent her life fighting against expectations. Forced into marriage to escape societal shame, she soon realizes she has only traded one battle for another—one filled with oppression, secrets, and quiet suffering. When her father, a respected soldier, is declared missing in action under mysterious circumstances, Amara’s world unravels. Promised military compensation is denied, and those in power make it clear that her family must remain silent. Faced with threats, betrayal, and mounting desperation, she flees her abusive marriage, seeking safety, but the shadows of her past refuse to let go. Just as survival becomes unbearable, a mysterious stranger appears, claiming to know her father and hinting that he might still be alive. Left with only a photograph, an old letter, and a key to a locked room in her ex-husband’s house, Amara is thrust into a dangerous web of deception. With men hunting her, an unknown enemy sending cryptic warnings, and her family’s future hanging in the balance, she is forced to make the ultimate choice: continue running or uncover the secrets that could cost her everything. This powerful first installment of "The Lost Truth & Love Series" weaves together thriller, suspense, betrayal, drama, romance, and mystery, keeping readers hooked until the very last page. Will Amara find the truth, or will the shadows of betrayal consume her before she can? Will she find a safe place for herself, her new born child, and her family? Will Amara later find true love and settlement in PART TWO? Get Ready For Part Two!!

Leseprobe

J. A. Grayson

Silent Shadows Of Betrayal

A Daughter’s Fight For Truth, Love, And A Father Lost In A World of Lies And Danger

Copyright © 2025 by J. A. Grayson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

J. A. Grayson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

J. A. Grayson has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

First edition

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DEDICATION

To the silent warriors—

The women who have battled in the shadows, enduring storms no one sees.

The dreamers who were told their ambitions were too big, yet still dared to chase them.

The mothers who sacrificed, the daughters who fought back, and the survivors who refused to be broken.

This story is for those who have been underestimated, oppressed, and pushed to the edge—

Yet still rise, not just to survive, but to reclaim their power.

This Is For You!

“She was told to shrink, to yield, to endure—yet fire does not apologize for burning.

She was forged in pain, tempered by loss, and sharpened by betrayal.

They tried to silence her, but fate had already written her name among the warriors.

Now, she does not run. She does not beg. She rises.”

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

1. The Dream And The Dilemma

2. A Proposal & A Trap

3. The Wedding That Wasn’t Meant To Be

4. The House That Became A Cage

5. A Mother’s Warning, A Baby’s Arrival

6. The Vanishing Of A Soldier

7. The Great Escape

8. Shadows In The Dark

9. The Superiors’ Sinister Plan

10. Three Years Of Despair

11. A Dangerous Opportunity

12. The Price Of Dignity

13. Hunted By Men And Shadows

14. A Ghost From The Past

15. The Ultimate Choice

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by J. A. Grayson

Acknowledgments

I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to the incredible minds who have inspired, supported, and encouraged me throughout this journey.

To John Brown, a brilliant author whose storytelling and wisdom have been a guiding force—your passion for words and relentless pursuit of truth continue to challenge and inspire me. Your unwavering support has meant more than words can express.

To Amanda Ezechukwu, an extraordinary playwright whose mastery of drama and depth of character have enriched my perspective. Your insights, creativity, and dedication to the art of storytelling have been a true source of inspiration.

This story is not just mine—it belongs to the voices that echo in the pages, to the stories yet to be told, and to friends like you who remind me that storytelling is a journey we never walk alone.

Thank you, from the depths of my heart.

Prologue

chapter-seperator

The night smelled of rain and regret.

Amara clutched her newborn son to her chest, his tiny body warm against hers, his shallow breaths the only thing grounding her. The village road was dark, uneven, and slick with mud. Her bare feet ached, but she couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Behind her, the house she had once called home stood in eerie silence, its shadows thick with memories she was desperate to leave behind.

She glanced back once—just once—at the place where her dreams had withered. A home that was never truly hers. A husband who was never truly a partner. A family that had sworn to love her but had instead stripped her down, piece by piece, until all that remained was a hollow, desperate shell of the girl she used to be.

The echoes of her mother-in-law’s voice still rang in her head.

“You think you can just walk away? Women like you don’t leave, Amara. They endure.”

No. Not anymore.

The pain from childbirth was still raw, her body weak, but fear was stronger than exhaustion. Fear that at any moment, they would realize she was gone. That they would come for her. That she would be dragged back into that house and forced to become what they wanted—a submissive, obedient wife, nothing more.

Thunder rumbled overhead, and she pulled her son closer, shielding him from the cold night air. The old dirt road stretched ahead, winding through the trees like a serpent, leading her toward the only place she had left—home. Her real home.

Her father’s words echoed in her mind, a whisper from the past.

“If you can’t bear it anymore, don’t let them break you. Come home, my child. Love should never feel like a cage.”

But home wasn’t the safe haven it once was. She knew that. Her father had vanished, swallowed by the very war he had sworn to serve. And in his absence, shadows had crept into their lives—men in uniforms who spoke in whispers, who made promises laced with threats. They wanted control. Over her. Over her mother. Over everything her father had left behind.

She had escaped one nightmare only to return to another.

And yet, as the rain began to fall, mingling with the tears she refused to shed, Amara vowed one thing:

She would not be a victim.

Not to her husband. Not to his family. Not to the faceless men who thought they could own her.

If they wanted to break her, they would have to try harder.

Because she was her father’s daughter.

And she was ready for war.

One

The Dream And The Dilemma

chapter-seperator

The wind carried the scent of burning wood and damp earth as I sprinted across the open field, my muscles aching, lungs burning, sweat dripping into my eyes. But I didn’t stop. I pushed harder, my boots digging into the packed dirt, my arms pumping as I counted each second in my head. I had to beat my best time. I had to be stronger, faster, sharper.

Somewhere behind me, the voices of the other village girls drifted through the humid evening air, their laughter like an irritating hum in my ears. They sat together under the mango tree, fanning themselves lazily, gossiping about suitors, weddings, and how many children they would have. I could feel their eyes on me, their silent judgment pressing down on me like an unbearable weight.

“Amara!” one of them called out, her voice laced with amusement. “Are you still running? Who are you chasing—your husband?”

The others burst into laughter. I gritted my teeth and kept running.

“Or maybe she’s training to beat up her husband if she ever finds one,” another added, sending them into another round of giggles.

I ignored them. Their words didn’t matter. Not now. Not ever.

I reached the old tree stump that marked my finishing point and bent forward, bracing my hands on my knees as I caught my breath. My heart pounded like a drum, the sweat on my skin mixing with the dust from the road. I checked my watch—two minutes and forty-five seconds. Not fast enough.

Wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, I turned toward home, the familiar small house just ahead, its thatched roof barely visible through the evening mist. The scent of my mother’s cooking filled the air—spiced yam porridge, thick with palm oil. Normally, the smell would make my stomach growl, but tonight, my appetite was dulled by the thoughts that had been swirling in my mind all day.

I stepped inside, the dim lantern light flickering against the mud walls. My mother stood by the fire, stirring the pot with practiced ease, her wrapper tied securely around her waist. She barely glanced up as I entered.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice flat.

“I was training,” I replied, grabbing a cup of water and gulping it down.

She sighed, setting the wooden spoon aside. “Training for what, Amara? Running up and down like a madwoman every evening? What do you gain from this?”

I swallowed, already knowing where this conversation was headed.

“You know why,” I said quietly.

She turned to face me fully now, her dark eyes narrowing. “Why? Because you want to disgrace me? Because you want people to keep laughing at our family?”

“No, Mama—”

She cut me off, stepping closer. “Then tell me why you refuse to be like other girls. Why you refuse to listen when I tell you the truth. You are not a man, Amara. You are a woman. And women do not belong in the military.”

The words stung, but I had heard them before—too many times.

I set my cup down, exhaling slowly. “And what do women belong to, Mama? A husband? A kitchen? A life of waiting for a man to decide if I’m worthy enough to be married?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t mock me, girl. You think I don’t want the best for you? You think I enjoy hearing people call you a disgrace? Every time I go to the market, they whisper—‘Amara the soldier girl, Amara the one no man wants, Amara the stubborn one.’” She shook her head. “Enough. It is time for you to accept the truth.”

I clenched my fists. “The truth?” I repeated. “The truth is that I don’t want to waste my life waiting for a man to give me value. I have dreams, Mama. Real dreams. And I won’t apologize for them.”

She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Dreams?” she echoed. “What dream is this? To wear boots and march under the hot sun? To carry a gun like your father and run off to war?”

“Yes,” I said firmly.

She flinched, as if I had struck her. “Then you are a fool,” she whispered. “You think this is a game? Do you know what the military does to people? Do you know what war does to families?”

My chest tightened. “I know, Mama. I know because I have watched you cry every time Father leaves. I know because I have seen how you wait by the door for his letters. I know because I have felt the fear too. But I won’t let fear control my life.”

Her expression darkened. “Fear is what keeps you alive, Amara. But you—” she jabbed a finger at my chest— “you think you are different. You think you are stronger than the rest of us.”

I swallowed hard, holding back the sting of tears. “I don’t think I’m stronger, Mama. I just think I deserve a chance.”

A long silence stretched between us. The only sound was the bubbling of the porridge and the distant croaking of frogs outside.

Then she turned back to the fire, her shoulders tense. “Eat your food,” she said stiffly. “Tomorrow, you will wake up and realize that dreams do not fill a woman’s stomach.”

I stood there for a moment, staring at her, my heart heavy with words I couldn’t say. Then, without another word, I turned and walked out into the night.

Outside, the air was cooler, the stars shining dimly above. I sat on the wooden bench near the doorway, resting my head against the rough surface. My mother’s words still echoed in my ears, but I wasn’t going to let them break me.

A soft footstep sounded nearby, and I looked up to see my father standing there, his uniform slightly wrinkled, his eyes filled with something unreadable. I hadn’t even heard him return.

“I heard everything,” he said quietly.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. “I don’t expect you to understand either.”

He walked over, taking a seat beside me. For a while, he didn’t speak, just stared out into the darkness, as if searching for something in the shadows. Then he let out a slow breath.

“I do understand,” he said finally. “More than you think.”

I turned to him, surprised. “You do?”

He nodded. “I know what it means to want something so badly that it burns inside you. And I know what it’s like to have the world tell you that you’re not meant for it.”

I studied his face, the deep lines around his eyes, the scars on his hands. “Then why does everyone keep telling me to give up?”

He was silent for a moment, then he said, “Because they are afraid for you. Your mother—she has seen what this life does to people. She has watched me leave over and over, not knowing if I’ll return. And deep down, she fears that if you choose this path, she will lose you too.”

I swallowed hard, looking away.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded paper, pressing it into my palm.

“What is this?” I asked.

“A letter from an old friend. Someone who can help you.”

I opened it, my eyes scanning the brief, handwritten note. My pulse quickened.

“If you really want this,” he said, his voice steady, “then you need to prove it. Not to your mother. Not to the village. But to yourself.”

I clutched the letter tightly.

“I will, Papa,” I whispered. “I swear I will.”

He nodded, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Then be ready, Amara. Because once you step into this world, there is no turning back.”

I met his gaze, and for the first time, I saw something in his eyes that no one else had ever given me.

Belief.

The next night, air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and palm wine, the steady hum of conversation rising and falling like waves. Laughter spilled from every corner of my uncle’s compound, the kind of deep, satisfied laughter that only came after a meal so heavy it made people forget their troubles, even if just for a little while. The fire crackled in the center of the gathering, casting shadows on the weathered faces of men who had seen too much war and women who had endured too many burdens.

I sat quietly on a wooden bench near my mother, forcing a smile when necessary, though my mind was elsewhere. My father sat across from me, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, always watching. He never spoke much at these gatherings, not unless he had something important to say.

I was waiting for it to begin.

It always did, eventually.

It started with my cousin, Adaobi, a girl whose beauty and charm had made her the subject of admiration in every household. She was seated beside her new husband, a young businessman who had just bought his second car. He had the kind of smile that made people lean in when he spoke, the kind of confidence that turned heads.

Adaobi, of course, was glowing.

“You see how marriage has made her more beautiful,” one of my aunts said, nudging another woman. “She was already fine before, but now, look at her skin—smooth like fresh palm oil.”

“The happiness of a woman is in her husband’s house,” an elder woman added, shaking her head as if she pitied those who hadn’t yet found their way there.

I braced myself. The conversation was heading exactly where I knew it would.

“Amara, you are the next in line,” someone said. I looked up to see my uncle’s wife grinning at me, her gold earrings swaying as she laughed. “We have waited too long for your own wedding feast. Or do you want to finish all your father’s money before you settle down?”

Laughter erupted around the fire. I forced a tight smile, gripping the edge of my wrapper with clammy fingers.

“Amara’s own will be different,” another woman said. “She does not want to be a wife. She wants to be a soldier.”

Another round of laughter, but this one was sharper, filled with something that wasn’t just amusement. I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.

“Tell us, Amara,” a man said, his voice mocking. “Which man will want to marry a woman who behaves like a man? Running up and down the village, doing training as if war is coming tomorrow?”

The laughter grew louder.

I glanced at my mother. She was staring into the fire, her face expressionless. She was not going to save me from this.

“She is waiting for a husband who will let her wear boots and carry a gun,” another woman added. “A man who will say ‘Yes, my wife, go and roll in the mud with other men, don’t worry, I will cook for you when you come home.’”

The entire courtyard erupted in laughter. Someone clapped their hands. Another slapped their knee, wheezing as though my entire existence was the funniest thing they had ever encountered.

My stomach clenched, my fingernails digging into my palm.

“Amara,” Adaobi’s husband called to me, his voice smooth, taunting. “Tell us, will you still be wearing a uniform when you are carrying your first pregnancy? Or will you ask your fellow soldiers to march with you to the hospital?”

Tears burned the back of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I willed myself to stay silent, to let them talk. They wanted a reaction. They wanted to see me flinch. I wouldn’t give them that.

“A woman’s pride is in her marriage,” my uncle finally said, his deep voice cutting through the noise. “Not in chasing after things that are meant for men.”

Silence followed his words, the final verdict handed down.

I felt my father’s gaze on me. He had not spoken yet. He was waiting to see how I would respond.

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

They would never understand. They didn’t want to.

I pushed my food away and stood. “Thank you for the meal,” I said, keeping my voice even. “But I have training in the morning. I should rest.”

A few people snorted. My uncle shook his head, muttering something about wasted potential.

I turned and walked away, my legs stiff with restraint, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my ears.

The laughter followed me.

By the time I reached the front of the compound, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see a woman approaching. She was dressed in a navy-blue wrapper, her headscarf tied with the precision of someone who paid attention to every detail.

She smiled as she reached me, her eyes warm but sharp. “Amara,” she said, her voice rich with authority. “You know who I am, yes?”

I nodded. I knew her. She was the wife of one of the highest-ranking officers in my father’s division, a woman respected for her influence.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You are a strong girl,” she said. “I admire that. But strength, my dear, is knowing when to choose the right battle.”

I frowned slightly. “I don’t understand.”

She sighed, tilting her head as if she was studying me. “I was like you once,” she said. “Headstrong. Determined. I wanted more than what life offered women like us.” She gestured back toward the courtyard. “But the world is not kind to women who fight too hard.”

I stayed silent.

Her smile softened. “You deserve security. A good life. A man who will respect you. Let me help you.”

I stiffened. “Help me?”