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The start of Ona's third year at university was nothing like she had imagined it would be. Instead of feeling excited for a fresh start, she was followed by the painful memories from the year before. She still hadn’t escaped the hurt that Jorel had caused her.

Every step she took still felt difficult, as if she was carrying a heavy weight of sadness from their breakup. The sharp, stabbing pain had faded, but a dull ache remained. It was a constant, quiet presence inside her, reminding her how much she could be hurt. She was now determined to never let herself be that vulnerable again.

Ona could still remember that night at Option Four as clearly as if it were yesterday. The moment Jorel ended their relationship felt like her entire world was shattering into pieces. She had stumbled out of the restaurant and back to her car, the sound of other people's happy laughter now feeling like a cruel joke. Once she was inside, the tears had come even harder. She cried uncontrollably, each sob releasing the deep humiliation and hopelessness she felt. It felt like she was crying out for help to a world that didn't care.

It was in this broken, vulnerable state that Benson found her. His arrival was like a light cutting through her darkness. He didn't ask a lot of questions or force her to explain. He just got into the passenger seat and stayed with her. He was a steady, calm friend who handed her tissues, spoke gentle words, and simply listened. His quiet strength gave her a safe place to fall apart, anchoring her when she felt completely lost.


During those difficult weeks while she was trying to heal, Ona's Aunt Zikora was always there for her. Her aunt constantly reminded her that she deserved real love and should never accept anything less.

Ona made the hard decision to cut off all communication with her father. She saw him as the main cause of her pain. She blamed him, at least partly, for Jorel leaving her. She was tired of his constant demands and criticisms. She just wanted to live her life in peace. Maybe if she’d cut him off a long time ago, she might have salvaged her relationship … or maybe not.

She was disappointed in Jorel, and she was disappointed in herself for misjudging their relationship. She had truly believed their love was strong enough to survive any problem. The truth, that it wasn't, was a hard thing to accept.


When Benson's comforting friendship slowly turned into romantic interest, Ona did not stop it. She knew this wasn't completely fair to him. In her mind, she was "damaged," her heart still trapped in the wreckage of her old relationship. After what Jorel had done, she found it hard to trust any man; it felt like he had broken her for everyone else.

But Benson, who she now playfully called "Benny", was a pleasant distraction. It felt good, even exciting, to have a man so completely devoted to her. And he wasn't just anyone. He was Benson Shonibare, the most wanted bachelor at the university. He was in his final year, came from a rich Lagos family, was the Student Union President. And he was crazy about her.

For a while, the relationship worked. The warmth of his attention helped cover up the pain she still felt inside. But when the holidays came, they were apart, she was on an internship, and he’d graduated and was away for his mandatory National Youth Service. The physical distance gave her time to think clearly.

She realized she was being selfish. She was using him for comfort while her heart still longed for Jorel. It wasn't right to treat such a good man that way. So, with a sad heart, she ended the relationship a few weeks before resumption.

This left her completely alone as she started her third year. But her conscience was clearer, even though the loneliness was harder to bear. Deep down, a small part of Ona believed Jorel wasn't over her either. His behavior on the last day of the previous semester proved it. A man who had truly moved on, wouldn't punch someone so hard they passed out, not over a woman he didn't care about.

When Benson had regained consciousness, he’d been furious and threatened to report Jorel to the school. Ona knew this would get Jorel expelled immediately. So, despite her own hurt and pride, she had begged Benson to drop the matter. She protected Jorel, even after he had broken her heart.

She had told him she wouldn’t chase after him, but had finally decided to. She returned to campus after her mandatory six-month industrial training internship with a new sense of determination. She was set on finally talking to Jorel. His reasons for the breakup had been vague and never made sense to her. She held onto a stubborn hope that she could break down his walls and make him love her again. She felt sure it wouldn't be difficult; she believed the sparks of their love were still alive.

After dropping her bags in her hostel room and quickly unpacking, her heart beating fast with nervous excitement, she went straight to Jorel's hostel. She found his door and was about to knock when his roommate opened it. Her hopeful smile disappeared when he told her Jorel wasn't returning for the semester. The news hit her like a physical blow. Just as the disappointment began to crush her, the roommate added, "But he left a letter for you."

Her hands shook as she took the sealed envelope. She walked to a quiet corner of the hallway, leaned against the cool wall, and tore it open.

My Dearest Ona, my love,

Just seeing his familiar scrawl was a gentle healing touch and a sharp pain, all at once. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed it. She kept reading, her breath catching in her throat.

I couldn't send this directly to you, since you've blocked me everywhere. I don’t blame you. I broke your heart, and I am so truly sorry. I wish with everything in me that I didn't have to. But it was the most difficult choice I have ever made, a choice I believed I had to make for our futures.

I know you don't understand right now. I pray that one day you will look back and it will all make sense. For now, we have to walk through this fire. I believe that if we do, we will come out stronger, like iron. I am starting a new part of my journey now, and I need you to start yours. Live fully, Ona. Pour yourself into your life. Follow every dream. Don't you dare let anyone tell you that you can't do something. Please, always put yourself first.

Tears filled her eyes, making the ink swim and blur. It was all so unclear, so frustrating, wrapped up in what he thought was a noble sacrifice.

Then, her teary eyes found the last words.

You're a writer, Ona. So you know this isn't the end of our story. This is just the intermission. You and I… to be continued.

Jorel's letter didn't bring peace. It left a confusion that buzzed under her skin. Those words, "to be continued," didn't feel like a promise. They felt like a trap. They asked her to have faith in a future he wouldn't explain, to just sit and wait in the dark for him.

The next morning, a raw, desperate need for real answers took over. She didn't go to the class. Instead, she drove straight to Ajegunle. The busy, noisy streets felt like stepping into a ghost of her own past. Every corner held a memory, walking there with him, laughing right there, the warm, safe feeling of his hand in hers.

But when she finally reached the small compound, her heart sank. The house was empty, a shell. The windows were closed. On the gate, a heavy padlock she had never seen before was already rusting in the damp air. A cold knot tightened in her stomach. A neighbor, recognizing the well-dressed girl from past visits, called out, "You dey find dem Jorel and Sister Fejiro? Dem don pack since! Since last two months."
The dread she’d been feeling turned to a full-blown, icy panic. Fejiro. She would still be there. Her salon was her life. Ona practically ran the short distance, the bell on the salon door jangling a harsh, discordant sound as she burst in.

But the woman twisting a client’s hair was a stranger. "I'm looking for Fejiro," Ona demanded, her voice thin and strained.

The new stylist smiled brightly. "Oh, Aunty Fejiro? She don travel o! Her brother, Jorel, win scholarship for America. She follow am go. Very good thing for their family."

America. Scholarship. Gone.

Suddenly, the world shifted. The stylist's cheerful voice faded into a meaningless buzz. She couldn't breathe. The room spun. His beautiful, hopeful letter, all that talk of "going through the fire" and his "new journey", it wasn't romantic. It was a lie. The lie of a coward.

He had been planning this escape the whole time. He had gotten his golden ticket out, and all he left for her was a pretty, self-important note. It asked her to wait forever, without giving her a single real reason why.

Standing there on the cracked, sun-drenched pavement, the full, devastating truth descended upon her like an avalanche, each revelation heavier than the last, threatening to bury her under its weight. The fury erupted instantly, a white-hot blaze igniting within her, consuming the remnants of confusion and heartbreak. It wasn't merely that he had walked away; it was the brutal manner in which he had done so, the deceit that wrapped around his actions like a shroud, the utter lack of regard for her feelings. He had looked straight into her eyes, when she knelt down on that grimy floor, and shattered her spirit, all while plotting his escape to a foreign land. He had reduced her to begging for affection he had no intention of maintaining, turning her love into a discarded garment he could easily shed.

Questions howled in her mind like a furious storm, each one feeding the flames of her anger. Was she now expected to hit pause on her life? To remain frozen in a painful tableau, a loyal sentinel to a love he had callously thrown aside, while he crafted a new existence an ocean away? For how long was she to linger in this emotional limbo? A year? Five? An eternity? And for what reason could he justify keeping her in the dark? Why hadn’t he trusted her enough to share the truth? Why did he treat her like a child, incapable of facing the reality of their love, a reality he deemed unworthy of her dreams and aspirations?

In that moment, a clean, sharp hatred bloomed inside her. It wasn't a quiet sadness. It was a fierce, strong wall she built around her heart. This hatred was better than the crushing pain. It was the only thing powerful enough to stop the bleeding.

With a rough, angry hand, she wiped the hot tears from her face, smudging her makeup. Right then, she made a decision. She would not cry for him ever again. She would not waste one more second trying to solve his puzzles or waiting for an ending that would never come.

She took a deep, shaky breath that felt like new strength. And she made a promise to herself, a vow as hard and solid as iron: She would tear Jorel out of her heart. She would forget the feel of his touch, the sound of his laugh, the comfort of his voice. She would close the book of their love forever. She would burn its pages and set herself free from the past.

Never again would she allow herself to be so naive, so foolish as to hand someone the strings to her heart, allowing them to puppet her emotions as Jorel had done. His “to be continued” wasn’t a promise, it was an affront. As far as she was concerned, their narrative had reached its end, a final chapter she would write herself, one filled with power, resilience, and the unwavering belief that she was worthy of a love that did not waver or escape when the going got tough. She took a step forward, lightening her burden with each stride, ready to claim her life back and transform her narrative into one of strength and renewal.

END OF PART 1

Chapter 10

The weeks following the breakup were shrouded in a deep, heavy silence for Jorel. The university, which had once buzzed with life, now felt eerily quiet and dull, a stark reminder of the joyous moments he had shared with Ona. Their laughter echoed in his memory, mingling with dreams and hopes that now felt distant.

Seeing her on campus was like enduring a painful wound that refused to heal. He would catch glimpses of her talking and laughing with friends; her laughter, once a symphony that filled his heart with joy, now felt like a beautiful song from which he had been irrevocably excluded. The very smile that used to brighten his day only served to deepen his own heartache. Each time their eyes met, he instinctively turned away, desperate to escape the onslaught of memories that left him feeling overwhelmed and lost.

In the solitude of his room, Jorel grappled with a growing sense of regret. Thoughts raced through his mind, replaying every decision that had led to their separation. What had once seemed like strong, sensible reasons now appeared flimsy and insignificant. He found himself reminiscing about the warmth of Ona's hand in his, the spark in her eyes as she spoke about her passions, and the way simply being near her had made even the most mundane days feel extraordinary.

The emptiness in his chest grew into a constant, physical pain. It took away all his energy and will to do anything. Even basic things like focusing on his studies, eating a meal, or falling asleep, felt like impossible tasks.

Then, during the holiday break after their first year, Jorel sat in his dimly lit room, surrounded by the familiar clutter of textbooks and notes strewn across his desk. He was wrapped in a thick, well-worn blanket, but it provided little comfort as he reached for the envelope that had arrived that morning. His hands trembled as he slowly peeled it open, anxiety knotting in his stomach. Each word on the page felt like a punch to the gut, sinking his spirits deeper into despair, his scholarship had been cancelled.

The letter was devoid of clarity and compassion; it simply stated that funding for his studies would not be available for his second year. There was no explanation, no details, just a cold finality that left him breathless. But deep down, Jorel felt a chilling certainty wash over him, it was Ona’s father, the Chief, who had orchestrated this ruthless act. The Chief had powerful connections everywhere, and Jorel could almost envision him sitting behind a large desk, coldly pulling strings to ensure Jorel stayed away from his daughter, making it clear that their love was unwelcome in his world.

Overwhelmed by the weight of the news, Jorel took a deep breath and shared the devastating news with his sister, Fejiro. Her reaction was immediate; her face hardened with a fierce determination that surprised him. She stood tall, her expression resolute, and declared, "Listen to me," her voice ringing with urgency. "I will get you the money for school. Even if I have to make hair for twenty-four hours straight, every single day. It will happen over my dead body that you drop out of university because of money."

Her fierce promise was a small light piercing through the sudden darkness that had engulfed him. Her unwavering support kindled a flicker of hope in his heart, reminding him that he wasn’t alone in this fight. Yet, despite her determination, Jorel couldn't shake the heavy weight of reality pressing down on him. The loss of Ona felt like a gaping wound that refused to heal, and now he was also on the brink of losing his chance at an education, the very ticket to a future he had dreamed of.

The world outside felt oppressive, closing in on him from all sides, as if it were conspiring against him. His dreams of success and a life filled with promise were slowly being snuffed out. All he could think about were the sacrifices he had made to get this far, and the thought of giving up was unbearable. He had to find a way to fight back against the forces that sought to strip away everything he had worked for.

The second year of university was a raw, open wound. The campus itself had turned against him. Every path, every building, was a ghost of a memory he couldn't escape. He’d see her sometimes, a flash of her smile, the sound of her laugh floating across the courtyard with her friends. But a vast, silent ocean stretched between them now. They moved through the same days, the same spaces, bound by invisible chains. A careful, exhausting dance of avoidance. Every shared hallway, every crowded courtyard, was filled with a silence so loud it was unbearable. A powerful impulse stirred within him every time he spotted her; he yearned to approach her roommate, Layo, to gauge how Ona was truly faring. But he silenced that urge, fearing it would come off as intrusive, so he swallowed his worries and buried them deep inside, far from sight.

The atmosphere was thick with animosity, especially from her friends in the Film Studies department. Their disdain cut through him like a sharp knife; every time he walked past, their glares chilled him to the bone, eyes heavy with hostility.The friendly nods and casual "hellos" he used to get from them were gone. Now, they met him with a cold, heavy silence. It felt like a thick blanket, smothering him. It was as if he had become a ghost, drifting through the same places they had once filled with lively talk and friendship.

But nothing pierced his heart quite like the sight of Benson. Jorel's chest tightened whenever he spotted the smug final-year student sauntering alongside Ona. They had become inseparable, appearing together in the heart of campus life, walking to class, poring over notes, sharing meals that once were meant for a different set of smiles. Benson, with his effortless charm and polished wealth, represented everything Jorel felt he could never provide: security, laughter, and an escape from the relentless grind of reality. Seeing Ona lean into Benson’s playful banter, her joyful laughter ringing through the air like a haunting melody, shot a piercing pain straight through his heart. It felt like watching the life he had once envisioned with her slip further and further out of reach, fading into a shadow he could no longer chase.

The weight of his heartache became a constant, suffocating presence, an unwelcome companion that followed him everywhere. The once bright future he had imagined now felt like a distant echo, drowned out by an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. He seriously began contemplating transferring to another university, a radical shift that felt like admitting defeat but was born from a desperate need to escape the unbearable sight of Ona with Benson. The lonesomeness of having no scholarship only compounded his despair. Leaving it all behind seemed like the only option left to salvage what remained of his shattered spirit, even if the thought of doing so left an ache as profound as the one he had for her.

In the second semester of their second year, Jorel's roommate, Brume, casually dropped some news that sent a shockwave through Jorel's heart: Ona was dating Benson. It felt surreal, almost cruel. Even though six long months had slipped by since their breakup, the very thought of Ona being with someone else twisted a knife deep within him. Denial became his shield, a reluctant barrier against the reality he feared.

Each day passed in a haze of unresolved emotions and muted thoughts, until the very last day of the semester arrived. Jorel was packed and weary, ready to embrace the solace of the break, yet he felt a gravitational pull toward the familiar path that led past her hostel. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving a darkness that felt both inviting and perilous.

As he walked beneath the flickering streetlights, past memories sharpened around him, laughter shared in secret, stolen kisses in the shadows, dreams painted in soft whispers. But that nostalgia shattered when he stumbled upon a scene that was all too familiar yet entirely devastating. In a secluded corner, barely illuminated by the dim glow of a nearby streetlight, he saw them, a couple entwined in an intimate embrace.

And then he heard it. It was Benson's voice, smooth and confident, cutting through the night. In that single moment, the world dropped out from under Jorel. Disbelief shattered, and he was plunged into a raw, churning storm of emotion."I'm going to miss you these holidays," Benson said, his tone teasing yet sincere. "Instead of going to the UK, come spend time with my family in New York. Please say yes."

They kissed again, and with it came a soft giggle that punctured Jorel's heart, Ona's giggle. It was a sound that spoke of warmth and joy, a sound he had once cherished, now twisting the knife deeper into his chest. In that moment, it all fell apart. Months of pent-up pain, jealousy, and heartbreak ignited into a furious blaze, leaving common sense in ashes.

Without thinking, he lunged forward, driven by a primal urge to confront the unbearable reality before him. Jorel seized Benson by the shoulder, spinning him around with a force that surprised even himself. In an instant, before Benson could grasp the unfolding chaos, Jorel's fist connected with his jaw, a clean, brutal punch. The satisfying thud of impact echoed as Benson crumpled to the ground, rendered unconscious.

Ona's scream shattered the night, fraying the edges of his sanity. Her shock morphed into fury, each word like a knife thrust into his already battered heart. "What the hell is wrong with you, Jorel? Did you just kill him?!"

Jorel’s voice, laden with pain and desperation, fought back. "You could have chosen anyone else to be your rebound, Onaedo! Why him? Of all the guys in this school, you pick him?"

"You broke up with me!" she shot back, her voice breaking in a mix of anger and sorrow. "You left me! You ended us! Why in the world do you think you get to dictate who I choose to be with!"

With each exchange, the intensity rose, yet it felt like they were both standing on the edge of a cliff, shouting into the abyss.

"Why the Bleep do you even care?" she cried, her chest heaving with emotion, eyes blazing through tears as knelt down beside her boyfriend, trying to resuscitate him.

That haunting question hung in the air, and for the first time, Jorel found himself speechless. He glanced at Ona's tear-streaked face, an image of determination mixed with anguish, and then at Benson, sprawled helplessly on the ground. He had just knocked out the President of the Student Union, a reckless act that promised repercussions far beyond this moment.

The fight within him deflated as quickly as it had emerged, leaving only a hollow ache where fierce emotions had once roared. His heart felt like a crumpled piece of paper, tossed away carelessly after use. Without uttering another word, he turned and walked away into the night, the world around him blurring as he decided he couldn’t go on this way. The bitter truth settled in, he couldn’t come back to this school. Not after everything that had just happened. It was over.
********

A profound and sudden remorse washed over Ezinne, so potent it stole her breath. She had been so wrapped up in her own hurt, her own pride, for a decade. She had painted herself as the sole victim of their shattered relationship. But now, looking at it from his perspective, she saw the devastating cruelty of her silence. He had left angry, yes, but he had returned seeking peace, hoping to tie off a loose end so he could build a future. Instead, she had handed him a seismic shock that obliterated his entire world and any future he had planned. If the roles were reversed, she couldn’t imagine the disorientation, the sheer, world-shattering betrayal.

“Mofe, I…” she began, her voice thick with an emotion she could no longer contain.

“No,” he interjected gently, his tone weary. “You don’t need to say anything. We’re past that now.”

“No, I do,” she insisted, the words tumbling out in a rush of long-suppressed guilt. “I need to say this. I am… I am wholeheartedly, truly sorry for what I did. It was cruel. I know I could have reached out to your aunt if I’d really wanted to find you. But I was too proud. I was hurting so much. A stupid, childish part of me wanted you to come find me. I told myself that if you could just leave the country and never look back, then maybe I never meant that much to you at all.”

She swallowed hard, the admission painful. “I was young and so, so foolish. And later, when you didn’t return, I started to hate you for it. I told myself it was better you never knew. That it would serve you right for leaving the way you did. I’m sorry, Mofe. I was just… I was holding onto your anger. You warned me that if I walked away from that last argument, it would be the end of us. And I just thought… I thought you were keeping your word. Now, looking back, I see that I should have done more. I could have done more to reach you.”

For the first time in ten years, she had voiced the full, unvarnished truth of her culpability. The silence that followed was not angry, but heavy with the ghosts of what might have been, and the stark reality of the pain they had both caused each other.

***********

Mofe was utterly stunned into silence, the raw honesty of her apology hitting him with the force of a physical blow. For ten long years, he had carried the weight of their fractured ending, the bitter arguments, the unresolved questions, the simmering anger. This heartbreaking surrender of her pride that laid her own pain and culpability bare, completely disarmed him.

There was so much he could, and perhaps should, say in return. This was the moment to explain his own silence, to tell her why he had never reached out, why he had stayed away even when every fiber of his being had screamed at him to return to her. The reason was a heavy, complicated knot of his own pride, a harsh promise he'd made, and the bitter, gut-wrenching belief that she had moved on and was better off without him.

But as he felt the delicate, newfound connection weaving itself between them, as he sensed the tentative trust in the way her body relaxed against his chest, he couldn't bring himself to shatter the moment. He was a coward, he admitted to himself, choosing the fragile peace of the present over the painful, complicated truth of the past.

So, he swallowed the confession and instead chose a path of grace, his voice soft but firm against her ear. "Ezinne," he said, "it's forgiven. It's long forgotten, right where it belongs, in the past. All I'm concerned about now is moving forward." And he meant it. The corrosive anger that had fueled him for so long had long since evaporated. "I'm just happy I eventually found out. Honestly, I'm grateful that I did. Our daughter is so beautiful and so brilliant. Sometimes I struggle to keep up with her."

He felt the subtle release of tension in her shoulders, a surrender he hadn't fully registered until it was gone.

"Tell me about it," Ezinne said, and he could hear the warm smile in her voice. "You weren't here for the terrible twos. She was a menace, always trying to outsmart me. And I just knew that part of her came directly from your genes."

Mofe laughed, a genuine, free sound that felt good in his chest. As he did, he caught a faint, familiar scent, the coconut from her shampoo mixed with the unique, essential fragrance that was purely her. It was a scent that had haunted his memory for a decade, and breathing it in now, so close, sent a jolt of pure longing through him. It instantly brought back the image of her at the lodge, the one-piece bathing suit and the sheer mesh dress clinging to the curves of her body, a vision of such stunning beauty it had literally stolen his breath. He had forced himself to look away then, but now, with her in his arms, the memory was intoxicating.

He was savoring every second of this, the cool, salty breeze, the rhythmic crash of the waves, the solid, warm weight of Ezinne nestled against him. This was why he had brought them here. Away from the pressures and ghosts of Abuja, in this beautiful, neutral space, they were finally connecting.

He was especially, guiltily, enjoying the excuse to hold her this close, under the perfectly legitimate guise of keeping her safe on the horse. It felt incredibly good. It felt right, in a way nothing had felt in years. As the horse carried them along the beach, the sunset painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Mofe allowed himself a moment of pure, unguarded hope, that when they returned home tomorrow, the magic of this day, this fragile new understanding, and the feeling of her in his arms would somehow, against all odds, find a way to return with them.

"Why don't you listen to music anymore?"

The question was so unexpected it took him a moment to process. "What do you mean?"

"You told Margaret you don't really listen to music," she reminded him. "I remember it used to be on all the time for you."

He recollected the brief exchange. "Oh, that." He adjusted his grip on the reins, his arms bracketing her. "I hear music, of course. In cars, in elevators. But to actively sit and listen? That's a luxury for vacations now. My days are a cycle of the lab, testing prototypes, reviewing projects, and back-to-back meetings. There's rarely a quiet moment to just... listen."

It was the truth, as far as it went. But the deeper truth, the one he kept to himself, was that his blunt dismissal of Margaret had been deliberate. From the moment their helicopter had landed, he'd seen the unconcealed desire in her eyes, felt it in the way she positioned her body toward him, heard it in the flirtatious tone of her questions. He had become almost rude to thwart her advances, a defense mechanism he had honed over the years. As an attractive, wealthy man, he was a prime target for women like Margaret, women who saw a challenge in his disinterest and seemed to believe their persistence could wear him down. He’d learned that polite disengagement was often mistaken for invitation; sometimes, only bluntness worked.


"Anyway," he said, wanting to steer the ship of conversation away from his private battles, "we should start heading back to the cabana. After all, I believe you have a date with a certain mafia lord waiting for you."

Ezinne burst into laughter, genuine surprise lighting her features like the setting sun's rays. "How did you know that?"

"I caught a glimpse of the cover on your phone screen earlier," he admitted, teasing her lightly. "‘The Don's Defiant Librarian’? Really, Zinnie? I never pegged you for the ‘dangerous man redeems himself for love’ type."
She playfully swatted his arm, her laughter ringing out like the soft chime of bells against the backdrop of the crashing waves. "It’s called an escape! And you wouldn’t grasp the complexities of his character arc."

"Of a man with a likely body count in the double digits?" Mofe chuckled, guiding the horse in a wide arc, tracing their way back toward their cabana. "I think I understand perfectly. Honestly, I'm just surprised by your choice of fictional boyfriend."

Her laughter mingled with his. "It's my a guilty pleasure, and don't you dare judge me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and into hers. "Though I am curious what a librarian could possibly do to defy a man like that."

"Read the book and find out," she retorted, her tone teasing.

Their shared laughter echoed softly along the beach, a bright, easy sound that seemed to cement the newfound warmth between them.


*********


Next post, Next Wednesday

Present Day


Ezinne lay back on the plush reclining chair, nestled safely in the shade of the cabana. The world was reduced to a symphony of sensations: the gentle crash of waves, the warmth of the sun-drenched air, and the voice in her earphones, weaving a tale of dangerous love.

It was a dark romance, her secret guilty pleasure. The story followed a commitment-shy Mafia boss and the shy, yet surprisingly stubborn, librarian who unravels him. She let out a soft, private laugh, shaking her head at the sheer theatrics of it all. The alpha male declarations were absurd, the scenarios wildly improbable, and yet… she was completely engrossed. Perhaps it was a way to live a thrilling romance vicariously, a small indulgence for a love life that had been entirely dormant for a long while.

A deep, genuine contentment settled over her. For the first time in a long time, she was truly relaxed. She was glad, she admitted to herself, that Mofe had been so stubborn, so infuriatingly insistent on dragging her here. She hadn't realized just how much she'd needed this complete break from the weight of her responsibilities.

With Azora happily off on a horse ride with Mofe, and Eric's group having gone for a walk along the shore, she had this precious solitude all to herself. She reached out, her fingers finding the cool, condensation-beaded glass beside her. She took a slow sip of the sweet, fruity mocktail, savoring the taste. In this moment, she wasn't an executive director, a mother, or a blind woman navigating a seeing world. She was just a woman on vacation, quietly reveling in the simple, profound pleasures that money and a little forcefulness could provide.

She was so absorbed in the moment that she didn't hear their approach until a hand gently brushed her arm, making her startle. A moment later, one of her earphones was carefully removed.

"Your turn," Mofe's voice declared, clear and close without the audio buffer.

Disoriented, Ezinne turned her head toward the sound. "My turn for what?" The loss of her audiobook left her feeling unexpectedly exposed.

"Your turn to go on the horse!" Azora chirped from her other side, the excitement in her voice palpable.

Ezinne shook her head immediately, a familiar anxiety stirring in her chest. "Absolutely not." The thought of navigating toward an unfamiliar large animal, let alone mounting it, was daunting. A blind woman on a horse felt like disaster about to happen.

"Oh, come on, Mom!" Azora pleaded. "It'll be fun! The horses are so gentle, I enjoyed ny ride with Dad so much."

"Nah, I think I’ll pass" Ezinne said firmly, reaching blindly for where she'd set her drink down, needing something to ground herself. "I'm perfectly happy right here."

She felt Mofe lean closer, his presence shifting the air around her. "You know, Azora," he said, his voice dropping to that teasing tone that always seemed to see right through her defenses, "I think your mum might be a little afraid. They're just big, harmless animals, but I think they might intimidate her."

Azora gasped dramatically. "Are you scared, Mom?"

Ezinne rolled her eyes, a frustrated but fond smile tugging at her lips. She was being cornered, and they both knew her independence was her pride, but so was not showing fear in front of her daughter. "Fine," she conceded with a sigh. "But you're both responsible if anything happens."

She heard Blessing's approach and Azora's excited chatter as she was led away. Then Mofe's hand found hers, placing it firmly in the crook of his arm. "The horse is about twenty steps straight ahead," he said, his voice becoming practical and guiding. "Just walk with me."

At the horse, the challenge became real. The animal shifted its weight, a large, living creature she could hear and smell but not see. She reached out tentatively, her hand meeting warm, solid muscle that twitched beneath her touch.

"Let me guide your hands to the saddle," Mofe said, his voice calm and steady. His hands covered hers, showing her the stirrup. The simple act of finding the foothold felt impossible without his direction. "I'm going to help you up."

Then his hands moved to her waist. "Ready? On three," he said. When he lifted her, it was with a smooth, powerful control that was both startling and reassuring. The strength in his arms and shoulders was undeniable, more substantial than she remembered from their youth. Had he gotten bigger, or had she just forgotten what it felt like to be so completely in his care?

He settled her into the leather saddle, his hands carefully positioning her. But instead of stepping away, she felt him swing up behind her, his body surrounding hers. Ezinne stiffened immediately. "What are you doing?"

"I’m riding with you. Trust me, it's much safer this way," he explained, his voice a rumble close to her ear as he reached around her to take the reins she couldn't see. "I've got control."

And then the reality of their position washed over her. He had removed his shirt earlier, and now the solid warmth of his bare chest pressed against her back, separated only by the thin mesh of her cover-up. His scent, a clean sweat, salt air, and that uniquely masculine essence that was purely him, enveloped her completely. One arm secured across her waist held her firmly against him while the other guided the horse she couldn't see.

With every step the animal took, she felt the shift of his hard torso against her back, the strength in his thighs bracketing her own. She was utterly dependent on him, for balance, for direction, for safety, and a profound, flustering warmth bloomed deep within her. She was intensely grateful he couldn't see the blush heating her cheeks or hear the sudden, frantic rhythm of her heart. It was a wild drumbeat that had nothing to do with the horse and everything to do with the man whose protection she was completely, unavoidably, in.

"Are you comfortable?" Mofe's voice was a low rumble, his breath warm near her ear.

Ezinne simply nodded, afraid that if she tried to speak, the strange tightness in her throat would betray the fluster his proximity caused.

After a few moments of listening to the steady clip-clop of the horse's hooves, he spoke again. "When was the last time you rode?"

"Years ago," she managed, her voice steadier than she expected. "I was just a child, visiting family here in Lagos." She paused, needing to steer her thoughts away from the solid warmth of his chest against her back. "Where did you learn to ride so well?"

"For my vacations, I like to spend some time on a ranch in Wyoming," he explained. "It’s supposed to be a digital detox." He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. "The first time I tried to groom my horse, I didn't know you had to be careful around their back legs. Let's just say I learned the hard way not to stand directly behind them."

Ezinne couldn't help but laugh, the image so vivid it momentarily overshadowed her sensory overload. "He kicked you?"

"Let's call it a firm, instructional nudge," he replied, his tone wry. "Sent me flying into a trough. The cowboys never let me forget it."

Their shared laughter faded into a comfortable silence, the rhythm of the horse's walk and the sound of the waves creating a peaceful bubble around them. It was in this quiet that Ezinne found the courage to ask the question that had been hovering in her mind since he'd announced the trip.

"Why this, Mofe?" she asked softly. "This impromptu overnight stay? It was quite sudden."

He was quiet for a long moment. "As a child," he began, his voice taking on a reflective tone she rarely heard, "I never got to enjoy things like this. I've made it my mission that no matter how busy I get, I will always create time for the important things. I don't want to look back and regret not having lived fully, especially when I have the means to do so now. And that's what I want for Azora, too. When she’d mentioned last week that she wished to see the beach, I knew I had to make it happen for her."

He adjusted his grip on the reins, his arm brushing against her side. "I want to give her the full experience of what life can be. Not to spoil her, but for her to know there's a vast world out there, and she should experience as much of it as she can. The way I wish I could have explored it as a child."

Ezinne considered his words, feeling the sincerity in them. "You've come a long way from back then," she remarked quietly. She didn't need to elaborate; he knew she was speaking of the wealth and power he now commanded, a stark contrast to the struggles of his youth.

"Yes, I have," he acknowledged, his voice dropping, losing its earlier lightness. "I have everything … almost everything I could possibly desire now. But somehow, I still haven't been able to fully let go of the past." The admission hung in the air between them, a raw and unexpected confession that seemed to still the very air around them, making the gentle sounds of the resort fade into the background.

The confession hung between them, more intimate than the physical closeness the saddle forced upon them. The gentle rhythm of the horse’s gait seemed to slow, as if giving them space for the weight of his words.

“Was that why you returned home?” Ezinne asked, her voice barely a whisper carried away by the sea breeze. “Was that why you came looking for me? For… closure?”

She felt the deep breath he took, his chest expanding against her back. He was silent for a long moment, as if reluctant to give voice to a truth that now felt like a betrayal.

“Yes,” he finally admitted, the word quiet and raw. “We didn’t end things right, Ezinne. It was all anger and harsh words. I thought if I came back, if I could just get a proper ending from you, I could finally be at rest. I could finally move forward with my life, with my fiancée, ex-fiancee, without feeling like I’d left a part of myself behind here. But then…”

“But then you came back and found out you had a daughter,” she finished for him, the words tasting like ash.

jupitre:
We're still waiting for the next update

It's coming. This evening or tomorrow morning. Finishing up on it.

jupitre:
I don't even know what to say..
I can't blame him and I also can't blame her..
As much as I know love isn't enough to keep a relationship, walking away like that is way too cruel...
Wow...

Thanks Repogirl

You're very welcome!!

jupitre:
I don't even know what to say..
I can't blame him and I also can't blame her..
As much as I know love isn't enough to keep a relationship, walking away like that is way too cruel...
Wow...

Thanks Repogirl

You're very welcome.

Next Day
6:45 PM

Ona walked down the busy street towards Option Four, their usual hangout spot Jorel had texted her about that afternoon. The simple message, setting their meeting place, had been the only thing on her mind since she received it.

The last 24 hours had left her completely drained. Jorel walking out and leaving her at the hotel in Abeokuta, followed by the brutal fight with her father, had shattered her. She’d slept poorly, her mind replaying the confrontations on a painful loop. She’d tried to keep a happy face for the remainder of the wedding party but knew her smiles had looked as fragile as they felt. She had returned to Lagos that morning, feeling so hollow she didn't even have the energy to attend the couple's thanksgiving service.

Now, with the evening closing in, all that exhaustion was channeled into a single, frantic point: the meeting ahead.

Her heart was beating very fast and hard, like a scared bird trapped in her chest. Every step she took sounded loud to her, as if announcing she was coming.

She held her small purse so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She was breathing in quick, shallow breaths that made her feel like a little girl, not a grown woman. She hated feeling this nervous and out of control. She and Jorel had had their misunderstandings but this one was something else. His leaving her and returning to school last night told her things were really bad between them.

Up ahead, the neon sign for Option Four glowed, its light flickering in the dark. She could smell the familiar scents of the street: spicy suya, grilled turkey, and the cool evening air. These smells usually made her happy, but now they just made her stomach feel tight and nervous.
She wasn't just hoping his anger was gone. She was hoping the hurt behind the anger had healed. She knew that his anger was really just a cover for feeling embarrassed and afraid that he could no longer trust her.

She silently prayed, ‘please, God, let the night apart have cooled his anger. Let him be ready to listen.’

She walked slower, wanting to delay the moment a little longer. The memory of yesterday was still very painful.

She saw it clearly in her mind: the exact moment in the church when Jorel realized she had lied to him. The look on his face changed from confusion to a deep, painful understanding. It wasn't a small lie. It was a big betrayal. The way he looked at her made her feel like she was a stranger who had hurt him on purpose.

Then, there was her father. He had found out about her other big lie, about her university course. In one day, the two most important men in her life had walked away from her. It felt like the universe was screaming at her to stop lying.

Her biggest regret was that she had made a decision for Jorel. She didn't mean to be mean. She was just so proud of him and wanted to show him off to her family and friends. She wanted everyone to see the amazing boy she loved. But wanting something good was not a good reason to tell a lie.

She promised herself that tonight, she would not make excuses. She would not try to defend herself. She would simply admit she was wrong and apologize.

A soft wind blew, feeling like a gentle push forward. As she reached the faded green door of Option Four, her heart was pounding in her chest. She wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans and took a deep breath to calm herself.

She could hear the low sound of Afrobeats music coming from inside, and took in a deep breath.

7:00 PM

It was time. She had to go in. She pushed the door open and walked inside.
************

Jorel saw Ona the moment she stepped through the door of Option Four. The sight of her hit him with a physical force, making his breath catch in his throat. For a single, unguarded second, all he felt was a deep, overwhelming love for her.

But then he really looked at her, and his heart ached.

She looked… smaller. Not in her body, which was as tall and graceful as ever, but in her spirit. The Ona he knew walked into a room as if she owned it, her chin held high and her eyes bright with confidence. The woman who walked in now seemed folded in on herself. Her shoulders, usually pulled back with pride, were slumped. The vibrant energy that always surrounded her was gone, replaced by a heavy exhaustion that seemed to weigh down her every step. It was as if the light inside her had been dimmed.

Seeing her this vulnerable was a special kind of torture. A powerful instinct roared to life within him, screaming at him to go to her, to wrap his arms around her and promise he would make all the pain go away. It took every bit of his strength to remain in his seat, to not reach for her.

His fingers tightened around his chilled bottle of coke, the condensation wet against his skin. He focused on that cold, wet feeling, using it to steady himself. He consciously wiped all emotion from his face, building a wall of blankness to hide the war going on inside him. He knew that if he showed even a flicker of the pain and love he felt, his resolve would crumble to dust.

His mind drifted back to the long, uncomfortable bus ride from Abeokuta. In the sweltering heat, with the bus rattling around him, he had done nothing but think. He had replayed the moment he realized her lie over and over.

The deception itself was a sharp sting, but the meaning behind it cut much deeper. It made him feel foolish and used, as if his trust was a toy she could play with. He had given her his heart completely, and she had made a decision that affected them both without even consulting him.

For the past day, his mind had been a battlefield. He had imagined this conversation in a dozen different ways. He pictured himself shouting in anger. He envisioned himself cold and silent. He heard himself asking her how she could lie to him so easily.

His mind’s voice asked, “if she lies to keep you, what else will she lie about?" A great relationship could never be built with lies and secrets. Yes, he had secrets too, more like misgivings, but if he couldn’t share them with the love of his life, then his misgivings about their relationship were just as bad as secrets. His silent thoughts, coupled with her small, "harmless" lies would grow into bigger ones, and he saw her action as the first crack in their foundation, a warning sign he could not ignore.

He had to be strong now. Not just for himself, but, for her too. He couldn't let his love for her become the reason he abandoned his own self-respect.

So when her eyes, wide and full of uncertainty, finally found his across the room, the part of him that was her protector, her shelter, exploded into life. It was a primal urge to go to her, to hold her, to keep her safe from any hurt, even the hurt he himself was causing.

And with a pain that felt like tearing his own soul in two, he forced that feeling down. He locked that loving, gentle part of himself away in a dark, silent place inside his heart.

He clenched his jaw so hard a muscle twitched. He drew in a slow, quiet breath, filling his lungs with determination instead of sorrow. He straightened his back, making his posture rigid and unyielding in the booth.

He had come to a difficult realization: the kindest thing he could do for both of them in the long run was to be completely honest now, no matter how much it hurt. He could not save her from this. He could not let her see his own devastation, because he knew if she saw his tears, she would use their connection to mend the break, and he would fall for it, and they would only postpone the inevitable crash of the relationship.

So he lifted his chin, his face becoming a mask of calm detachment. He was neutral. He was controlled. He was a fortress, and he would not let her in.

He held her gaze as she walked toward him, his heart breaking with every slow, hesitant step she took. He waited, perfectly still, until she finally slipped into the seat across from him.

He saw the slight, unmistakable tremble at the corner of her lips. Inside, his heart shattered into a million pieces. But on the outside, he did not move. He did not react. He gave her nothing to hold on to.

"Hi," he said. The word was low and measured, a stone dropped into the tense quiet between them. It gave away nothing of the storm raging within him. He was ready.

And from the shattered look in her eyes, she knew it.

"Hi," Ona whispered, the sound barely audible as she slid into the booth opposite him.

"Hi," Jorel replied, his tone flat, a deliberate contrast to the emotion choking his throat. "Do you want anything? A drink?" The question was a formality, a piece of script he felt obligated to follow, though the thought of swallowing anything felt impossible.

She shook her head, her movements small and tight. Her hands, usually so expressive, were clasped together on the table as if in prayer, her knuckles pale from the pressure. "No, thank you."

She drew in a shaky breath that shuddered through her entire frame, her eyes, wide and glistening, locking onto his with a desperate intensity. "Jorel, I'm so sorry. I was wrong to lie to you." Her voice broke, but she pressed on. "I see now that it was manipulative, and I take full responsibility for that. From this moment on, I promise to be completely truthful with you. I will never try to control a situation like that again. I will do better."

There it was. Laid bare between them. A full, unvarnished confession. It was the very thing he had told himself he needed to hear, the key that should have unlocked forgiveness. Instead, it felt like a lock clicking shut, sealing their fate. Her humility, her raw admission, made the task ahead feel like a monstrous act.

A treacherous part of him had hoped for defiance, for excuses he could use as a shield for his own pain. This immediate surrender, this offering of her own fault on a platter, completely disarmed him. He could see the fragile hope in her eyes, kindling like a tiny, desperate flame.

She had laid down every weapon, every defense, and now she waited, expecting him to do the same, to meet her on the other side. But he wasn't here to rebuild. He was here to demolish what remained.

The hot, sharp anger was gone, extinguished by the cold tide of a painful, certain truth. The lie was merely a symptom, a fever indicating a much deeper sickness, and he knew this. The real illness was the vast, impossible gap between the world she was born into and the one he was fighting to build. He was falling into that hole, and he loved her too much to drag her down with him. He needed to let go of her hand so he could learn to climb on his own, to become a man who could stand as her true equal, not just in her heart, but in the eyes of the world, and most crucially, in his own. He knew, with a soul-deep certainty, that she would never understand this. She would only see it as surrender, a failure to fight for their love.

So he could not tell her this truth. He had to weaponize the lie. He had to position himself as the one too wounded to continue, because that was a narrative her heart could grasp. It was a cleaner, more immediate kind of hurt, a swift amputation instead of a slow, terminal illness.

He looked down at his drink, the condensation beading on the surface of the bottle, to avoid drowning in the plea in her eyes. "Saying you'll do better..." he began, his voice unnervingly calm. "That's good, Ona. I believe you mean it." He paused, letting the silence stretch between them. "But hearing that doesn't just erase what happened." He finally lifted his gaze to meet hers, and he made sure his eyes were like flint, hard and unyielding, striking the final blow. "The trust... it's broken. I can't just forget how it felt. I can't move past this."

He saw the hope in her eyes shatter, replaced by a dawning horror. He had taken her honest apology and used it as the reason to end them. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, and he did it believing it was the only way to give them both a real chance at a future, even if it was a future apart.

“What are you talking about?” Ona’s voice was small, fragile. “What do you mean, you can’t move past it?”

Her face began to crumble, the confident girl from moments before vanishing. Every instinct screamed at him to reach across the table, to pull her into his arms and tell her he didn’t mean it. But he couldn’t. He held himself still, his expression a mask of grim resolve.

“I mean our relationship was doomed from the start, Ona,” he said, his voice low but clear, each word feeling like a betrayal. “That wedding… It showed me the truth. There’s no future for us. Not one that doesn’t force you to choose. You’ll constantly have to go against your family, their world, their wishes… because of me. You’ll be pushed to lie and hide things and I won’t be the reason you have to fight those battles.”


He took a slow breath, steeling himself. “I need to let you go. I need to be away from you. I need to… take care of myself.” The words were heavy, but he pushed them out.

“I don’t want to be the burden you have to carry just because you love me. I want you to love yourself first. Love yourself more.” He met her watery gaze, his heart breaking. “And even though I love you… I’m choosing to love myself first right now. Because it’s only when I do that, that I’ll ever be able to truly love someone else.”

Ona stared at him, her brow furrowed in confusion and pain. The logic was a foreign language to her heart. “I… I don’t understand what you’re saying,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Are you… are you breaking up with me?”

The question hung in the air between them, simple in its construction but devastating in its meaning, its three words seeming to suck all the sound from the room.

Jorel held her gaze, feeling the immense, suffocating weight of his decision settle on his shoulders like a physical burden. Every instinct told him to look away, to shield himself from the devastation he was causing, but he forced himself to witness it. This was his doing. He gave a single, slow, deliberate nod, the motion feeling like the fall of a guillotine.

“Yes, Ona. I am.”

A sharp, choked gasp escaped her, a raw, guttural sound of pure pain that struck Jorel with the force of a physical blow, knocking the air from his own lungs. Her eyes, wide pools of shimmering disbelief, desperately scanned his face, searching for a twitch of a smile, a glimmer of the boy who loved her, any sign that this was some monstrous joke.

“Tell me this is a prank,” she whispered, the words fraying at the edges, her voice a fragile thread about to snap. “Please, Jorel, tell me you’re just playing with me. Look at me and say it’s not real.”

He couldn’t bear it. The sight of her composure fracturing completely was unraveling his own from the inside out. He had to escape this prison of his own making before the walls of his resolve collapsed. Pushing himself up from the booth, deliberately avoided her pleading gaze, focusing on the exit like a lifeline.

“My mind is made up, Ona,” he said, his voice thick and gravelly with an emotion he dared not name.

But as he turned, a blur of movement in his periphery froze him in his tracks. His heart stuttered to a halt. Ona had slid from her seat and, right there on the sticky, food-stained floor of Option Four, she had knelt down. Her hands were clasped so tightly together her knuckles were bone-white, a desperate, prayerful gesture. Her face, glistening with tears, was tilted up to him, a devastating portrait of surrender.

“Please,” she begged, her voice a raw, broken whisper that somehow cut through the din of the restaurant, silencing everything else in his world. “Don’t do this. We can fix this. I’ll do anything. Just tell me what you need me to do, and I’ll do it. Please, Jorel. Don’t leave me.”

In that moment, Jorel’s heart didn’t just break; it was pulverized. Seeing Ona Adeyemi, proud, radiant, unyielding Ona, brought to her knees on a public floor for him was an image of such profound humiliation and love that he knew it would be seared into his memory for eternity. Every fiber of his being, every cell that loved her, screamed at him to fall to his own knees, to gather her into his arms, to whisper that it was all a terrible mistake and he would never let her go.

He became acutely, painfully aware of the other customers. The clattering of cutlery had stopped. He felt the weight of their stares, heard the sharp, judgmental whispers that slithered through the air. A hot, sickening wave of shame washed over him, shame that he had reduced her to this, that he was the cause of her beautiful, formidable pride being discarded on a dirty floor.

Somehow, he forced his body to obey. He took one more step, then another, his legs feeling like lead, carrying him toward the door.

“Jorel!”

Her voice rang out, stopping him just as his fingers brushed the cold metal of the door handle. The raw, broken plea was gone. In its place was a new sound, cold, sharp, and tempered with a terrifying finality. He turned, compelled to look at her one last time.

She was still on her knees, but something had shifted. Her spine was straighter, her chin was lifted. Though tears still tracked through her makeup, her eyes now blazed with a defiant, wounded fire. “If you walk out that door,” she declared, her voice clear and cutting as glass, “don’t expect me to come after you. Not this time. Not ever.”

He knew, with a chilling, absolute certainty that settled in his bones, that she meant every syllable. This was her final stand, the last line drawn in the sand of their relationship. He was taking a monumental risk, gambling the entirety of their shared future on this one, excruciating act of separation. But it was a calculated risk. He believed, with a desperate, painful hope, that it was the only way to force them both onto a path where they could grow into the people they were meant to be, even if that growth happened a world apart.

So, with the heavy, irrevocable weight of her promise pressing down on him and the image of her proud, kneeling defiance forever burned onto the back of his eyelids, Jorel turned his back. He pushed the door open, and without a single backward glance, he walked out into the waiting night, leaving the pieces of their love scattered on the floor behind him.

***********

Next post, next Monday

The doors opened onto the exclusive top floor, where her father occupied the presidential suite. Two impeccably dressed hotel staff stood guard outside. They opened the heavy doors for her, and Ona stepped into a world of overwhelming opulence. Plush cream carpets, sleek mahogany and gold furniture, and a breathtaking view of the city skyline glittering through vast glass windows.

Just then, her stepmother, Dr. Omolara Adeyemi, emerged from the inner room. Her father had married the elegant cardiologist about four years after Ona's mother had passed. While Ona and her step-mom had never been close, Omolara had always been kind to Ona, maintaining a gentle distance and wisely staying out of the constant feud between father and daughter. She was dressed in an elegant Iro and Buba of champagne lace, and she clutched a thick bundle of crisp hundred-dollar bills, neatly bound with a bank band.

Her eyes flicked over Ona briefly, then softened into a polite, warm smile. “Ah, Ona baby,” she said, her tone affectionate though her steps were hurried. She brushed Ona’s arm reassuringly as she passed. “They’re about to start dancing. Time to spray the couple properly.” She winked, holding up the cash. “Your father’s instructions.”

And just like that, she was gone, her heels clicking softly against the marble as she disappeared toward the elevators, leaving behind only the faint, expensive trace of her perfume.

Ona’s throat tightened. She smoothed her hands over her gown once more, preparing herself. Because whatever her father wanted to say, it was rarely simple. And it was never, ever without strings.

The suite’s silence was thick, broken only by the faint hum of traffic far below. Ona stepped inside cautiously, smoothing her gown. Her father stood by the wide window, his agbada sleeves falling like heavy drapery around him.

He was a handsome man in his mid-fifties, with distinguished graying hair at his temples and the same brown eyes Ona had inherited. His dark skin was smooth, and he maintained an athletic build for his age. But his features, which could have been warm, were set in a permanent mask of stern disapproval, his mouth a firm, unforgiving line.

“Daddy,” she greeted softly, the word feeling hollow.

Ona had never been close to her father. Even while her mother was alive, he had always preferred his work to family life. She had grown used to having an absentee father who felt he had the right to make demands of her. It was precisely why she felt no guilt resisting his wishes at every turn. He had never shown he cared for her as a person; he clearly cared more about his business empire, and she had long since made her peace with that. He, on the other hand, had yet to grasp that being her father didn't grant him ownership of her life.

He turned. His face was like stone, his eyes cold and hard. "So. You actually went through with it."

Ona's stomach twisted into a tight knot. "Went through with what—"

"Don't," he cut her off, his voice sharp as a slap. "Do not insult me by pretending. Anu told me everything. It slipped out, and then she confirmed it."

Ona's mind raced, the pieces clicking into place with a sickening certainty. She knew exactly what this was about.

"For an entire year," he boomed, the force of his words shaking the quiet room, "you have been lying to me. You are not studying Law. You are... wasting your life on Film Studies?" He said the words like they were a disease. "Do you think this is a game, Ona? Do you believe my name, my money, and everything I have built is for you to throw away and become... what? A frivolous dreamer?"

She straightened her spine, pulling her shoulders back. She forced her chin up, meeting his furious gaze with a defiant one of her own. "I never wanted to study Law. I told you that, even back in secondary school. But you never listened. You never hear me. Film is my passion. It is my future. And you cannot force me to become someone I was never meant to be."

His nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "You will not humiliate me, Ona. You will not drag the respected Adeyemi name through the mud by chasing this... this foolishness."

She wanted to argue, to defend herself, but at that exact moment, her phone buzzed against her palm, vibrating insistently. Her gaze dropped. The screen lit up with a name that made her chest ache.

Jorel.

Her thumb twitched. God, she needed to answer. To hear his voice, to explain, to hold onto something solid while her father tried to crush her spirit. But before she could move, his hand shot out like a striking whip.

“Give me that.”

“Daddy, no—”

Too late. He snatched the phone from her grip. His eyes flicked to the glowing screen. The fury that had already burned hot erupted into something volcanic.

“Jorel?” His voice boomed. He turned the name into an insult. “That boy. That riffraff. That… that nobody is calling you in my presence?”

He hurled the phone onto the massive bed, the device bouncing against the silk sheets. Ona flinched at the sharp sound, her throat closing.

Her father’s voice rose, shaking the air. "You will end whatever you have going on with that boy. Do you hear me? You will cut him off tonight! And you must switch to Law, or I swear to you, Ona, you are no daughter of mine. I will disown you. Strip you of everything. Do you understand? You think because you have a trust fund you're covered? Let's see how much you manage on your own without the weekly allowances I provide for you."

Her heart pounded, but something within her snapped, sharp, defiant, unbreakable. She squared her shoulders, tears burning her eyes, but her voice was steady.

"Disown me."

The words hung between them, a blade slicing through the gilded air of the presidential suite.

"What did you say?"

"Disown me," she repeated, her voice clear and cold. "Because I am not doing anything you just said. I will be with who I choose to be with, and I will study the course I know I was created to study."

The words had left her mouth before she could stop them, sharp and reckless, trembling in the air like glass about to shatter.

Her father’s eyes widened not with shock, but with pure, undiluted fury. His chest rose and fell heavily beneath the folds of his agbada. For a moment, he was silent, and that silence was worse than any shouting. It was the kind of silence that meant a storm was gathering.

"You ungrateful child! Foolish girl!" he said finally, his voice low and trembling with rage. "After everything I have given you, you dare defy me this way? This is the height of it, Onaedo! And I will never stand by and watch you wreck your life."

"It is my life," Ona replied, her voice cracking but steady enough to carry. "And I won’t let you control it."

The words were gasoline poured onto a fire.

"Such an ungrateful child!" he roared, his voice filling the vast suite, rattling her down to her bones. "Do you think you are who you are because of you? You are nothing without me. Without my name, without my money, you wouldn’t last a day!"

Ona’s throat burned, but she lifted her chin. "Then I will last without it. I would rather be nothing than live a lie for you."

The veins in his temple stood out, his fists clenching at his sides. He paced the width of the suite, each stride tight with contained violence. "So this is your choice. To spit on your family. To humiliate me. To destroy everything I have built, all because of a childish fantasy and that boy."

He turned on her, eyes blazing. "That boy," he seethed, jabbing a finger toward her, each word a hammer strike. "If I hear his name again, if I so much as see his shadow near you, I swear, Ona, you will cease to exist to me. I will cut you off from everything. No inheritance, no home, no family. You will crawl in the dirt with him, and when he fails you, as he will, you will come crawling back. And when you do, I will not open the door."


Ona’s chest heaved with ragged breaths. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her gown, nails digging painfully into her own palms. A storm of emotions raged within her. She felt a desperate urge to scream, to collapse in sobs, to snatch her phone from the bed and call Jorel just to defy her father. But she remained rooted to the spot, trembling, the furious words trapped behind her clenched teeth.
Her father took a menacing step closer, his presence suffocating. "End it with him, Ona. Tonight," he repeated, his voice a low, final decree. "Or consider yourself disowned already."

The glittering chandelier above seemed to mock her, the opulent suite feeling less like a luxury and more like a gilded cage.

"If only you could get off your high and mighty horse to know who he truly is, you would think differently and you would know how special he is," she shot back, her voice trembling but clear. "I can promise you … Dad .. that you will hear his name, and keep hearing it until one day it will be too late to go back and mend everything you destroyed because you couldn't see past his humble background."
"You are a foolish, naive child!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the lavish suite. "It baffles me that you cannot see the truth! People like him see only one thing when they look at you: money! Why do you believe this boy is any different?"

"Because I know him," she replied, her voice quiet but steady despite the tears threatening to fall. "And I know his love for me is real. I love him, too."

"You think this is love?" he spat, his voice thunderous with contempt.

"Yes!" she cried out, her voice cracking under the weight of desperation and a fierce, newfound defiance. "I know what love is! And now that I have felt it, I will never let it go. You can do your worst, Daddy, but I will not let go of Jorel. Never!"

"You are too smart to be this stubborn and foolish," he seethed, pacing before her. "I blame Zikora for putting these rebellious ideas in your head. She has spoiled you. You will learn your lesson the hard way, sooner or later. But when you do, do not think you can come running back to me with your useless Film Studies degree."

Hot, helpless tears finally spilled over and streamed down Ona's cheeks. Her throat burned, her chest tight as her father's furious words continued to echo in her mind.

Her phone buzzed again on the bed, a persistent, angry hum. Jorel's name flashed across the screen like a beacon. Her father's head snapped toward the sound, his face contorted with pure disgust. That single buzz was both a lifeline and a weapon thrown between them.

Her father's eyes narrowed to slits, his jaw tightening with a cold, terrifying restraint. He stared at her for one long, searing moment, then turned and stomped out of the room, leaving behind a dark cloud of his fury.

The moment the door clicked shut, Ona lunged for the bed, her hands shaking as she snatched the still buzzing phone. She frantically tapped Jorel's name to call him back.

The call didn't go through. She tried again. Nothing.

A cold dread washed over her. Her thumb swiped to her messages, and there it was. A new text from Jorel.

Jorel: I'm leaving the hotel. Taking a bus back to school tonight. Your car keys are on the dresser in the room. See me when you return, tomorrow at 7pm. We need to talk.

Ona’s tears fell harder. She sank onto the edge of the bed, her phone clutched to her chest like it could anchor her, steady her. He’d left. He hadn’t waited for her.

The sting cut deep, sadness first, but quickly swelling into anger. How could he leave her here? In Abeokuta. At this event filled with her family’s judging eyes. Alone. They could have talked, could have figured things out. Instead, he’d abandoned her in the middle of her father’s wrath.

She wiped her face roughly, smearing away the wetness until her features were composed again. Her heart was still in pieces, but she forced the shards back inside.

Enough.

If Jorel wouldn’t stand with her, then she’d stand on her own.

She rose, straightened her gown, and drew a sharp breath. The muffled sounds of drums and laughter from the reception below seeped into the silence of the suite. She squared her shoulders, steeling herself.

Whatever storms swirled inside her heart, she wouldn’t let them show. Not tonight. She would dance, laugh, and party with her cousins as though nothing had happened. She would shut it all out; the fight, the tears, and Jorel’s absence.

As she stepped back into the golden glow of the banquet hall, Ona Adeyemi vowed to herself: tonight, she would have fun. Even if her heart was breaking.
*****************

Chapter 09


The wedding reception was held in a ballroom dripping with gold and ivory. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light shimmering on the polished marble floor. Waiters in crisp white uniforms moved through the crowd, offering champagne and small, elegant snacks. A live band played soft highlife music, the smooth sound of the saxophone weaving through the chatter and laughter.

It was the kind of perfect, expensive event the Adeyemi family was famous for. But for Ona, the beauty was a painful illusion. She couldn't appreciate the decorations or join in the fun. Her entire world had narrowed to the boy standing a few feet behind her.

Jorel hadn't said a single word to her since they left the church. His silence was a heavy, angry cloud around him, louder than the band. He stood perfectly still, his back straight, his face a mask of cold control.

When her cousins pulled her away for photos, she stole a look at him. He was easy to spot—taller than almost everyone, his borrowed suit straining across his shoulders. He looked incredibly handsome, but also deeply uncomfortable, and the sight made her heart ache.

But it was his eyes that truly broke her. They were hard and distant, the warm, loving gaze she knew completely gone. He was shutting her out. Then, without a word, he turned and walked out of the ballroom.

Her heart leaped into her throat. Where is he going?

She couldn't stand it anymore. The silent treatment, the tension—it was too much. She quickly excused herself and hurried after him, weaving through the crowded room.

"Jorel!" she called out, her voice echoing in the hallway.

He stopped but didn't turn around immediately. When he finally did, his expression was unreadable.

She caught up to him and gently touched his arm. "Jorel. Are you leaving? Without even telling me?"

"You don't tell me everything either," he replied, his voice flat and empty. "So you shouldn't be surprised." The lack of emotion in his tone told her how deeply she had hurt him.

She flinched. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He gave a short, bitter laugh. "You're a good actress, Ona. Film studies really does suit you."

"Jorel?" she said, outraged. "What is the problem? I can't ignore the way you're acting anymore. What is it?" She tightened her grip on his arm.

His eyes dropped to her hand, then rose to meet her gaze. "You lied to me."

The words were quiet, but they hit her with the force of a physical blow.

She glanced around nervously. A few of her aunts and some friends of the family were standing nearby, watching them with open curiosity. This was not the place for this conversation. She tugged him toward the French doors that led to a balcony. The warm night air outside was a relief from the stuffy ballroom, the party noise fading behind the glass.

"Please, Jorel, not here," she whispered, her voice pleading. "You're angry, I get it. And I promise I'll explain everything. Just... not here. Please, just stay until the end of the party, and we can talk."

"You expect me to stay in there," he said, his voice low and intense, "in a place I never wanted to be, and act normal after finding out you lied to my face?"

"Jorel, I had to!" she protested, desperation creeping into her voice. "If I had told you my father was coming, you wouldn't have come!"

Jorel laughed again, a hollow, painful sound. "And that's supposed to make it better? You tricked me into walking right into the one situation I told you I wanted to avoid." He turned away from her, looking out at the city lights, his jaw clenched tight. "Do you have any idea what it feels like, Ona? To stand in there, in his world, knowing I don't belong, and knowing that you knew I didn't want to be here, but you brought me anyway?"

Her chest tightened with a sharp ache. "You do belong here," she insisted, her voice trembling. "Don't you see? That's the whole point! I wanted you here because you're a real part of my life, not some secret I have to hide. I wanted you to stand next to me."

His gaze snapped back to hers, sharp and penetrating. "Next to you, while you lie to my face? Next to you, acting like I don't know what he thinks about me? Next to you, while you lie to him about the course you're actually studying?" He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Which version of your life am I supposed to be standing in, Ona? The real one, or the one you've made up for yourself?"

The words hit their mark because they were true. Her throat closed up, tears pricking her eyes, and all she could manage was a broken whisper.

"I just wanted you with me."

For a single, fleeting moment, she saw his defenses waver. The anger in his eyes softened, just a little, as if a part of him wanted to understand, to forgive her. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by that cold, hard wall.

"The worst part is, I probably would have come anyway," he said, his voice flat and tired. "You know I can hardly ever say no to you. But you don't get to make that choice for me, Ona. Not by lying. You can lie to anyone else, but not me."

"Jorel, please..."

"Don't," he cut her off, his tone final. "There's nothing left to say. Not here. I'm going back to the hotel."

Before she could form another word, before she could even reach for him, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone on the balcony. The sounds of laughter and celebration from the ballroom seeped through the glass, a cruel soundtrack to the rift that had just opened between them.

Ona stood motionless, the chill of the night air seeping into her skin. She watched until his figure was completely swallowed by the darkness, her breath fogging a small circle on the glass door.

The lively music from the reception continued, a cheerful, upbeat melody that now felt like a mockery. It couldn't touch the hollow silence that had settled inside her.

A deep ache spread through her chest. She never meant to cause him this kind of pain. She hadn't understood the gravity of her lie until she saw the betrayal etched in his eyes. The fact that he hadn't yelled, that his anger was so quiet and controlled, made it infinitely worse. That quiet disappointment made her feel sick.

"I'll fix this," she whispered into the empty air, a desperate promise to herself. "I'll make it right."

She couldn't lose him. She would find a way to bridge this gap. The alternative was unthinkable.

She turned, steeling herself to slip back into the ballroom and paste on a convincing smile for the cameras and her watching relatives, when a low, familiar voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Ona.”

She blinked. Her half-brother, Jayden, leaned casually against the doorframe. Dressed in a sleekly tailored asoebi, he looked every inch their father’s son with his sharp jawline, confident stance, and eyes that held a calculating glint. He offered her a cool, knowing half-smile.

At just fifteen, he had become unbearably obnoxious. They had been close as children, but since hitting puberty, he had grown increasingly arrogant and dismissive, choosing to emulate his bratty, wealthy friends. Their relationship had frayed, and Ona was sure their father's open disapproval of her choices had influenced Jayden's attitude. She had long since stopped caring if he wanted to become a carbon copy of their father.

“What?” she asked, her tone flat.

“Dad wants to see you,” he said, not moving from his post. “In his suite. Now.”

Her stomach dropped. Of course. Of course, he would summon her in the middle of the celebration, pulling her away just as her own world was crumbling.

She smoothed the fabric of her bridesmaid gown, lifted her chin, and walked briskly past him toward the elevators. With each floor the elevator climbed, the air in her chest felt heavier, harder to breathe.

sal1974:
Another beautiful episode! 👏 @repogirl you really did a great job once again — the flow, suspense, and emotions were all on point. Each update just keeps getting better and more engaging. Well done and please keep the episodes coming, am really enjoying this ride!

Your comment brings me joy!!! Thanks for reading!

jupitre:
Thanks for the update

thanks for reading

sal1974:
Awesome, thanks and kudos for your effort, looking forward to Thursday for next episode

You're very welcome

Mhizdebs:
Thank you I always look forward to the next episide

Thank you 🙂🙏🏽

The church looked like it had been taken straight from the pages of a fancy wedding magazine. It was the kind of place Jorel had only ever seen in photos at other people's houses.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, throwing light across shiny marble floors. Tall stained-glass windows glowed with deep, rich colors, their pictures of saints and angels lit up by the midday sun. Hundreds of white roses were wrapped around the pillars, their sweet smell filling the air.

Everywhere he looked, there was money. The women wore expensive lace dresses and elaborate head-ties that sparkled with beads. The men wore traditional outfits with such fine embroidery they looked like works of art. The air was thick with the smell of designer perfumes. This wasn't just a wedding. It was a show of wealth. A statement.

And Jorel wanted no part of it.

The suit he wore was borrowed from his room mate, Tobe, who was a few inches shorter and two sizes smaller. On Jorel's six-foot-four, broad-shouldered frame, the jacket strained across his back and pulled tight around his arms. The trousers dug into his thighs when he sat down.

He immediately found an empty pew at the very back, as far from the action as possible. He didn't greet anyone or make eye contact. He just sat, a brooding, uncomfortable giant in a too-small suit, ignoring the curious sidelong glances from guests who were clearly wondering which family he belonged to.

The truth was, he didn't belong to any of them. He was an outsider, and he was certain everyone could see it.

He ignored the whispers and the looks—the way people's eyes lingered on the tight fabric at his shoulders before moving to his face with poorly hidden judgment. He didn't engage in small talk or return the half-hearted greetings. He kept his jaw set, his eyes forward, his posture stiff as if bracing for impact.

He hadn't wanted to come. Sitting in her father's world, which was ultimately her world no matter how she denied it, felt like being in a room where every single thing reminded him he didn't belong.

But Ona had asked him. No, she had insisted. She had pushed until he couldn't say no.

So here he was.

He'd barely seen her since they arrived at the hotel the night before. She'd been busy helping the bride, returning to their room late and collapsing into bed from exhaustion, then leaving again early this morning. She'd left him to drive to the venue alone in her Mercedes.

Then, the gentle background music shifted. A single, clear note from a violin cut through the murmur of the crowd, soon joined by a rich cello, swelling into a processional song that was both grand and solemn. It was the signal everyone had been waiting for. As one, the entire congregation rose to their feet, a wave of expensive fabric and expectation, all faces turning toward the great doors at the back of the church. The ceremony was beginning.

The bridal procession began. The groomsmen and bridesmaids were a beautiful blur of matching outfits, all deep green and gold. A soft murmur moved through the crowd as the church choir began to sing. Their voices were powerful and layered, filling the entire building with sound that seemed to vibrate in the air. Everyone turned to look, stretching their necks to see.

The groomsmen walked in first. They moved with a steady, proud grace, wearing expensive suits that fit them perfectly, as if each one had been made just for them. They formed a line near the altar, standing beside the groom who waited for his bride.

And then, like a sudden beam of sunlight, Ona appeared.

For a moment, Jorel felt like he couldn't breathe.

She walked with the groom's party, her dress a stunning combination of emerald green and gold. The fabric shimmered and flowed with her every movement, catching the light from the stained-glass windows like liquid silk. The dress fit her waist perfectly before opening into a graceful skirt that swept the floor with each elegant step. Her hair was styled up, away from her face, and her gold earrings sparkled with every turn of her head. She looked absolutely radiant, a vision of beauty and confidence.

A sharp, painful feeling twisted deep in Jorel's chest. This was why he had come, he told himself. Not for the fancy church or to impress her family, but for her. To be here, even if he was standing in the back, just to see the way she moved through a world that was naturally hers, even when she said she felt out of place.

A small, proud smile touched her lips as she walked, and Jorel's bad mood began to fade. His chest filled with a powerful mix of awe and a fierce sense of pride. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and in that moment, he felt incredibly lucky that she was his.

His eyes followed her all the way down the aisle, and a real smile finally began to form on his own lips. His gaze, following hers toward the front of the church, then landed on the first row of seats.

The smile vanished from his face as if it had been wiped away.

His blood ran cold, a sudden, icy shock that made his hands feel numb. Sitting there, in the place of highest honor, was a man he had hoped with all his heart not to see.

Her father.

Chief Adeyemi's presence was impossible to miss, even in a crowd of important, well-dressed people. He was a tall, broad man who carried his power and authority as clearly as he wore his immaculate, pure white agbada. The intricate embroidery on his outfit was threaded with real gold, sparkling faintly. His cap was positioned perfectly on his head. He wasn't smiling, but he didn't need to. The very air around him seemed to grow still and heavy, and Jorel noticed that people nearby spoke in quieter, more respectful tones when they were close to him. He was here.

Jorel’s stomach sank. The air in the church suddenly felt too thick to breathe. Ona had promised him, clearly and directly, that her father would not be here. That promise was the only reason Jorel had finally agreed to come.

And yet—there he was. Seated right in the front row, his elegant wife, Ona's stepmother, beside him.

Jorel stared, a cold wave of disbelief washing over him. The man was not in Dubai on business. He was here. Sitting proudly in the middle of his own world, surrounded by his people, wrapped in an aura of power and money that felt like a physical weight pressing down on Jorel's shoulders.

He shifted uncomfortably in Tobe's suit, and the too-tight fabric seemed to pull even tighter across his back. The collar felt like it was choking him. For the first time since arriving, Jorel dropped his gaze, staring hard at the patterns in the shiny marble floor. He would get through this. He would sit here and endure it. For Ona. Only for her.

The choir's voices rose in a powerful hymn, the sound filling the vast space, but all Jorel could hear was the heavy, frantic beating of his own heart.

His next thought was for Ona. She must be just as shocked as he was. He turned his head, his eyes searching for her among the group of bridesmaids and groomsmen standing at the front. He expected to see her face pale, her eyes wide with panic at the sight of her father.

But Ona didn't panic. She was glowing. Her smile was radiant and effortless. She looked completely comfortable in her role, moving with a natural grace. Her gaze swept over the crowd, passing directly over her father's row without a single flicker of surprise. No shock. Not even a pause.

And in that moment, the truth crashed down on him.

She had known.

She had known her father would be here all along. She knew, and she had looked him in the eye and told him the exact opposite.

The realization was a sharp, painful blow, worse than all the judgmental stares and the discomfort of his suit combined. His chest tightened, not from the strained fabric, but from a deep, searing feeling of betrayal.

He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together as he fought to keep his face from showing the storm inside. All around him, the congregation stood and joined the choir, their voices rising in a thunderous hymn that shook the church. But Jorel heard none of it. All he could hear was the echo of Ona's voice from a few days ago, soft and convincing as she held his hand: "He won't be there, Jorel. I promise. You don't have to worry."

It had been a clear lie.

But … why?

The words burned inside him like a hot coal. Did she think his feelings were so unimportant that she could trick him like this? Or .. did she simply not care enough to be honest? She lied to her father all the time about everything, but Jorel had never, for one second, imagined she would lie to him. He had built their relationship on the belief that they could always be truthful and honest with each other, no matter how difficult the truth was. This felt like a violation of their most basic promise. It wasn't just a lie, it was a calculated manipulation.

His hands curled into tight fists against his thighs, the cheap fabric of Tobe's suit straining at the seams. He forced himself to take a slow, even breath, to keep his expression blank, but a crushing weight was pressing on his chest, heavier than all the crystal chandeliers in the room.

He had put up with everything for her. The whispers, the judgmental stares, the overwhelming display of wealth that made him feel like an imposter, he had endured it all. Because she had asked him to. Because she had looked at him with those pleading eyes and insisted he be with her in this world that didn’t accept someone like him. Yes, he had been reluctant, but the truth was, he knew he would have come even if she had told him her father would be here. He would have hated every second of it, but there was very little he could truly deny her.

And she had taken that loyalty and thrown it back in his face with a lie.

The feeling of betrayal now sat in the space between them, invisible to everyone else but as real and solid as the pew he sat on. When Ona turned her head slightly, her eyes finding his in the crowd to offer a small, private smile, Jorel could not bring himself to smile back. He just looked at her, his expression unreadable.

For the first time, with a chilling and absolute certainty, he understood that love, no matter how strong, would never be enough to bridge the deep hole that her deception had created.

*************



The church was a vision of wealth and beauty. Golden curtains framed the arched windows, and sparkling chandeliers cast a soft glow over the elegantly dressed guests. The air was thick with the sweet scent of lilies and roses, mixed with polished wood and expensive perfume. Quiet conversations created a soft hum in the background. It was a perfect, luxurious scene, exactly what her family was known for. But for Ona, the splendor was just a blur.

Her real joy was simpler, Jorel was here.

She had held her breath walking down the aisle, forcing her steps to be calm and her chin high, her heart hammering. She didn't let herself look for him until she reached her place at the front. And there he was. Tall and striking, even in a suit that was clearly too small. The fabric strained across his broad shoulders, and his jaw was set in that firm, strong way she loved.

Her heart swelled with relief and love. She'd feared he might not come, which is why she'd left him the hotel key and her car, removing any excuse. And he had come. For her.

But then a smooth, teasing voice cut through her thoughts. Nicole Obibi, the beautiful, slender bridesmaid seated beside her, leaned in. "Ona, darling," she whispered, her eyes scanning the back of the church. "Who is that dashing man in the fitted black suit at the very back? He's been staring at you for a solid five minutes."

Ona's eyes snapped back to Jorel, and this time, she saw it clearly. It wasn't admiration in his gaze. It was a hard, cold accusation. Her stomach dropped.

Nicole, misreading the intensity, gave a low, appreciative chuckle. "My, my. Look at the way that suit stretches across his shoulders. You can see every muscle. If you're not going to introduce yourself, please do introduce me. I wouldn't mind getting acquainted with all... that."

But Ona could barely hear her. The tension in Jorel's body was unmistakable, his clenched hands, his white knuckles, the storm in his eyes. Her own smile faltered as she followed his line of sight, and the reason for his glare became terrifyingly clear.

Her father.

The Chief sat regally near the front, his imposing figure radiating authority in his flawless white agbada. His presence was a fact of the room, impossible to ignore.

Ona’s breath caught in her throat. A cold, sharp dread twisted deep inside her chest.

He knows.

She didn't need him to say a word. She could see the truth in the hard, angry line of his jaw. She could see the storm brewing in his eyes, dark and hurt. He had discovered her lie.

The happy smile that had been on her face just moments before vanished, slipping away before she could stop it. She quickly fixed her expression, trying to look calm and composed again, but inside, her heart was racing with panic.

A wave of guilt washed over her. She had convinced herself the lie was a small, harmless thing. She told herself he would have refused to come if he knew the truth about her father being here. She had planned to explain it all later, to make him understand that she just wanted him by her side. She wanted him to be part of this important moment in her world without feeling afraid or uncomfortable.

But now, as his gaze held hers from across the room, with eyes that were no longer warm but cold and deeply wounded, Ona realized with a sickening jolt that she had been wrong. Her plan had backfired terribly. A frightening thought crossed her mind: had her stubborn determination to have everything her way actually broken something between them?

For a second, her confidence wavered. Had she been so focused on bringing him into her world that she had damaged the trust in their own? But just as quickly, another thought rose to defend her actions. Our love is strong, she told herself firmly. It had survived disagreements before. It could survive this friction, this moment of hurt. It had to.

Her fingers tightened around her flower bouquet, the sharp stems pressing into her palm. A powerful urge to run to him, to grab his hands and whisper how sorry she was, nearly overwhelmed her. She wanted to make him see that her lie wasn't about tricking him, it was about fighting to keep him. It was about not letting her father's disapproval steal another one of her joys.

But from her place at the front of the church, with all her family watching and the choir's hymns swelling around them, she was trapped. All she could do was stand perfectly still in her beautiful dress, holding a smile on her face that felt fake and fragile. And all the while, the love of her life was looking at her as if she had shattered a precious trust between them .. something that might never be whole again.

********


Next Post, Next Monday .. Thanks for reading

Chapter 08

It was three weeks to the second semester exams of their first year. The library was usually their safe place to study, but today, it felt heavy with tension. Ona and jorel were having a difficult discussion, trying to keep kit quiet but barely succeeding..

“Jorel, please listen to me,” Ona said, her voice low and urgent as she leaned closer to him. “It’s just one weekend. The wedding is in Abeokuta, it’s not far. We’ll drive down after our last lecture on Friday and be back by Sunday afternoon. We won’t miss too much study time, I promise.”

Jorel didn’t look up from his economics textbook, filled with complicated graphs and theories. It was easier to focus on those than to engage in this conversation. “Ona, be serious,” he replied, his voice flat. “Exams are in three weeks! I don’t have time for distractions. Every moment I have to study is important.” He waved a hand around at the stacks of books piled up on the table. “This isn’t a joke nau, you know.”

She reached over, gently placing her hand on his to stop his fidgeting. “Look at me, Jorel,” Ona urged. After a moment, he reluctantly met her gaze. Her eyes showed both concern and affection. “This isn’t just about studying, and we both know it. You that can cram all the material in one night if you had to. And we both know that you don’t even need to since you’ve been preparing all term. You’re talking as if we’re not study partners. Be real with me, this is really about my family, isn’t it? Just admit it.”

Jorel sighed and rubbed his hand across his face, knowing he couldn’t lie to her. “You know this wedding is not just a party, Ona. It’s a big deal for your family. Everyone will be there, looking at us, judging us. I just…I don’t want to be in a place where I feel out of place,” he admitted, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words.

“Where you feel out of place? Is that what you’re worried about?” she pressed gently. “You’re worried about not being welcome?” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Listen, my dad won’t be there. He’s in Dubai for some business conference until next month. It’ll just be my stepmom, my half brothers, my aunties, some uncles that no one cares about, and a lot of cousins you haven’t met. They don’t know much about you, they only know that you make me really happy.” She smiled warmly at him. “I promise they’ll love you. How could they not?”

Jorel remained silent, his mind filled with the image of a big, beautiful hall full of successful Adeyemi relatives and their friends. He imagined their curious and judgmental looks, their whispers and questions about his family and his background.

Seeing how stubborn he was being, Ona decided to change her approach. She let her pleading expression fade into a playful smile.

“You know,” she said casually, leaning back in her chair and pretending to examine her nails, “it’s a real shame. I was really looking forward to this wedding. My bridesmaid outfit is so .. so gorgeous! It’s emerald green and gold, and very flattering to my hips. You should see it! In fact, the designer finished work on it. I could barely recognize myself when I went for the final fitting last week.” She glanced at him from beneath her eyelashes, trying to gauge his reaction. “And guess what? My cousin has invited so many people. Like, half of Lagos, the U.S, and London! I heard that there will be several very attractive, very single groomsmen there. In fact, one of them, Tobi Onikoyi, works at Canary Wharf. He’s either a banker or a lawyer. I’m not sure. But he specifically asked Aunt Zikora who the ‘enigmatic Chief Adeyemi’s daughter’ was!”

Jorel looked up from his book, surprised. He tried to keep a serious face, but a small, amused smile started to show. “Are you really trying to make me jealous right now? In the library of all places?”

“Is it working?” Ona asked, shrugging and feigning nonchalance while her eyes shined with playful mischief.

He attempted to glare at her, but it didn’t work. A soft laugh escaped him. “You play dirty, Onaedo Adeyemi.”

“I play to win,” she replied confidently, leaning closer with a warm, teasing tone. “My winning strategy is simple: you’re coming with me to the wedding, looking absolutely dashing in the beautiful agbada I’m going to have specially made for you. And then you get to tell any London-based bankers that this bridesmaid is very much taken.”

He looked deep into her eyes, noticing the playful challenge and also the affection hiding behind it. Yet, he felt a familiar tightness in his stomach at the thought of her family. Still, a stronger worry pushed through: the idea of some fancy stranger making her laugh, charming her, and making her forget about him for just a moment.

With a long, defeated sigh that showed how smitten he was, he finally muttered, “So, Abeokuta .. This weekend.”

Ona’s smile grew wide and bright. “Yes! We’ll leave right after our Political Science class on Friday!”

“And you’re very sure that your dad won’t just show up out of nowhere? That he won’t arrive at the last minute on his private jet or helicopter, or something?"

She pressed a hand over her heart and said, “No… I mean Yes, I’m sure. He’s not coming.”

Jorel let out a long, slow breath, the fight finally leaving him. “Alright,” he conceded, the word feeling heavy. “I’ll go.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his pride was a clear, firm wall in his voice. “But I’m not wearing an agbada. I’ll wear a suit.”

The idea of Ona commissioning a custom aso-ebi outfit for him was unthinkable. He knew the staggering cost of those specialized fabrics and the skilled tailoring required. His pride, the same stubborn force that drove him to work two jobs and cook his own meals, would never let him be a man adorned in her family’s wealth. He would wear the single, significant gift he’d allowed himself to accept from her, the pair of quality oxford leather loafers she’d brought back from the UK. They were a practical, durable gift, one that felt considerate rather than a lavish display. That was his line, and he would not cross it.

Ona’s face immediately brightened, her relief and happiness spilling over. “Thank you! Really, thank you.” But then she couldn’t help one last, hopeful push. “But are you completely sure? You would look so handsome in the aso-ebi. It’s a beautiful fabric.”

His head shook, a definitive, final motion. “No, Ona. You know I’m never comfortable in all that. A simple black suit is what I’ll wear. It’s what I’m comfortable in.”

She reached out then, her hand covering his, and her touch was warm and familiar, a bridge back to their usual ease. “Okay,” she said softly, accepting his terms. “A suit is fine.” Then, with a practical shift in her tone, she slid a thick philosophy textbook across the table toward him. “Now that my love life is in order,” she said, a playful glint returning to her eyes, “please, save my academic life. Help me study for this quiz. I am completely and utterly lost.”



************


Ona stared down at her textbook, but the words on the page just blurred together. She dragged her highlighter across a sentence about philosophy, but her hand was just going through the motions. Her mind was somewhere else entirely.

She hadn't been able to concentrate for the last ten minutes. Her gaze kept lifting, drifting across the library table to where Jorel sat. His shoulders were slumped, and he was spinning a pen absently between his fingers. To anyone else, it might look like he was deep in thought about his work. But Ona knew him better. His mind was miles away, in a place she couldn't seem to reach.

Something had shifted between them over the last few weeks. On the surface, things were the same. He still smiled at her. He still held her hand as they walked to class. But Ona noticed the differences. She felt the quiet stretches that hung in the air a little too long. She saw the way his laughter sometimes seemed to stop at his lips, never quite making it to his eyes.

He was carrying a burden, and he wasn't sharing it with her.

She pressed her thumb hard into the spine of her book, wishing she could pinpoint the exact moment this invisible wall had started to form. She knew he hadn't liked the personal play she'd written, but they had talked it out. Things had seemed to return to normal after that, until...

The memory surfaced clearly: the day her father had given her the Mercedes.

Jorel's initial shock at the gleaming SUV had been expected. But what came next was a subtle change that she now recognized. The surprise on his face had melted into a quiet, guarded look.

"That's quite a gift," he had said, his voice soft. "Your father must be very proud of you." Then he had asked the question that changed the air between them. "Have you told him about Film Studies yet?"

She had shrugged, trying to sound casual and in control. "He still thinks I'm studying law. If he can't be bothered to check what I'm actually doing, then he doesn't deserve to know the truth."

She had wanted to sound strong and independent, but even to her own ears, her words had sounded defensive. They sounded like a lie.

And Jorel hadn't smiled or agreed. He had just given her that long, quiet look that made her stomach twist with a guilt she could still feel weeks later.

Now, sitting in the library, she understood his silence. The car was more than just a vehicle. It was a symbol of all the unspoken things between them: her father's clear disapproval, the vast financial gap between their families, and the biggest secret of all—that she was building a life completely different from the one her father had planned. Every time she slid into the driver's seat with Jorel beside her, she couldn't help but wonder what he was truly thinking.

She watched him now, still spinning that pen. She wanted him to talk to her. To say, "Ona, this is what's worrying me. This is what I can't stop thinking about." She wanted to help him carry whatever was weighing him down.

But he wouldn't let her in.

Then there was the issue of Anuoluwa's wedding. His refusal to accompany her had hurt her somewhat. Jorel actually liked Anu and vice versa. When Anu visited campus, the three of them would hang out together. Jorel and Anu would laugh over pepper soup and have real conversations about politics and life. Anu teased him in a friendly way that felt like true acceptance. For Jorel to say he wouldn't come to her wedding, using exams as his excuse, had hurt Ona more than she wanted to admit.

It had made her lie to him. She told him her father wouldn't be there. She knew this lie might cause problems later, but she was desperate. She needed to find a way to bring their two worlds together again. She needed to show him how much he meant to her.

This was partly why she was so determined to take him away for the wedding weekend. She had made a decision, a big one. She planned to give him her virginity that weekend. It was her way of showing him how committed she was to their relationship. How much she believed in their future together.

She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the library sounds around them - pages turning, the air conditioner humming, the clock ticking. When she looked at Jorel again, she saw his jaw was tight, his thumb tapping nervously against his book. She recognized these signs. It was obvious that he was struggling with something inside. Something he didn't want to share.

Her heart ached with love and worry. "Talk to me, Jorel," she thought desperately. "Please don't fight this alone. Whatever it is: my father, my family’s wealth, the car, lying to my father, feeling like you don't belong? Let me help you. Let me be there for you."

But she said nothing out loud. Her lips moved slightly, then closed. She was scared. Scared that if she pushed too hard, everything would fall apart and she wouldn't know how to fix it. So she just lowered her head, her highlighter shaking slightly in her hand, pretending to read about philosophy while her heart worried about the boy she loved, and the growing space between them that she didn't know how to cross.

*********

Debbierella:
Honestly cant wait for all the chapter to just drop at once...... Smile
Weldone maam@Repogirl

Honestly, me sef . Unfortunately, it's all in my head and putting it down takes a while, but I will try. Thanks for reading 🙏🏽

New chapter finally up, the resort scene will continue in the next chaper to be posted next Thursday. Thanks for reading.

She finished changing her clothes in record time and chose to sit on the soft bed, waiting for Mofe’s return.

When Mofe came back, she heard his footsteps approach the doorway and then stop suddenly. The room fell into a deep silence that stretched a little too long, with only the soft sound of waves in the distance. He didn’t say anything or move.

Then, she heard him take a soft, sharp breath, almost as if he was surprised to see her.
“Mofe?” She asked, just to be sure it was him.
“Ezinne...” he finally said. His voice sounded different, lower and rougher, with an unexpected crack in it. He quickly cleared his throat. “You look... stunning.”

His compliment came with an intensity that made her cheeks heat up. She felt his gaze on her, not with pity or a cold, distant look, but with a warm, masculine appreciation that she hadn’t felt in years. It was both unsettling and exciting. She had the shy urge to cross her arms over her chest, but she held back and gave a small, self-conscious nod instead.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice softer than she meant it to be, revealing a flutter of nervousness in her chest.

He still didn’t move to take her arm. She felt as if his gaze was a heavy presence in the quiet room. After another moment, she heard him step a little closer, moving with purpose.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he finally offered his arm to her.

This time, when she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, the usual tension that used to be between them was completely gone, replaced by a a light anticipation that filled the air around them.
The beach was indeed just a short walk from their apartment. With each step, the air grew warmer, the scent of salt and sea stronger, the sound of the waves more powerful. She could feel the sun’s warmth on her face and arms, and the fresh, untamed breeze tugged playfully at her hair and dress. Despite her fears, a small, genuine smile touched her lips. She was here. And for the first time in a long time, she was outside, truly feeling the world around her.
Mofe helped Ezinne settle onto a comfortable lounger under the shade of the cabana, feeling happier than he had in a long time. This was exactly what he wanted for her. He watched as she leaned her head back slightly, breathing in the wonderful smells from their private buffet. The tasty scent of smoky suya, spicy snacks, and grilled fish surrounded her. In Abuja, her life was usually confined to her office or home, filled with responsibilities and hard work. He had brought her here to break that routine and to show her the joyful experiences she had been missing out on.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked. “Something strong, or something light?”

“Anything light is fine,” she replied, her voice already sounding less tense.

“Two virgin mojitos, please,” he called out to their private server. “And a pineapple juice for the little one in the pink Barbie swimsuit over at the playground.” His eyes found Azora, a splash of vibrant energy chasing new friends, and his chest swelled with a fierce, possessive joy.

Nearby, Eric and Mariah were engaged in a lively and friendly argument about who the best R&B singer of all time was, their voices rising and falling with playful outrage. Mariah’s friend, Margaret, noticed an opportunity and tried to include Mofe in the conversation.

"So, Mofe," she began, smiling, "Eric mentioned that your company is doing some interesting work with AI. What’s a typical day like for someone who creates new things like you do?"

Mofe replied with a polite smile but didn’t seem interested in talking. “Busy,” he said, answering with just that one word. His short response clearly signaled he didn’t want to continue the conversation. Without saying anything else, he turned away from Margaret completely and focused intently on Ezinne, as if that was the only thing that mattered to him.

Ezinne had just finished the small snacks she had been eating and felt a bit unsure in this new environment. She held her empty plate in her hand, not quite sure where to put it down. Mofe noticed her uncertainty right away.

In just a moment, he was next to her, leaning in close. “Here, let me take that,” he said softly, his fingers brushing lightly against hers as he took the plate. “If you need anything, just tap me. I’m right here.”

After a brief moment, Mofe returned to Ezinne and carefully handed her a warm bowl. “Try this,” he said. “It’s goat meat pepper soup. Be careful, it’s very hot.”

While Ezinne appreciated Mofe’s thoughtfulness and the way he focused on her, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy about how he had treated Margaret. The lady had just been trying to make friendly conversation, and Mofe had shut her down completely. Ezinne wondered why he had done that. Was he just really focused on her, or did he want to avoid talking to Margaret for another reason?

As these thoughts filled her mind, Ezinne wrapped her hands around the warm bowl with gratitude. “Thank you, Mofe,” she said, feeling genuinely thankful for his kindness.

“Just enjoy it,” Mofe replied, his gaze fixed on her. Watching her relax and appreciate the simple pleasure of the hot soup felt more rewarding to him than any success he could achieve in business.

He noticed the thoughtful look on Ezinne's face as he settled back onto the lounger beside her. He watched her take a deep breath, inhaling the spicy aroma of the soup, and then a true smile broke across her face, the first real smile he had seen from her all day.

Meanwhile, Eric and Mariah’s debate was getting even more heated,, their voices becoming louder and more enthusiastic. “Beyoncé is incredible!” Mariah exclaimed, waving her skewer of suya as she spoke. “She has an amazing voice, amazing stage presence, and her impact on culture is beyond question!”

Eric, grinning widely, shook his head in surprise. "Impact? R. Kelly wrote 'I Believe I Can Fly'! He wrote many hit songs for other top artists, too. He shaped a whole generation of R&B with his songwriting and amazing voice! You can’t ignore that!"

Margaret, enjoying her drink, looked over at Mofe, who was quietly watching Ezinne’s plate. "Mofe, you’ve been really quiet. Don’t you have an opinion? Who do you prefer?"

Mofe, still adjusting a napkin next to Ezinne, kept his eyes down. "I don’t really listen to music," he said casually.

Ezinne, sipping her mojito, felt a little confused. Mofe’s comment sparked memories of their past, when they were together, music was always a part of his life. He listened while coding or even while doing other things. From her compound back then, she could hear him jamming the latest hits at the time. When had he stopped listening to music? She thought quietly.

Margaret decided to make another attempt to draw Mofe into the conversation. "Oh, come on! You must have a favorite! Beyoncé or R. Kelly? It’s an easy choice." Her tone was playful, hoping to encourage him to join in.

With a reluctant sigh, Mofe finally responded, as if he was humorously going along with the fun. "If you really want to know, I guess I’d agree wit Eric. It’s R. Kelly for me."

"A tie!" Eric shouted happily, his excitement bubbling over. "That’s two votes for Beyoncé and two for R. Kelly!"

Mofe then leaned a little closer to Ezinne and lowered his voice just for her. "Looks like we’re stuck. Can you help us break the tie?" he asked, his tone sincere.

Ezinne laughed softly and shook her head, enjoying the light-hearted moment. "Mofe, that’s a tough decision you want me to make. Choosing between the king and queen of R&B isn't easy at all."

"Life isn’t fair," he replied playfully, giving a mock serious face. "And honestly, your opinion matters the most to me."

After giving it some thought, a playful smile blossomed on her face. "Okay then. If I have to pick... for me, I’ll go with Chris Brown."

Laughter erupted from the group, filling the air with joy and warmth. Eric groaned in pretend sadness, while Mariah and Margaret laughed hard at the unexpected twist.

"Chris Brown!" Eric exclaimed, throwing his hands up dramatically in mock despair. "The tie stays!"

However, Mofe wasn’t concentrating on Eric anymore. His attention was on Ezinne, a genuine and bright smile spreading across his face. Her unexpected and funny choice reminded him of the woman he remembered from their past, the one who could effortlessly lighten a serious conversation with her witty humor. It was a small moment, but it felt like a victory for him. He had brought her there to relax, and for that fleeting moment, she truly seemed to be enjoying herself.
************

The car glided past the bustling airport terminals without slowing, continuing toward a more secluded part of the city. When the driver finally opened her door, the sound that greeted Ezinne was not the distant roar of jet engines, but the immediate, powerful thwap-thwap-thwap of helicopter blades churning the air just meters away. She froze, her knuckles turning white as her grip tightened on the car door.

"Mofe," she said, her voice filled with disbelief. "What is this?"

"It's our ride," he replied, his voice infuriatingly calm as he stood beside her. “We’re taking my private helicopter, it would be much faster. We’ll arrive directly at the resort and beat Lagos traffic. Every minute matters since our stay is a very brief one.”

"A helicopter? Lagos? The words felt foreign on her tongue. "You said a resort! You didn't say it was a resort in Lagos, and you certainly didn't say we'd be flying there in your private helicopter!" The scale of his surprise was no longer charming; it was overwhelming, and a cold thread of anxiety began to wind itself around her chest once again, tightening her breath.

He took her hand, his touch firm and sure, and placed it in the crook of his arm. "It was meant to be a surprise," he reminded her, his tone gentle yet leaving no room for argument. "I wasn't obligated to give you the full itinerary. I know you don't have a fear of flying itself. And I promise you, you will be back in your own home tomorrow evening, with plenty of time to prepare for Monday, if that's what you're worried about." Then he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for her. "And if you recall, Azora mentioned just a few days ago that she wished to feel the sand of a beach between her toes and see how vast the ocean is. When Eric told me he was staying at Silver Sands, I saw a perfect opportunity to give that to her."

Any further protest she might have mustered was instantly obliterated by Azora's squeals of pure, unadulterated joy. "Uncle Mofe? Is that a helicopter! We're flying! Mom, we're actually flying!" Her daughter's elation was a tangible, radiant force, and Ezinne found she simply could not .. would not dim its brilliant light with the shadow of her own fears.

The flight was full of exciting new experiences. The strong vibrations from the seat, the loud roar of the engine, and the strange feeling of flying up into the sky. Next to Ezinne, Azora’s enthusiastic voice kept bubbling over with comments. "Mom, we're so high! The cars look like toys! The clouds are right there!" Azora’s wonder was the only thing that helped Ezinne feel grounded during this disorienting journey.

When they landed with a gentle thud, Ezinne immediately noticed the distinct, salty smell of the ocean air, thick and humid, mixed with a hint of fish. It was a clear sign that they were far from the familiar, city life they knew.

As they stepped off the helicopter, Mofe helped Ezinne down, and cheerful voices cut through the fading noise of the helicopter blades. “MJ! Over here!”

It was Eric, sounding cheerful and warm. With him were his fiancée, Mariah, and a woman he introduced as Mariah’s friend, Margaret. Ezinne didn’t know Eric very well, but they sometimes chatted. He often asked if she was okay, inquired about her daughter Azora, and if they needed anything. Ezinne had even shared a folder of Azora’s digital photos with him. Since Eric’s last visit to her office, they hadn’t met again until now.

Ezinne managed a polite nod as Mofe held onto her arm. His reassuring grip on her elbow helped her know when to hold on or move, which she appreciated.

Mofe introduced Azora to her first cousin, Cousin Eric. Although Azora responded politely, Ezinne could tell she was more excited about exploring the beach.

“Wow, Azora, you’re so tall!” Eric exclaimed. “I bet you’re the tallest in your class.”

“I’m the second tallest! Do you own this place?” Azora replied with innocent curiosity, as she had never been to a beach resort before.

Everyone laughed at her question, and Eric answered, “I wish! I’m just here on a staycation with my fiancée, Mariah. I heard you wanted to visit the beach?”

Ezinne heard Azora respond with pure enthusiasm, “Yes! Yes! Can I go now?”

“Hold on, little explorer,” Mofe said, smiling. “We need to get to our lodge first, change outfits, and then you can explore.”

“You have a very beautiful three bedroom lodge that’s a short walk from the beach, while your staff have rooms in the hotel,” Eric said. In that moment, Ezinne heard the quiet sound of something clicking as he unlocked it.

“We took the liberty,” Eric said kindly, approaching her. “The path to the cabanas is mostly boardwalk, but there are some sandy spots. We thought this chair would help you get around and enjoy everything without worry.”

“Thank you, Eric,” Ezinne said, appreciating his thoughtfulness. A wheelchair would make it so much easier for her to move around.

“Thank you, Eric. That was very considerate of you,” Mofe said, confidently taking hold of the wheelchair handles. “I’ll take it from here.”

Then he leaned towards her, speaking softly, "Ready?"
She nodded, folding up her smart walkin stick, and allowing him assist her into the chair with a practiced ease that was both annoying and, she had to admit, comforting. His hands on her shoulders were gentle yet firm, leaving no space for awkwardness.

As they started moving, Mofe easily engaged in conversation with Eric and Mariah, discussing Eric's latest project in a calm, steady voice behind her. He pushed her smoothly over the wooden planks of the boardwalk, navigating the way with a confidence that made her feel safe.

Blessing, always attentive, tried to walk alongside Ezinne's chair, but Mofe gently redirected her with a soft but firm command.

"Blessing," he said, “you’ll keep a close eye on Azora. Make sure she doesn't wander too far into the water and that she reapplies her sunscreen. I’ll take care of Ezinne.”

Ezinne heard the clear statement. He wasn’t just including her in the trip; he was taking full responsibility for her comfort and making it his mission to ensure she was okay. As he kept pushing her, his steady presence behind her and the calm sound of his voice chatting with his cousin, Ezinne felt the last bits of her resistance fade away. In their place was a warm, comforting feeling, a sense of being truly looked after, something she hadn’t allowed herself to experience in a very long time.

The air in their three-bedroom apartment was cool and clean, carrying the faint, sweet scent of the flowers from the landscaped gardens below. Stepping inside, Ezinne could sense the space opening up around her, the high ceilings, the smooth, cool tiles underfoot, and the vast, wall-length sliding door that Mofe had opened, allowing the rhythmic crash of waves to fill the room. A soft, salty breeze drifted in, lifting the lightweight curtains and carrying with it the vibrant energy of the resort.

Mofe had been a constant, guiding presence from the moment they entered, his hand firm on her bare arm as he led her from the wheelchair, his touch both a anchor and a source of growing discomfort. The feel of his skin against hers was too familiar, too stirring, pulling at memories she’d long since buried. While Blessing assisted Azora in the other room, Mofe helped Ezinne unpack her suitcase, his movements efficient and sure. He described the layout of the room, the queen-sized bed with its crisp linens, the sitting area to the left, and the ensuite bathroom with its marble countertops.

“I’m going to change,” he said finally, his voice close. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to take you to the beach. Eric has a cabana set up with food and drinks.”

The moment he started to leave, the anxiety she’d been holding back surged forward. “Mofe,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I… I think I’ll be fine here. Really. Room service and my audiobooks are all I need. I don’t want to be a burden.”

She heard him stop walking. His footsteps returned, slower this time. “Ezinne,” he said, his tone gentle but unwavering. “You are not a burden. You could never be a burden to me. I brought you here to have fun, to feel the sand between your toes, to listen to the ocean without a window between you and it. I’ll be your eyes. I promise.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “There is no world where I’m letting you stay shut up in this room. Not when the beach is right outside our door.”

He sounded confident and genuine. The part of her that had built walls for a decade wanted to resist, but the part that remembered sun on her skin and the thrill of a new place… that part was tired of hiding. She gave in with a slow, reluctant nod. “Alright.”
She went into the bathroom, and changed into her one-piece bathing suit, the familiar fit of the fabric a small comfort. Over it, she slipped on the light, flowing mesh dress she’d packed, the delicate material fit perfectly, clinging to her body, as it settled around her, feeling both airy and elegant. She put on her hat and readjusted her dark shades.

Present Day

The quiet afternoon at Ezinne’s home was shattered by Mofe’s sudden arrival. He strode into the living room with an energy that seemed to change the air pressure, a broad grin on his face. He took in the scene in the living room. Azora on the floor, looked up from the book she was reading, smiling and waving at him while Ezinne sat on the armchair, her earphones plugged in, listening to something. Her eyes were closed so she didn’t yet know that he was in the room.

“Girls!” he announced, his voice full of purpose. “We’re going out. Pack for sun, sand, and water. Now.”

From her seat on the armchair, Ezinne’s head snapped up in surprise, but before she could form a question, Azora erupted with joy.

“We’re going out, yay!” their daughter screamed, a whirlwind of excitement as she scrambled off the floor and dashed for the stairs, her footsteps pounding a frantic rhythm of delight.

Ezinne waited until the thunder faded. “Mofe,” she said, her voice a low, controlled contrast to his exuberance. “What’s going on?”

“We’re going out. Come on, you need to get up and pack. We need to leave now.” He said, keeping his tone cheerful. He’d known she was going to need extra persuasion.

“Going out? Now? A little warning would have been nice. I have plans. I have work to review,” she complained. “You were here yesterday. You could have given me a heads up.”

“That’s why it’s called a surprise,” he countered, his tone now even infuriatingly cheerful. “It’s a beautiful weekend. We’re not spending it cooped up inside.”

“I’m busy,” she said firmly, turning her head away to end the conversation.

But Mofe didn’t back down. He stepped closer, filling the space with his strong presence. “Ezinne,” he said seriously, “Please trust me just this once. We really need this.” The word “we” hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

When she didn’t move, he gently took her hand, his grip warm and comforting, and helped her stand up. She hesitated, trying to resist silently, but he kept holding her hand. He led her down the hallway to her bedroom.

“What are you doing, Mofe?” she asked, her voice a mix of irritation and confusion.

“Getting you to start packing,” he replied, as if it was obvious. He guided her into her room and sat her on the edge of the bed. “Let’s start packing,” he suggested.

“I’m not a child that you can boss aroundMofe,” she said firmly.

He let out a soft, playful laugh. “I Know, Ezinne, but if you don’t choose some clothes soon, I might have to look through your closet and pick for you. And trust me, my taste is questionable.

The thought was so absurd that it nearly made her laugh, imagining him rummaging through her things, confidently holding up outfits.

“I won’t pack anything until you tell me where we’re going,” she insisted, crossing her arms to stand her ground.

There was a moment of silence as he thought. Finally, he sighed. “Alright. My cousin, Eric, and his fiancée are at a resort for the weekend, and I thought it would be nice for us to join them. A family getaway.”

Her frown deepened. “Mofe, we weren’t invited. We can’t just crash someone else’s trip.”

“I’m not going without you,” he said, as if it was that simple. “I want to take Azora. I want to swim with her and build sandcastles. But it’s important for both of you to come together. If I want to spend time with my daughter, her mother should be there too. It’s a simple request.”

He stood there, waiting patiently, making a good argument that touched on her main concern, which was Azora’s happiness. This wasn’t just about her work; it was about giving her daughter a fun weekend at the beach with her dad.

Ezinne groaned quietly, torn between feeling amused and frustrated. “You’re impossible,

“Thank you,” he said lightly. “Now, how about a swimsuit or a sundress? You can choose, but we need to leave in a few minutes.”

From down the hall, Azora called out excitedly, “Mommy, take your swimsuit! It will be way more fun than a sundress!”

Ezinne covered her face with one hand, trying not to smile. “Lord, give me strength.”

“Your daughter is a genius, I would take her suggestion if I were you. Now please, hurry and pack,” Mofe encouraged playfully, moving toward the door. “I’ll be back in five minutes to check on you. I hope to see you’ve packed, or I might have to choose for you.”

“You wouldn’t know what to pick even if the closet talked,” she shot back at him.

He laughed as he walked out, his voice warm. “I’ll take that as a challenge, Ezinne. You might be surprised.”

She shook her head, amused. Only a man would think a woman could pack for a surprise trip in five minutes. She wasn’t even sure where to start.

A short while after, she heard the quick steps of Azora as her daughter bounced into the room. “I’m all done, Mom!” she announced excitedly.

Ezinne, who was still sitting on the bed, turned toward her daughter's voice. She felt some of her tension ease at Azora's excitement. "That was very fast, Zee. What did you pack?"

Azora took a deep, theatrical breath, ready to deliver her list. “For the water,” she began, emphasizing the important part, “I packed my pink Barbie swimsuit, my floaties, my flip-flops with the flowers, my big yellow towel, and my sunglasses!” She beamed, clearly expecting a medal.

A genuine, warm smile broke through Ezinne’s frustration. “You knew exactly what to pack,” she said, her voice filled with soft admiration. “You’re becoming so independent.”

Just then, Ezinne heard Mofe’s steady footsteps returning down the hall.

“Wow,” he said, a note of genuine surprise in his voice. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms with a playful smile. “I knew I said ‘fast,’ but that was superhero speed. Let’s do a quality check, Runway model. Did you pack the practical stuff? A change of clothes for tomorrow? Your pajamas? Underwear?” He leaned in conspiratorially. “And the most important thing… your toothbrush? Remember, it’s an overnight stay. We’re not coming back tonight.”

“Yes, I did, Uncle MJ,” Azora confirmed with the unshakable confidence of a child who believes she had mastered the art of packing. Then, her honesty getting the better of her, she added a little sheepishly, “Miss Blessing actually helped me with itt.”

The words “overnight stay” finally crashed over Ezinne with their full weight, snapping the tender moment in two. “Overnight?” she asked, her voice sharp with renewed alarm. She turned her head sharply in Mofe’s direction, her face a mask of anxiety. “Mofe, no. That’s… that’s a completely different thing. How… how would I even manage that? My routine, my… the layout of a new place…” She gestured vaguely around her, the unspoken words, ‘my blindness. hanging heavily in the quiet room. The familiar, cold dread of navigating an unfamiliar space began to coil tightly in her stomach, threatening to choke her.

“Ezinne, breathe,” Mofe said, his voice impossibly calm and steady, a rock in her sudden storm. He walked fully into the room, his focus entirely on her. He turned to Azora, managing a reassuring smile. “Sweetheart, why don’t you take your perfectly packed bag down to the car? Mum and I will be down in just a bit.”

As Azora scampered off, thrilled with her mission, Mofe didn’t hesitate. He moved to where Ezinne sat and lowered himself, squatting on his heels in front of her so he wouldn’t be looming over her. Gently, he reached for the hand that was clenched on the mattress. His touch was tentative at first, a silent question. She flinched for a split second, but then, to his own surprise and immense relief, she allowed it. Her hand relaxed, and he enveloped it in both of his, the simple contact sending a wave of warmth through him.

“Ezinne,” he said, his voice low and earnest, his eyes searching her face. “You don’t need to worry, I have already thought of that. I have planned for everything. I texted Blessing last night.”

Ezinne frowned. Blessing was the young, kind, and incredibly observant member of the house staff who had a natural gift for anticipating needs without being asked.

“She’s coming with us,” Mofe continued. “My driver is coming, too. You will have all the support you need. You can rest assured that everything will be taken care of. This isn’t a trip where you have to worry about a thing, trust me.”

He had thought of everything. This was no reckless, spontaneous gesture; it was a carefully constructed plan, built specifically with her in mind. He hadn't just seen a destination; he had seen all the obstacles in her path and had quietly cleared them away before she had even taken a step. He had anticipated the terrain of her anxiety and had laid down a smooth road right through the middle of it.

The will to fight seeped out of her, leaving behind complex and confusing feelings. On the surface was a layer of pure irritation at his high-handedness, at how easily he could dismantle her defenses. But beneath it, undeniable and warm, was a treacherous flicker of gratitude. It wasn't just the planning that moved her; it was the profound understanding it revealed. He wasn't simply pushing her out the door and telling her to cope. He was offering her his arm, promising to walk the unfamiliar path right beside her, ensuring she would never have to face the uncertainty alone.
With a resigned sigh, she finally gave in. “Alright, let’s do this. Get me the E-zinne please.”
********

DamjayEnt:
This is good.

But I want the both of them to know that love alone, Is just not enough.

Hmm, you’re right. Love isn’t always enough on its own, though I believe sometimes it could be, if we didn’t expect so much more from life and each other.

We always want more for ourselves, more for our partners. And when we start listening to other people’s opinions, it can make us feel like we’re not enough, which just complicates everything.

Next post, next Wednesday. Thanks for reading.