Narrator
Two days had passed, and still no positive report from the doctors—only the same grim update: She's still unconscious. Still in a coma.
For Damian, those days and nights had been unbearable.
Since the night of the incident, he had locked himself in his room like a prisoner. He refused food, water, and conversation. His silence was louder than any words, a declaration that his world had lost its meaning. The woman he loved was lying in a hospital bed, fighting for her life, while he drowned in despair.
Coral did her best to manage the outside world. His friends came by every day, but she always met them with the same weary response.
"He doesn't want to see anyone."
Her sad eyes carried a thousand unspoken meanings, and with no room to argue, they would leave quietly.
But once they were gone, Coral would hear the shattering sound of bottles upstairs, echoing through the mansion like thunder. She didn't need to check—she knew it was Damian again, lost in his anger and frustration.
After a while, his friends had had enough. Excuses wouldn't work on them anymore. They were determined to see him, no matter what.
One morning, Brandon, Calvin, Elliot, and Owen drove to the mansion together. They barely acknowledged the doorman's greeting; their minds were locked on one thing—getting to Damian.
They stormed upstairs and headed straight for his bedroom. Owen tried the doorknob first, but it was locked. A sharp crash followed—a bottle shattering from inside.
The four men froze, their eyes meeting. The sound was all the confirmation they needed. Damian was in worse shape than they feared.
Nathaniel, Damian's personal bodyguard, had caught sight of the determined look in his boss's friends' eyes. Without a word, he stepped back. There was nothing he could do to stop them now. They were already at the door—it was too late to interfere.
Calvin tried the knob next, convinced Owen hadn't given it a proper attempt. But it didn't budge. Locked from the inside.
Before they could agree on a plan, Elliot and Brandon exchanged a quick glance and, without hesitation, threw their weight against the door. The wood groaned, then split, and with one final kick, the lock gave way.
The moment they stepped inside, their hearts sank.
Their best friend—the Damian they knew—was almost unrecognizable.
The room was chaos. Shattered bottles crunched under their shoes. Half-empty ones rolled aimlessly on the floor. The air was thick with the sharp sting of alcohol and stale smoke, layered with a suffocating stench of dust and neglect.
And there he was.
Damian sat slouched on the bed, his back against the headboard, a half-finished wine bottle dangling from one hand and a lit cigarette burning low in the other. His hair was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled, and the heavy shadows under his eyes made him look like a ghost of himself. For a terrifying moment, before breaking in, they had feared he might have ended his own life. Seeing him like this wasn't much better.
"Give me that!" Owen barked, storming forward. He yanked the bottle and cigarette from Damian's hands, crushing the butt under his heel. "Are you out of your mind? Drinking and smoking while your wife is lying in a coma?"
"Dude, do you want to die?" Calvin cut in, staring at the hollow, sleepless circles under Damian's eyes. His voice was half-frustration, half-desperation.
But Damian barely registered them. His gaze was distant, his expression vacant. To him, this haze—this pitiful existence—felt like the only normal left, except for the unbearable absence gnawing at him.
Then, out of nowhere, he let out a laugh. A hollow, sarcastic sound that sent shivers through the room. "Years ago, I lost her," he said, voice low and bitter. "I fought, I clawed my way to get her back. And now…" His eyes glassed over as he gave another lifeless chuckle. "Now I'm losing her all over again."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes. Before he could open it, Owen snatched it away, fury flashing in his eyes.
"Damian, enough!" Owen's voice cracked with anger and fear. "Stop this madness right now. And don't you dare talk like she's already dead—"
"Then why is she not talking to me when I spoke to her!?" Damian shot back, his voice sharp and trembling, his anger radiating through the room.
"That's because she's still asleep," Brandon said carefully, trying to calm him.
Damian let out a harsh snort. Sometimes, he truly wondered if his friends had lost their minds. "Asleep? For two days? Forty-eight hours straight? Is that what you call sleep? Pearl isn't just anyone—she's my better half, my missing piece. Since the day fate brought her to me, she's been my everything. If I didn't love her, I wouldn't have searched the world for her—for seventeen years. And now you stand here and tell me she's asleep?"
"Damian, we understand, but—" Calvin started, only to falter when he noticed the tears streaking Damian's face.
Before anyone else could speak, a firm voice cut through the tension. "Damian!"
Everyone turned. Dayo stood at the doorway, Darin right behind him. Coral had called them the night before, telling them everything—including the incident with Bummi. Without hesitation, they had flown to London the very next day.
When Dayo laid eyes on his younger brother, his chest tightened. He froze for a moment, unsure if stepping closer would soothe or ignite Damian's fragile state. One wrong word, one wrong gesture, could set him off.
What kind of woman, Dayo wondered silently, had this kind of hold over his brother? To break him so completely, to torment him into this ruin?
Darin, the youngest, lingered just behind him, waiting for Dayo to take the lead. Neither of them had expected to find Damian so unrecognizable—broken bottles, hollow eyes, and despair clinging to him like a shadow.
"Brother Dayo…" Damian's voice cracked into a whimper, his bravado crumbling. "She left me again. Pearl won't respond to me."
Dayo's heart ached. He drew a deep breath, then crossed the room and sat beside him. Without hesitation, he pulled Damian into his arms, holding him with the firm embrace only an elder brother could give.
"Shh," Dayo whispered, steady and sure. "Don't ever say that. She's going nowhere. She's coming back to you."
Of all people, only Dayo could reach him this way. Even their mother had never fully understood Damian's vulnerabilities—his breaking points and the tender places he kept hidden. But Dayo did. He always had. To both Damian and Darin, Dayo wasn't just a brother—he was a guide, a protector, almost a father figure.
And now, watching Damian unravel in his arms, it tore Dayo apart. The man who had always been strong, proud, and unyielding was reduced to fragments before him.
But if anyone could pull him back from the edge, it was Dayo.
"I talked to her two days ago," Damian whispered, his voice breaking in Dayo's embrace. "But she didn't respond. She didn't even open her eyes or say a word. Brother, I love this woman so much it hurts. I wish I had held her the whole time. I wish I… God, I regret ever dating Charlotte. This incident—none of it would have happened."
The moment Darin heard that name, his blood boiled. He stepped forward, fists clenched. "So it was Charlotte, eh? I warned you, Damian. I warned you, but you never listened. From the very first day you got involved with her, I told you she was poison. And now look—look at the damage she's caused! That innocent woman is lying lifeless in a hospital bed because of your deafness—"
"Enough now, Darin!" Dayo's voice cut like a blade. His eyes locked on his younger brother with a deadly glare that silenced the room. Darin stiffened, instantly tucking his hands into his pockets and looking away, avoiding that piercing gaze.
"Se ò tí yà wèrè ni?" Dayo snapped in Yoruba. "Are you stupid? Is this the time to argue about who's right and who's wrong?"
"But it's still fair enough, brother," Darin muttered under his breath, careful not to provoke further. "You and I both know how poisonous Charlotte was. Now look at the mess she's left. Damian is the one paying for it."
Dayo bit down on his temper. He chose silence—because if he said another word, he might unleash what he couldn't take back.
---
Five days later
Bummi remained unconscious. Each day was a torment for Damian, but on the fifth day, everything changed.
His phone rang. He nearly ignored it, as he had done so often these past days, but something in him stirred. He snatched it up.
"Mr. Ayomide?" the doctor's voice came, brisk yet warm. "Could you come to the hospital immediately?"
Damian's chest tightened. Without a second thought, he bolted out of the house, hardly remembering to grab his car keys. By the time he stormed into the hospital, he was breathless.
"Doctor—" he called, rushing to the reception.
The doctor looked up, and a broad smile spread across his face. "Congratulations, Mr. Ayomide. Your wife and the baby are both fine. She's awake."
For a split second, Damian froze. The baby.
It hit him all at once—like a thunderclap. He had nearly forgotten she was already pregnant before the incident. Shame and relief tangled in his chest, stealing his breath.
How could he have forgotten?
"I'll show you to her ward," the doctor said, motioning toward the corridor.
As they began walking, Damian suddenly froze. "Just a minute—I left something in the car. Don't go anywhere."
The doctor blinked, puzzled, but nodded. He waited at the entrance until Damian returned, struggling with a large bundle of bouquets clutched awkwardly in his arms.
"Alright. Lead the way." Damian's lips curved into a faint, nervous smile, but his eyes betrayed his urgency. After one long, unbearable week without her, he was finally about to see his wife again. Only God knew how close he had been to giving up—how close he had come to ending himself without her.
As they walked down the passageway, the doctor spoke quietly. "She's a month pregnant. It wasn't easy saving both her and the baby. This is what we call a high-risk pregnancy, so she'll need to be carefully monitored, given plenty of rest, and kept away from unnecessary stress."
Damian's throat tightened, but he nodded firmly. "Noted, Doc. I'll make sure of it."
When they reached her room, the doctor gave him a reassuring smile and excused himself, leaving Damian at the doorway.
Inside, the world stilled.
Bummi lay against the pillows, pale and frail, her body still fighting to recover. Her eyes, though weak, lit up faintly when they landed on him—and on the flowers in his arms.
She made a small attempt to push herself up on her elbows, but Damian dropped the bouquets instantly and rushed forward.
"No, no, no, no, no—relax, baby," he whispered urgently, guiding her gently back down. "The doctor said you need rest."
"I've rested enough," she murmured, her voice fragile, almost airy. Her trembling hand lifted to his chin, caressing it with the tenderness only she could give. "Look at you. How have you been?"
Damian swallowed hard, guilt flooding him. He avoided the question, his voice breaking as he asked instead, "How are you feeling?"
A faint smile touched her lips. "I'm fine."
He pressed his lips to her hand, holding it as though letting go would undo her return. Memories of the past days—his despair, his bottles, his smoke-filled nights—flooded him all at once.
"You have no idea," he whispered against her skin, his voice shaking, "how much your absence almost cost me my life. I became a drunkard. A smoke addict. I was losing myself without you."
Bummi tried not to laugh at his confession, her weak smile softening her pale face. "But I'm fine now. See?" She let her palm trail gently along the side of his face. "The baby is too."
At the mention of the baby, Damian's heart swelled. He pressed a long, reverent kiss to her forehead. "I'm so happy to become a father again."
But before he could say more, Bummi's voice shifted, as if she had been holding back a question she could no longer contain. "What happened to Charlotte?"
Damian stiffened. The sudden name pulled a storm into the room. He forced himself to remain calm, but the annoyance was there, tightening his jaw. "Is that necessary right now?"
"Damian, I need to know," she whispered, her voice fragile yet firm. "Despite everything, she's still human."
His patience snapped. The frown he had tried to hide deepened, shadows clouding his features. "Pearl, as far as I'm concerned, Charlotte is useless. Let her rot and die wherever she's kept—I don't care. She almost killed you and our baby. And the good thing is, she's paying dearly for it. In prison."
"Prison?" The word struck Bummi like a jolt. Her eyes widened in shock.
Before she could press further, the door creaked open.
Nifemi stepped in, a girl his age hovering at his side. Bummi's breath hitched. For a moment, she couldn't believe it—couldn't believe this tall, grown young man was her son. The boy she left in Nigeria had stretched into someone new, his height nearly matching his father's.
When his gaze found her, he froze at the doorway, his lips trembling. "Mommy?"
That single word broke her. Tears blurred her vision as Nifemi rushed forward, wrapping his arms around her with all the strength he could muster.
"Nifemi…" Bummi kissed his forehead again and again, as though to convince herself he was real. "I missed you, baby."
He pulled back, giving her the brightest smile she had ever seen on him. "You look good, Mom. Different. I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything that happened… but when Dad came into the picture, everything changed." He glanced at Damian, who placed a steadying hand on his son's shoulder.
Nifemi's smile widened. "I'm glad I live with my father now."
Bummi swallowed the lump in her throat, fighting the tears threatening to spill. She forced a nod. "Yeah… I'm sorry I hid the truth all these years. I was only scared of losing you."
It was a heart-pouring moment. Damian drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to steady his emotions, to keep his tears from spilling.
Nifemi, tender and gentle beyond his years, reached up and wiped the flickering tears from the corners of his mother's eyes. "It's okay, Mommy. At least… at least we finally have a united family now."
Damian couldn't hold back the proud smile tugging at his lips. He ruffled his son's hair. "And there's going to be a plus one soon. Your mom is pregnant."
Nifemi's jaw dropped. "What?"
He glanced between Damian and Bummi, his eyes wide with disbelief, then lowered them instinctively to her flat belly. "You're pregnant? I'm… I'm going to have a sibling soon?"
Bummi gave a soft nod, her tired but glowing smile sealing the truth. "Yes, sweetheart. Soon."
For a fleeting second, joy filled the room. But then her eyes caught on the figure by the door—the one she had almost forgotten about.
A girl.
She frowned, realizing her son hadn't entered alone. It startled her, because Nifemi had never been the type to surround himself with girls. He had always kept close to boys his age—football buddies, classmates, cousins. But never a girl.
So who was this one?
Her gaze swept over the stranger. She was nothing like the girls Bummi had ever pictured beside her son. Pink pixie-cut hair, a face dotted with piercings that glinted in the light—rings, pins, studs. Fake eyelashes weighed down her lids, bold crimson lipstick sat loud against her brown complexion. Her outfit was a stark black hoodie-and-sweatpants set, paired with spotless white sneakers.
Bummi's stomach tightened. From the look alone, the girl embodied every definition of bad influence.
Her voice came out hesitant, edged with caution. "And who is… she?"
Only then did Damian seem to remember the girl's presence.
Nifemi followed his mother's eyes and gave a small, almost proud grin. "Oh! That's my bestie, Kimberly. But…" He chuckled sheepishly. "Her friends call her Kinky Cupcake. She's an artistic gymnast."
Bummi blinked, her mind short-circuiting at the absurdity of the nickname. For a moment, she sat frozen, as if mentally trying to download the nonsense her son had just said.
Kinky Cupcake?
Bestie?
Did he just say bestie? Since when did her son start keeping female friends? And with a name like Kinky Cupcake? What was that supposed to mean—kinky in a sexy way? What the hell kind of company was her son keeping now?
And look at the girl—she hadn't even bothered to greet her or Damian. Not a single word. Just stood there by the door, jaw working harshly as she chewed her bubblegum like… like a streetwalker.
Bummi's stomach twisted.
Just then, Damian's phone rang, pulling him out of the room.
The moment he was gone, Bummi lowered her voice. "Where is she from?" she asked carefully, keeping her tone calm, though her pulse quickened. Better to raise the matter while Damian wasn't here.
"Oh, she's from South East London. Born and raised here," Nifemi replied easily, almost amused. He actually thought his mother was showing interest. "Her parents just bought a house next to Dad's. We're neighbors now."
Bummi's eyes narrowed. She leaned closer, her words firm but hushed. "Nife, I don't like her. Cut off whatever you have with this girl."
Nifemi's brows knitted in frustration. "Mommy, Kinky means no harm. She's a good person. And there's nothing between us—we're just best friends from school."
Bummi groaned, exasperated. "That's exactly the problem. You even call her Kinky. Tell me, are you two already having sex?"
His eyes flew wide. "Mom?!"
She lifted a shoulder, unbothered. "What else am I supposed to think? 'Kinky' means something hot, something sexual. And you keep calling her that? Nifemi, I don't like her around you. All I see in her is trouble."
"You don't like her because you just met her," Nifemi shot back with a sigh. "You'll get used to her as time goes on."
"Get used to who?" Bummi scoffed, her voice sharpening. She jabbed a finger toward the girl, who still hadn't said a word. "This one? This one that doesn't even know how to greet her elders?"
"Mom!" Nifemi hissed, quickly pulling her hand down before Kimberly could notice.
Soon after, Damian returned with his brothers, Dayo and Darin.
Nifemi leaned toward his father and whispered something quickly into his ear. Damian gave a brief nod.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted.
Dayo's eyes lit up when he saw Bummi for the first time. "So this is her?" His lips curved into an approving smile. "Not bad at all, Damian."
Damian chuckled. "Honey, meet my brothers. This is Dayo, the big brother I told you about—the one who taught me how to cook." He turned to the younger man. "And this is Darin, my kid brother."
Pleasantries were exchanged warmly.
Then Dayo grinned wide and said, "Damian, you didn't tell me she was the angel who got lost on her way down from heaven."
The room burst into laughter at once, the sound easing some of the tension that had lingered.
—
Meanwhile, outside the building, the mood was anything but light.
Nifemi jogged to catch up with Kimberly, who was striding toward the parking lot with sharp, angry steps.
"Kinky, wait up. Hey—Kim? Come on, you're walking too fast. What the hell?"
She didn't answer. Not until they reached the far edge of the lot did she finally stop, arms folded, bubblegum snapping between her teeth.
"Hey." Nifemi moved in front of her, blocking her path. His brows pinched with confusion and concern. "What's with the sudden mood? Did I… did I do something wrong?"
Kimberly rolled her eyes and looked away, chewing harder.
"Kim." His voice softened, almost pleading. "Talk to me." He touched her arm lightly, giving it a little shake, hoping to draw something out of her.
But she stayed silent. That was her way—once she was pissed, she never explained. She just shut down, burying her grudges deep, letting them harden.
Nifemi exhaled heavily, frustration mixing with worry. "Okay," he said at last, "if I did something wrong—something I can't even remember right now—can you just… forgive me?"
His words hung between them, raw and uncertain.
"Seriously, dude," Kimberly groaned, rolling her eyes. "Does everything always have to be about you? You saw the way your mom embarrassed me back there. I'm not stupid—I can read body language, even if I'm not Yoruba or Nigerian."
Nifemi chuckled and slid an arm around her shoulders. "That grumpy face of yours kills me. Look, I'm sorry about what my mom said, okay? That's just… her."
She snapped a bubble and chewed it down. "Fine, I'll let it go. But wait—"
He leaned casually against his new Maserati, folding his arms. "What?"
Her eyes narrowed on him. "From the way she hovers around you like some watchdog, especially when girls come up… are you telling me you've never been with a girl before?"
Nifemi snorted and shook his head, brushing it off. "Kinky, you ask too many wild questions. Come on, let's grab lunch."
She caught his arm before he could open the door. "No, I mean it. We've been friends forever, and I've never seen you talk to a girl in school besides me. You don't think any of them are pretty?"
He dragged a hand down his face and sighed. "That's not it, okay?"
"Then what is it?" she pressed. "You're seventeen—handsome, athletic, every girl's crush. Yet all you do is play soccer and hang with your teammates. Not once have I seen you even kiss a girl."
His shoulders stiffened. "Because I haven't kissed a girl before."
Kimberly froze, gum stuck in mid-chew. "Wait… what?"
He stayed quiet, just staring at her like a deer caught in headlights.
Her jaw dropped. "Oh my God. Don't tell me you're a virgin?"
Still nothing.
She gasped, throwing up her hands. "You've got to be kidding me. I'm fifteen and I lost mine to my dad's bodyguard last year. And you—" she jabbed a finger at him, her voice half-shocked, half-disbelieving—"a guy like you, who every girl in the whole school would kill to be with—you're still a virgin?"
Nifemi didn't even flinch. He just waved it off. "Honestly, what's so special about sex anyway? Two people drop their pants, roll around for a few minutes, sweat like they just played ninety minutes of football—and then what? Doesn't sound interesting to me."
Kimberly stared at him like he'd grown two heads. "You're unbelievable. You haven't even tried it and you're already trash-talking it? Don't knock it till you know it."
She dug into her pocket and pressed something into his palm.
He frowned at the little foil packet, then at her. "What's this?"
She slapped her forehead. "Condom, dumbass."
"What?" His eyes widened, and he flung it away like it was a venomous snake. "Jesus Christ, Kinky! Why do you even have a condom?"
She gave him a withering look. "What do you think it's for? You put it on your rod before screwing a girl."
"You're insane," he muttered under his breath.
Kimberly smirked. "Want me to tell you a secret, Liam? Ejaculation actually helps the body."
He folded his arms, raising a brow like he was humoring a teacher. "Oh really? Go on, Professor."
"Yes, really," she said, her grin widening. "Sex is the best medicine for stress, depression, anxiety—you name it."
"But I don't have any of those."
"Dude." She sighed dramatically. "You don't need a mental breakdown to have sex. Sometimes you just need to get laid. Think about it: you win a big match, ninety minutes of sweat and pressure. You come home dead tired. Then boom—a fresh, hot hook-up from the bar, or an agency, or wherever. She works that stress right out of your system. Next morning? You wake up the happiest man alive."
"Hookups? Sex? A happy man?" Nifemi snorted, shaking his head as he turned back to his car. "Kinky, I'm hungry. Let's go eat." He pulled the door open and caught her staring. "Seriously—are you coming or not?"
"You know what?" Kimberly marched toward the passenger side, muttering, "You need lessons. And don't worry—I'll guide you. Just don't expect me to be your test subject. We'll start small… maybe a few clubhouses, some night strippers—"
What she didn't know was that Nifemi wasn't clueless at all. He already knew more about sex than she imagined—he just liked playing along.
Sliding into the driver's seat, he reached for the ignition, then paused. "For the record… I'm not a virgin."
Kimberly's jaw nearly hit the floor.
Nifemi burst into laughter at her stunned expression. "Yeah, you thought I was some kinda pope? Please. Matter of fact, I've got a girlfriend—my little secret. Even my mom doesn't know."
Her face screamed: Tell me more.
He buckled his seatbelt, smirking. "Relax. You'll meet her by summer. She lives in California."
California? Long-distance? Kimberly's mind spun. She had never seen him with a girl before—and now, suddenly, he had a girlfriend tucked away across the country?
How? When? Where?
And the bigger question: Who?
Was she prettier than Kimberly? Did she share her talents, her boldness, her spark? Was she an artistic gymnast like Kimberly—or just some random ordinary girl from the countryside? Was she wealthy and polished, like herself—or someone too average for his world?
Because from where Kimberly stood, Nifemi was everything: handsome, athletic, rich, brilliant, tall, and endlessly kind. And her? She was the perfect match—the mirror piece.
Yet to him, she was just the best friend. The gee. The homie. The girl he never looked at twice, except to laugh at. He didn't see her ambition, her qualities, her worth. Especially not after his mother's stinging words about her.
Kimberly drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to bury the thought of Nifemi having a girlfriend somewhere across the ocean. She pushed it down, locked it tight, and pretended it didn't matter.
---
Meanwhile, somewhere in Lagos, Nigeria…
A white Toyota Venza SUV screeched to a halt in front of an uncompleted building. From the driver's side, a woman in her early fifties stepped out. Thick, dark sunglasses shielded her eyes, while the long white chiffon Abaya she wore—studded with tiny crystal gems—fluttered around her ankles. She clutched the hem delicately as she made her way along the bushy path, glancing left and right, every step cautious.
In her hands was a brown envelope, gripped so tightly that the edges crumpled. When she reached the entrance, two cigarette-smoking thugs appeared, their eyes cold as they led her inside.
The stench of death lingered. One thug drove a knife deep into a man's chest, leaving him half-collapsed on the dusty floor. Another dragged a lifeless woman by the hair and slit her throat with sickening ease.
The building itself was more graveyard than shelter, steeped in shadows and decay.
And then she saw her.
The leader.
Seated arrogantly on a high-backed chair that looked almost regal, a young woman in her mid-thirties puffed lazily on a cigarette. Her lips curved into a sly smirk when her eyes landed on the Abaya-clad visitor.
She rose, crushing the cigarette in a heavy ashtray before striding forward. Her voice slithered between mockery and menace.
"Ronke Exclusive." She drew out the name like poison mixed with sugar. "Well, well… we meet again, don't we?"
Ronke's jaw tightened. She shoved the envelope into the woman's palm with sharp defiance.
"Adila Cecilia Omowummi," she spat, dragging out the middle name like a curse. "I'm done with your games. That envelope holds three million dollars. Take it—and stop tormenting my family. Consider it the last cent I'll ever spend on your filthy blackmail."
Adila chuckled, repeating her words in an exaggerated, mocking tone before bursting into laughter that grated like metal on stone.
"You sound like a desperate market woman hawking garri in the hot sun." She leaned close, eyes glittering like a predator's. "Listen, Ronke…" She tilted her head toward the pool of blood where the bodies lay. "If you don't want your case to end up exactly like theirs, then choose your words carefully."
Ronke's glare hardened, her voice like steel through clenched teeth.
"I owe you nothing, Cecilia. You wanted something. So did I."
"But I didn't get what I wanted!" Adila barked, her voice echoing like a whip across the dark chamber. "You got to fulfill your own selfish goals, but me? I couldn't. And do you know why? Because you are dumb!"
Ronke let out a scoff, her voice laced with venom.
"Me? Dumb? Between you and I, who's the fool here? You're nothing but a selfish animal—ready to destroy lives just to get what you crave. But my case was never like that. I harmed no one in the process of my fulfilments. Everything I did… was for my family. To keep them happy. To protect them. But you?" She sneered, her eyes burning. "You'd slit your own mother's throat if it meant clawing your way to some petty throne. Like I said before, Cecilia—" she stressed the name, like acid on her tongue, "—I owe you nothing."
Adila's lips curved into a wicked smile before bursting into manic laughter. Her thugs joined in, their voices mingling like a chorus of hyenas.
Then she began pacing around Ronke—slow, deliberate steps. A predator circling its prey. Ronke stood rooted, though her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. One wrong move and she'd be just another corpse rotting in this hellhole.
Ronke swallowed hard and forced her voice steady.
"Cecilia… since I joined forces with you, I've done nothing but destroy the very people I love. Dayo has cut me off completely. Damian and Darin—my own blood—want nothing to do with me. And my husband… he's filing for divorce. Piece by piece, I'm losing everyone. Please… let's end this madness here."
Adila's eyes narrowed, a cold sneer forming on her lips.
"End it? Just like that? Easy for you to say—after you've gotten what you wanted while I'm left empty-handed. Tell me, Ronke, why are people like you always so selfish?" She clicked her tongue and shook her head with mocking pity. "No, no, no. It's not that simple. You must have forgotten our agreement. Hand me the patrimony, and I'll vanish from your life. But since you couldn't handle a simple assignment, here we are."
Ronke stiffened. "You mean killing your own twin sister? And forcing me to let you marry my son Felix?" Her voice rose with fury. "God forbid! You've already dragged me into enough bloodshed. You told me to kill my maid—Adesua—and I obeyed. Her blood is on my hands. But you knew as well as I did that your sister isn't easy prey. If it were so simple, you would've slit her throat yourself. So why me? Why push me, knowing full well how much Felix adores her? —He's head over heels for her!"
"That's enough!" Adila snapped, her face twisting with rage. Her scream reverberated through the rotting walls. "I told you never to mention that! Dayo belongs to me—he was meant to love me, to marry me—not Adira!"
Ronke froze, her lips pressed tight. Finally, she exhaled a shuddering breath.
"The patrimony… it's not with me. Not with my husband either. He passed it long ago to my eldest son." She hesitated, her voice low, pleading. "Felix has it now. And I beg you, Adila—don't go after his life. You'll be digging your own grave if you try."
Adila's jaw clenched so tight her teeth threatened to crack. The patrimony… passed onto Dayo? Her mind burned with disbelief. How could such a treasure—while his father still breathed—be entrusted to a son? Had the Ayomides foreseen this moment? Had they known she would one day come for it?
That patrimony wasn't just wealth. It was power—an ancestral deity bound to the Ayomide bloodline, carrying generations of fortune and dominion. And Adila would never allow herself to walk away empty-handed.
No. She would not lose on both fronts. Ronke would either bend her son to love her and destroy Adira, or surrender the patrimony. There were no other options.
"My sister is not hard to kill," Adila hissed, pacing slowly, venom dripping from every word. "If I wanted her dead, I would've handled it long ago—long before she birthed that bastard girl, Sharon. But I sent you instead. I don't want her blood staining my hands. If Felix despises you, if he's cut ties, that's your burden. Go fix it. Because what I demand now… is the patrimony. Since you failed to make your son love me—"
Ronke cut her off sharply. "I told you before, I'm done with your filthy games. I won't let you blackmail me any longer. And do you think I'm stupid? That patrimony is the Ayomide's heritage—our ancestral wealth. You must be mad to think I'd hand it to you."
"Ronke!" Adila's voice thundered, her eyes blazing, fire flickering behind the icy sheen of her blue contact lenses. "You're daring me. Playing with a lioness's tail. Do you really want me to release that sex tape? You and the late commissioner of police?" Her smirk widened, wicked. "Imagine it, Ronke. The footage splattered across the airwaves, the internet, every screen on social media—your shame laid bare."
"Stop it, Cecilia!" Ronke's voice was cold, her glare sharp enough to cut steel. "That video was born out of desperation. Just as you're desperate enough to slaughter your own sister and crawl into her husband's bed. Don't you dare use that filth against me."
Adila struck a match, lit a fresh cigarette, and drew deeply before blowing a stream of smoke straight into Ronke's face. Ronke coughed, waving it off in disgust.
"You think I'm in for threats?" Adila laughed harshly, mocking. "Ronke, Ronke, Ronke… ah, how quickly you forget. You spread your legs for a married man not for love—but for power. To secure your greedy husband's presidency. His Excellency." She sneered, her voice dripping with scorn. "Wasn't that desperation, too? Using the late commissioner to orchestrate the murder of the President and his Vice… all so you could crown yourself First Lady of the nation. Don't you see? You're no better than me. In fact…" her smile twisted into something cruel, "you're worse."
Ronke lowered her head, shame burning through her. She wished she could summon the courage to tell Adila the truth—that it had been a single mistake, one she regretted every day of her life. That cursed tape had fallen into Adila's hands only by accident; she hadn't even known the commissioner was seeing her at the time.
But there was no undoing it now.
With no other choice, Ronke lifted her chin. Tears shimmered in her eyes as her voice trembled yet firmed at the edges.
"I made one mistake, Cecilia. And I have carried the weight of it every day. But you?" she swallowed. "You have no authority over me—no right to chain me to my past. I will confess, I will make my wrongs right, I will seek redemption. And you… you will die in your sinfulness."
She turned sharply, intent on leaving, her heels echoing like thunder against the tiled floor—
"Ronke."
The cold click of metal froze her. A gun.
Ronke stopped dead, her back stiff, her pulse hammering in her ears.
Adila's heels tapped closer until her hot breath brushed Ronke's ear.
"I don't know where you think you'll find the courage to save yourself," she whispered, her tone venomous silk. "But drag my name into the mud, and I'll kill your husband. And your second son's wife."
That pierced Ronke deeper than the barrel at her back. She whirled around, eyes blazing.
"You dare threaten Kunle and Pearl?" she spat. "I'll handle whatever comes with my husband, but touch Pearl, and you'll answer to Damian. He will tear you apart piece by piece if you so much as lay a finger on his wife!"
"Shut your mouth!" Adila snapped, the gun steady in her grip. "Don't pretend your hands are clean. Your precious Kunle—your darling husband—he murdered my father for politics. Did you think I wouldn't discover the truth? Well, surprise!"
Rage surged hot through Ronke's veins, but the glint of the weapon held her fury in check.
"Kunle did no such thing," she shot back, her voice cutting through the air. "My husband wouldn't hurt a fly. It was Safari's doing, not his. Do your homework before spewing your madness—and keep your filthy hands away from my family!"
For a heartbeat, silence burned between them. Then Ronke gathered her resolve, forcing a mocking smile as her eyes flicked down to the gun in Adila's hand.
"No wonder my son chose your sister. She has grace. Strength. Qualities you'll never possess. And you…" her words sliced, "you'll never know what it means to be loved."
Adila's finger twitched on the trigger.
Ronke scoffed, turned her back on the weapon, and walked away.
Ronke and Adila had been partners in crime from the very first day Adira stepped foot into the Ayomide mansion. Ronke had never liked Adira—not for a second. To her, the girl was unworthy of her son. And wasn't it every mother's prerogative to be bossy, strict, even cruel toward her son's girlfriend, especially when the talk of marriage arose? But there was more. Adira was the daughter of Babatunde Omowummi, Kunle's fiercest political rival. The same Babatunde who had contested as Head of State—and whose life was cut short by Safari Momodu.
Ronke had been the first to sense Adira's secret: that she had a twin. But she kept her silence, as Adira herself never spoke of it. Unlike her scheming sister, Adira Success Omowummi was too naïve, too gentle, too unassuming to reveal family secrets.
It was from that very moment Adila's dark obsession began. Once she laid eyes on Dayo, she wanted him for herself. And when she discovered he was already in love with her twin, envy devoured her whole. She fantasized about killing Adira and taking her place. But fate handed her a sharper weapon: Ronke's sex tape. She stumbled on it in the commissioner's phone just weeks before his death.
From then on, Ronke became her pawn. Adila had blackmailed her for years, using that tape as a chain. And when Dayo finally married her sister, Adila hatched another cruel scheme: she seduced one of her colleagues, filmed the act, and circulated the video. To the world, it looked like Adira in the scandal, never realizing it was the identical twin.
But now, the table had turned.
Ronke, drowning in guilt, confided in her friend Yemisi. Yemisi gave her one desperate counsel: Confess. Seek mercy before you're exposed. Better to surrender to grace than be dragged into ruin or prison.
Ronke hadn't set foot in church for years. She knew her heart was far from God—buried beneath lies, deceit, and shameful acts. She wanted to repent, but didn't know where to begin. Could God even forgive a woman like her? She had cheated. Lied. Manipulated. Betrayed. Her sins were too many to count. As she drove away from Yemisi's, tears blurred her vision, her chest aching like it would burst.
She slammed on the brakes before a towering cathedral.
Almost as if drawn by an unseen hand, she stepped out of her SUV and rushed inside, her heels echoing like gunshots in the empty nave.
The cathedral loomed vast and silent. Ronke walked slowly down the aisle, her tears streaming, her sobs rising like whispers in the cavernous space. Each step felt like shedding another layer of pride, of pretense.
At last, she reached the altar. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed, her palms pressing the cold marble floor. She bowed her head to the ground, weeping like a child.
"Oh Lord of mercy…" Her voice cracked, raw with desperation. "Have mercy on me. Please, just once… spare me. For I am a sinner. A wretched sinner. But I beg You, God—don't turn Your face away from me. Forgive me… forgive me…"
Her words dissolved into sobs, filling the empty cathedral like a broken hymn.
Out of nowhere, a gentle hand rested on her trembling shoulder.
Ronke lifted her tear-stained face and froze. Standing above her was a man robed in immaculate white, a warm smile softening his features. His voice was calm, like a balm to her tormented soul.
"It is well, daughter. Your sins have been forgiven."
Ronke broke down, shaking her head violently as fresh sobs tore from her chest. "No… no, Father, you don't understand." Her words tumbled out in anguish. "I have done too many things. I destroyed my family with my own hands. I cheated on my husband. I lied. I ruined my son's marriage. I even killed my maid…" She clutched her chest, choking on the weight of her confession. "I'm not worthy to stand in the Lord's temple."
The man in white bent down, his hand steady on her shoulder. His smile remained tender, his eyes unshaken by her storm. "The Lord is always ready to forgive, if only you are ready to accept Him as your Lord and personal Saviour."
Ronke's lips quivered. For the first time in years, hope flickered in her broken heart. She nodded quickly, desperately, almost like a child. "Yes… yes! I'm ready. I'll do anything—anything—if only God will forgive me. Please, Father… help me."
"Alright," the pope said softly, closing his eyes. "Say these words after me."
Ronke wiped her tears with the back of her hand, shutting her eyes as well. Her voice trembled, but she was determined.
"Dear Lord Jesus, I come to You today…"
Her voice cracked, but she repeated, "Lord Jesus, I come to You today…"
"I confess my sins before You and accept You as my Lord and Saviour," the pope continued, his tone reverent yet firm. "Have mercy on me. Forgive me all my sins and wash me with the blood You shed on the cross of Calvary…"
Ronke's voice broke into sobs as she echoed, "…Forgive me all my sins… wash me with Your blood… the blood You shed on Calvary…"
Her chest rose and fell violently as though something heavy was being ripped out of her soul.