BUKKY POV
It had been weeks since my wedding with Akanni, and yet, everything felt like a shadow I couldn't shake. On the surface, my life was perfect—luxury, comfort, admiration—but inside, a quiet emptiness gnawed at me. Our marriage had begun with promise, but the intimacy, the closeness I had hoped for, had been absent. On our wedding night, Akanni had refused me, claiming exhaustion. Days turned into weeks, and the excuses continued. No matter how I tried—flirtatious glances, playful touches, or even dressing in ways I knew would tempt him—he remained unmoved.
I had tried to be patient at first, thinking he was overwhelmed, stressed by work, or simply adjusting to married life. But the longer it went on, the more I realized the truth: there was something deeper—something he wasn't telling me.
I had confided in Mira and Leke, seeking guidance. Mira had been gentle but protective of him. "Ah, Bukky… if you only knew how manly he was with his ex…" she had said, defending him instinctively. Leke, too, had tried to reassure me, but his words offered little comfort. Even thinking about telling his mother had been impossible—Akanni had begged me not to involve anyone.
The situation became unbearable the moment Demi re-entered my life. His presence reminded me of what I could have had, what I could have felt, and what I now longed for without apology. He understood me in ways Akanni refused to—or perhaps, couldn't. He was gentle, attentive, and daringly honest.
The first confrontation with my family had been a disaster. My father had outright rejected Demi's presence and gift, demanding that I cancel any notion of a wedding with him. I tried to defend my choices, but the weight of tradition and expectations had pushed back against me. And yet, Demi never judged me—he offered support instead, quiet, steady, unwavering. He held my hand, listened to my fears, and never pressured me, even when I wanted to run into his arms completely.
Akanni, meanwhile, retreated further into himself. I could see the tension in his every movement, the way his eyes darkened whenever he looked at me, and yet, he never confronted Demi or me directly. He was proud, stubborn, and too disciplined to let emotion break his composure publicly. But I knew—he was hurting, perhaps more than I allowed myself to feel.
When I finally made the hardest decision of my life—to file for divorce—it felt like cutting a part of my soul. I was firm. My family tried to sway me. "Bukky, think of what you're doing," my mother had pleaded, tears streaming. "Akanni loves you, he's devoted his life to you. Don't throw it away."
"I have thought about it, Mom," I replied, my voice steady. "But I can't live a life pretending. I won't."
Even my father, initially rigid and uncompromising, eventually softened, offering advice rather than demands. "Follow your heart, Bukky," he said, a rare vulnerability in his tone. "But be mindful of the consequences."
Demi's support was constant. He never pushed me, never demanded my affection, but his presence became a lifeline. He encouraged me to reclaim my independence, to stand tall in my choices, and reminded me that love—true love—wasn't about control or appearances, but connection and understanding.
And so, the divorce proceeded. Akanni had begged me in the car on the way home, voice strained, eyes pleading, hands reaching for mine. "Bukky… please… I can fix this. I can…" But I shook my head, firm in my resolve. "Akanni… I've made my choice. There's nothing left to fix."
That night, I packed my things, my hands trembling slightly as I folded the memories we had shared—gifts, letters, photographs—into boxes that now felt heavier than they should have. Akanni's protests followed me to the door, but I refused to look back.
Once he returned inside, the penthouse felt impossibly large and empty. I could hear him break down, the guttural sound of a man who had lost someone he loved, someone he thought would never leave. Mira's voice followed him, gentle, steady, comforting. "Akanni… breathe. You'll get through this. You're strong. You always rise."
Even from afar, I felt the weight of that moment—the human fragility behind his power and pride. And I realized, with a strange clarity, that love could be fierce, messy, and painfully complicated.
Weeks passed. Demi remained a steadfast presence. He didn't flaunt his wealth or power, but he reminded me daily that I was capable of love, of joy, of being desired and respected. Slowly, I began to heal, rebuilding pieces of myself I hadn't realized I had neglected while trying to navigate the fragile peace of my marriage with Akanni.
By the time the months rolled forward, the plan for my wedding with Demi solidified. December 5th was chosen. I felt nervous, excited, and unapologetically happy. My parents, initially resistant, had seen the sincerity of Demi's intentions, the respect and care he afforded me, and finally gave their blessing.
Through it all, I had learned something essential: that love, no matter how painful, had a way of teaching us who we truly were—and what we were capable of enduring. And now, as I prepared to step into a future I had chosen for myself, I did so with courage, certainty, and a heart ready to love freely.