MIRA POV
The days that followed the divorce were heavy. I watched Akanni move through the house with a careful, measured composure, but behind his perfectly tailored suits and practiced smiles, I could see the cracks.
His parents visited a few times after Bukky's departure. They came bearing food, words of advice, gentle prods, and concerned eyes. I was there each time, a quiet presence beside him, watching the conversations unfold.
"You mustn't blame yourself, Akanni," his mother said softly one afternoon, brushing a hand over his shoulder as if she could shield him from the weight of heartbreak. "Bukky… she wasn't meant to be yours. Sometimes, no matter how much we love, it isn't enough."
His father, ever the stoic man, simply nodded. "It's not easy, son. But you're strong. You'll get through this. Time heals everything. And remember, there are other women out there who will see you for the man you are."
I felt a pang in my chest, standing behind him, as he tried to smile, trying not to show the storm brewing in his eyes. Their words, meant to comfort, barely grazed the surface. Akanni wasn't just heartbroken—he felt betrayed, frustrated, and humiliated, and no amount of platitudes could fix that.
"What do you mean 'other women'?" he had asked quietly, his voice tight, restrained. I saw the subtle tremor in his hands, the slight narrowing of his eyes. He was pretending composure, but I knew him well enough to see through it.
"Akanni," his mother said, her tone firm but gentle, "Bukky has made her choice. We can't change it. All we can do is hope you find someone who truly values you."
That evening, I stayed with him long after they had left. We sat in the study, the city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He finally exhaled, a sound heavy with grief.
"They pity me, Mira," he muttered, voice low. "They don't see that I'm… more than just a heartbroken man. They have no idea what's coming next, what I'm capable of. They think this is the end."
I reached for his hand, my thumb brushing against his knuckles. "Sometimes, Akanni, it's easier for them to see a wounded man than a man who's quietly strategizing his next move. Let them pity you… let them think they know your story."
He looked at me, eyes sharp and searching, and I could see a flicker of gratitude mixed with the pain. "You always know what to say," he murmured.
"I see what no one else does," I said softly. "And you… you need someone to remind you of your own strength when the world seems to be against you."
In the days that followed, his parents gradually accepted Bukky's departure. They came less frequently, offering polite words and subtle encouragement for him to move on. Each visit was filled with quiet sympathy, a gentle nod to the pain he bore—but none of them suspected the truth. None knew that the woman standing beside him, Mira, had become his confidante, his anchor, and in quiet, unspoken ways, the person he now trusted most.
I watched him reclaim himself slowly. The fire in his eyes returned, though tempered with caution. He started focusing on work again, reviewing Convergence Group projects, checking on operations, speaking with Leke and Mira with the precision and authority he was known for. Yet, at night, when the world was quiet and the house empty, he would allow himself to lean on me, to let me hold him as he processed everything he had lost and everything he was about to gain.
One evening, as he sat with his head in his hands, I gently lifted it, looking into his eyes. "You're not alone, Akanni. Not anymore. You have me."
He smiled, small but genuine, and for a moment, I saw the man who had endured everything, yet refused to break. "You have no idea how much I love you, Mira," he whispered, his hand finding mine, holding it as if he would never let go.
I felt my heart swell, emotions so intense they nearly overwhelmed me. "I know," I murmured, my fingers intertwining with his. "And I love you too. More than you know."
He leaned closer, pressing a long, lingering kiss to the back of my hand, a silent promise of trust and devotion. In that moment, the heartbreak, the chaos, and the uncertainty of the past weeks faded, replaced by the quiet assurance of something real, something ours.
And as I watched him settle, finally allowing himself to be vulnerable, I knew one thing: we had survived the storm together, and this—this connection, this love—was only the beginning.