(078 - Broken)

Song for Chapter: Lily by Alan Walker ft K-391 and Emelie Hollow

MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FAMILY MEMBERS!🎄🎁

This chapter is going to begin from where Chapter 72 ended. Do you remember what happened in that chapter? The chapter where Semeeha decided to drag herself in the dirtiest sewers asking to be Kizito's side chick.

😩😭.

Gigi walked in on them and we didn't know what happened after. Did she hear their conversation 💀? How much did she hear? 👀

Well, we are about to find out!

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Gigi Esho

She was practically a walking masterpiece, her presence more imposing than the doorframe she leaned against. She looked like she owned the room, the building, the world.

And for the first time ever, I saw fear on Kizito's face.

Fear and Kizito? I bit back a scoff.

They didn't belong in the same sentence.

If anything, Kizito was the one who made people fear him, not the other way around. But now? He looked absolutely terrified. It was a foreign sight, a crack in the armor that I didn't think I would ever see.

But I knew why.

He wasn't scared of Gigi herself—not exactly. It was what Gigi might have heard us say, what she might have caught in the middle of our conversation.

How long has she been standing there? How much did she hear? I asked myself.

It was a chilling thought.

I was also terrified. But somewhere deep down, I couldn't help but feel a little... elated.

Maybe this was finally it. Maybe this would be the thing that finally breaks them up. The perfect, untouchable relationship between them—the one that she always paraded in front of me and flaunted in my face—might finally have a crack.

But I couldn't tell if that would be the case.

Gigi was unreadable, her face neutral, her eyes sharp as daggers as she stepped into the classroom. Legs for days clicking against the floor with each step, every movement commanding the space.

Her presence made the whole air feel thicker. I could barely breathe, but I could feel my pulse pounding in my throat.

It pissed me off.

How could someone be so fucking effortlessly powerful? So powerful, it knocked the breath right out of me.

Fucking bitch!

I looked away quickly, swallowing back the knot of frustration that was creeping up my throat, and wiped away the tears that had almost dried up on my face.

"Babe," Kizito whispered, his voice trembling just a little.

The sound of his voice—so shaky, so unlike him—hit me like a slap.

That's when it truly hit me just how much power Gigi had over him.

Power I would never smell or taste.

No matter how much I thought of taking her place, thinking that I was a better fit for Kizito than she ever would be, I knew deep down I would never have the kind of control she did over him.

Kizito wasn't this vulnerable with anyone else.

Not to Hilary or Dawn.

Not even me, and that ship sailed since he literally just treated me like shit.

Heck, he wasn't even this vulnerable with himself.

But here he was, shaking like a leaf at the mere thought of Gigi overhearing our conversation, even though everything he had said wasn't supposed to put him in trouble.

I mean, he only shattered my heart in the worst way possible and stumped on the million broken pieces, right?

Gigi didn't even acknowledge him at first but her gaze was fixed right on him, sharp, intent, as if she could see through him. It was like she was trying to figure him out in one glance, trying to read his every thought.

I couldn't even begin to imagine what was going on in her head. But whatever it was, she wasn't showing it. She just stood there, cold and detached, like she was watching a play she'd seen a hundred times before.

Then, her gaze shifted, landing on me.

Shit!

It was like a blade had been dragged across my skin. Her eyes were like lasers, cutting through me with a scrutiny that made me feel small, like she was seeing all of me and judging every piece.

Despite myself, I physically flinched, my chest tightening, and my throat going dry as she scanned me. I could feel my heart hammering against my ribcage.

She wasn't just looking at me—she was assessing me.

I felt exposed, and vulnerable, like everything I have been hiding was right there for her to see.

And I swear I saw her lips twitch.

Then nothing.

It was almost like I had imagined it.

But I didn't. I swear, I didn't.

Was she mocking me?

Kizito shifted uncomfortably beside me, his body language screaming that he was just as uncomfortable with this moment as I was.

"Babe, whatever it is you heard—" Kizito started, his voice a little too high-pitched, too nervous.

But before he could finish, Gigi snapped her head toward him, and the change in her expression was almost instantaneous, cutting the rest of his words off.

"What?" Her voice was low, calm, and now filled with confusion, as if she was genuinely puzzled by his words.

She blinked.

"I didn't hear anything."

Ehn?

I blinked in disbelief, not sure if she was lying, playing some kind of mind game, or if she truly didn't hear anything.

It was hard to tell with Gigi.

She could be the best actress, or maybe she was just that good at hiding what she was really thinking. Whatever it was, I saw Kizito visibly relax, his shoulders dropping in relief.

He wasn't in trouble.

Not yet.

And it infuriated me. I wanted him to hurt for hurting me the way he did.

But, to what end?

He still won't want me. He has made that abundantly clear.

Gigi turned to me then, her gaze softer, almost concerned, and I had to fight the urge to pull away.

"Are you okay?" she asked, and for a moment, I wondered if I imagined it. "You don't look too good,"

The fuck?

Was she genuinely asking? Was she showing any signs of care at all, or was this just some act to throw me off the scent that she was unto me?

I wasn't sure.

And maybe that was what terrified me the most.

Kizito quickly moved toward Gigi, putting a little too much space between us in the process.

Fuck, he didn't even look back at me.

"She's fine, babe. We should go," he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand like I was some kind of insignificant afterthought.

I stared after him, watching the both of them walk toward the door, hands clasped together. He was still looking at her like she was the most important person in his world—

Like everything he'd been through with me meant nothing.

Was Nothing.

I stood there for a moment, trying to hold it together, trying not to let the tears threaten again.

Why her?

Why did she get to have him?

The bitter taste of jealousy rose in my throat.

I hated her.

I hated him.

But I hated myself more for not being enough.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

𝐒𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐇𝐀
(Semeeha Iris Malik)

The lights flicked on suddenly, dragging me out of my sleep.

I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut but that didn't stop the sharp rays from penetrating like a knife through my eyelids.

"Get up, Semeeha,"

Sheba's voice cut through the room, clipped and cold, as usual. I threw the duvet over my head in response, burying myself deeper beneath it as another groan escaped my lips.

What kind of hell is this?

My joints still ached from last night's stroke this morning's torture session disguised as runway rehearsals. I was on heels till 3:00 am this morning and my legs haven't stopped throbbing. My arms felt like lead and my entire body was screaming for at least ten hours of sleep.

AT LEAST!

But this was what? I peeked at the clock from the hem of the duvet, blinking away the haziness of sleep.

5:30 am, the digital clock read.

Barely two and a half hours of sleep.

Bloody Fantastic.

"Semeeha!" Sheba snapped, her voice sounding like nails scratching a chalkboard.

"Sheba, please," I croaked, my voice grouchy with exhaustion and lack of rest. "Just thirty more minutes, please," I begged.

"You know the drill," the annoying sound of her heels clicking against the tiled floor as she walked toward the bed. "Gym wear. Ten minutes. Meet me downstairs. We shouldn't be doing this every single day," she stated robotically.

I groaned for the umpteenth time and pulled the blanket over my head even more, hoping it would protect me from her.

"Sheba, I'm dead," I growled. "My legs barely work, my body feels like it's been run through a grinder— so you even know the time I slept?" I asked her.

"Do you think I care," she didn't even pause, the nonchalance in her voice pricking me more than it should. "This has been your routine for literally a month now. Rehearsals end at three and you wake up by 5:30 am to go to the gym. This is not your first rodeo."

She spelled out what has been my life for the past month since I stepped into this hell hole.

"Now, are you going to get up or do I have to call your mother?"

That did it.

My entire body stiffened and my blood ran cold at the mention of her.

Natasha Malik.

She would not need to yell or scold me, that was Sheba's job. Natasha Malik's disapproval was a force of nature, capable of reducing me to dust with just a look.

I peeked at Sheba from beneath the duvet.

"You wouldn't," I said, my voice low, almost pleading, a little daring.

"Oh, but you know I would," the witch in blunt cut bob weave smirked at me, leaning against the bedpost. "You know how she is. She will drag your sorry ass down herself even if you are naked. And at that point, I won't be able to help you like I'm doing right now. So, it's your choice."

Help me.

Those words hung in the air like a chilling fog, and I felt my stomach twist at the subtle threat I could hear beneath them. My body tensed instinctively, a shiver crawling down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold morning air or the AC in the room.

Sheba's tone was calm, and almost sounded sweet, but the meaning behind her words were neither.

It was like a quiet menace.

Help me.

The irony would have made me laugh if it wasn't so suffocating.

Yes, she was only following my mother's instructions, but she enjoyed it. She thrives in making my life as difficult as possible, delivering on my mother's impossible standards and demands for me with relish.

This was her version of help.

Her idea of kindness was to threaten me into submission and subjugation before my mother had the chance to tear me apart herself.

Sometimes, I couldn't even tell who was worse.

At least, with my mother, the coldness was upfront and unapologetic. But Sheba's cruelty came wrapped in polite smiles and passive-aggressive jabs, making it seem like it was almost my fault for not appreciating her help.

Like she was doing me a favor.

I clenched my fist under the duvet, resisting the urge to snap back at her.

There was no winning against Sheba, boy when she had my mother on speed dial and the power to make my life even more unbearable as my mother had seen it fit to bestow that power on her.

Instead, I swallowed the knot in my throat and forced my face into something more neutral.

"Fine," I muttered in resignation and defeat, throwing off the covers with more five than necessary. My feet hit the cold floor, sending a painful zap up my already stiff legs. "I'm getting up," I whispered.

Sheba's smirk widened slightly in satisfaction.

"Smart choice," she said, glancing at her phone. "You have eight minutes now," she added like an afterthought before turning on her heels and making her way toward the door.

Since she came in, I finally noticed she was fully dressed, her figure immaculate in a chic red blazer and fitted suit pants, not to mention, her flawless makeup.

At first, I began to wonder how she was awake and ready, especially since she was also at the rehearsal. But then I remembered that she worked for Natasha Malik.

She was practically a machine at this point and that was no exaggeration. When I become her age, I probably would be one too.

As the door shut behind her, I let out a low, shaky breath, the tension in my chest easing just slightly and the air around me less suffocating. But I knew it was temporal.

A month in this hell hole and I still wasn't used to things. Maybe I never will.

Every day here was a mechanical loop, a routine so right there was no room for relief or even the illusion of an escape.

Wake up at the crack of dawn to Sheba's relentless barking. Drag myself to mandatory workouts for two hours. Spend hours being poked, probed, and criticized by runway coaches and casting directors. Brand photoshoots with perverted photographers. Another round of runway rehearsals and more hours of wearing five-inch heels.

Then collapse into bed at ungodly hours only to do it all over again the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

It was fucking clockwork. The same motions. The same exhaustion. The same shallow smiles. No matter how tired I was, how much my body begged for rest, there was no stopping it.

Not with the relentless machine and perfectionist that was Natasha Malik.

Complaints didn't go far in her world. In fact, they didn't go anywhere at all—they'd just boomerang back as harsher punishments. And recently, Natasha Malik's version of discipline wasn't just verbal.

It was also physical.

The first time I had spoken up when we got here—really spoken up—I barely got a full sentence out before her hand cracked across my face. The slap had been so sharp, so precise, it left an imprint on my cheek for hours.

But it didn't stop there.

Complaints brought anger, and anger brought fists, shoves, and all the sharp edges that came with them.

I was slammed against a wall so hard once that the frame of a painting fell off and shattered beside me. The bruises on my shoulders from that encounter stayed for weeks, turning into ugly shades of purple and green before they finally faded.

Another time, her perfectly manicured fist caught me square in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me so completely that I fell to the floor in a heap, gasping like a fish out of water.

The worst part? Nobody seemed to notice.

Maybe it was the makeup. Layers of foundation and concealer, expertly applied by Sheba or the stylists, hid the bruises and cuts so well that they may as well have never existed.

My mother was always meticulous about appearances; God forbid anyone saw anything less than perfection. And so, to the outside world, I was flawless—every hair in place, every blemish erased, every smile painfully perfect.

But beneath the mask, I was breaking.

I was broken.

There was a small cut near my temple from last week—a punishment for forgetting to smile during a press event.

I scoffed out a humorless laugh at the still-fresh memory.

My mother had grabbed my arm so hard that I stumbled, hitting the corner of a table on my way down. She didn't even flinch when I winced, didn't spare me a second glance.

The makeup artists had covered it up effortlessly the next day, brushing off my explanation with a laugh.

"Models are always so clumsy, aren't they?"

And I laughed along, just like I always have... like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because I knew better than to complain. Complaints didn't just lead to harsher punishments.

They also led to isolation, to more control, to more eyes watching my every move, ready to pounce at the slightest misstep. So I swallowed the misery, the hunger, and the pain.

But some mornings, like this one, even breathing felt like a chore.

Dragging myself off the bed, I shuffled toward the bathroom, the tiles cold beneath my bare feet. The motion-censored fluorescent light flickered to life as soon as I stepped inside, and I immediately regretted it.

The mirror in front of me greeted me with a reflection I barely recognized.

My face was sullen, the dark shadows under my eyes looking almost bruise-like against my pale skin. My lips were dry, chapped, and cracked, and this wasn't even the Harmattan season.

I tilted my head slightly, running a hand over my neck—it was too lean, like pencil... or broom sef, my collarbones jutting out of my skin prominently. I looked... hollow.

Empty.

Like a ghost haunting its own body.

I hesitated, then slowly raised the hem of my shirt, revealing my naked torso. My stomach was flat—completely flat. A couple of months ago, that fact would've thrilled me. I used to obsess over flattening my belly because I knew it would please my mother.

But now, staring at my reflection, I felt sick.

My ribs were literally poking visibly through my skin, stark and bony. My waist looked fragile and too thin, and my hips seemed sharper than they should be. I swallowed hard, my throat tightening as I tried to tell myself it wasn't as bad as it looked.

But it was.

I looked terrible.

My stomach growled softly, reminding me of just how hungry I was.

I can't remember the last time I had a good meal.

So, I turned away from the mirror and opened the drawer beneath the sink, my hands trembling slightly as I checked through it. This was where I kept my secret stash of snacks—just small things, chips, chocolate bars, boxes of donuts and cupcakes, anything to hold me over when the hunger became unbearable.

But all I found were empty wrappers and boxes.

I have finished it all.

Fuck!

I stared at them for a long moment, then slammed the door shut in anger, everything on the carbines rattling at the force. Then, I looked at the mirror, at my reflection.

It was the only thing that felt real right now because it told me the truth, and reminded me of how depleted I was— my energy, my reserves, my spirit.

I was hungry.

I was starving.

And I was ugly.

Not just physically. Ugly in the way I felt trapped, broken, and completely powerless to change any of it. I wasn't even shadow of who I used to be because this is who I have always been for as long as I can remember.

But I still felt like a stranger in my own body.

The timer's shrill beep pierced through the air of the quiet gym.

"Time's up!"

Sheba's voice cut through the air just as I was running the final lap on the treadmill.

My legs immediately gave out.

I crumpled to the floor, sweaty and clammy, knees slamming against the gym mat, my entire body trembling, my chest heaving as I tried desperately to pull air into my lungs that felt like they were on fire.

My heart was pounding so hard and painfully against my ribcage, it felt like it might burst.

I HAVE BEEN RUNNING THE TREADMILL FOR ONE FUCKING HOUR AND THIRTY MINUTES!

LIKE I WAS RUNNING A GODDAMN MARATHON!

What the actual fuck!

Sheba's heels clicked sharply on the floor as she walked towards me, her gaze sweeping over me with a mix of disdain and impatience.

She scoffed, folding her hands across her flat chest as if the sight of me literally gasping for breath and fighting for my life was offensive to her.

"Oh for God's sake, stop being so melodramatic," she snapped, rolling her eyes so hard, I feared they might pop off their sockets. "Remember you are on a timer, Semeeha. One hour. Shower, Dress, Eat. Your food will be delivered to your suite as usual and you had better get down to join the others on time. No excuses,"

She rapped out in one breath without getting breathless.

I wanted to say something. To snap back. To ask her if she'd last even five minutes doing what I was forced to do every day.

But I didn't. I couldn't.

What was the point?

She doesn't care. No one does. And I'll only be putting myself in trouble.

So, I bit back my words like I've always done, nodded weakly like a good girl, and dragged myself off the mat like a puppet being yanked upright by invisible strings.

Fuck it, I'm a puppet anyway.

I stumbled toward the elevator, my legs feeling like jelly and my vision swimming. Every muscle in my body was screaming in protest, and by the time I made it inside the elevator and the door shut, I didn't care about anything else. I let myself slide down to the floor, slumping against the cool metal wall.

My head tilted back, eyes closing as the elevator hummed and began to ascend.

Everything hurt.

My arms, my legs, even the tip of my fingernails. It felt like my body was rebelling against me and winning, and honestly, I couldn't even blame it.

My body wasn't just tired— it was done. It was broken.

I was broken.

Diminished.

A shadow of myself— no, less than a shadow. Shadows still had substance. I didn't have substance.

I was a fucking ghost, hollow, like an empty shell going through the motions.

What if I just become a ghost?

The thought crept in, dark and bitter. But I scoffed at myself in mockery, shaking my head.

Like that was even possible.

Natasha Malik will never let me go. She'd find a way to drag me out of hell itself if she had to.

Dying wasn't an escape in her books. It was just another mere inconvenience for her to fix.

The elevator dinged, alerting me back and I forced myself up, biting back the grain that threatened to escape as I stumbled out and down the hall, my legs buckling slightly as I walked.

My suite felt like miles away, but when I finally reached it, I kicked the door shut behind me, peeling off my sweat-soaked gym wear and letting them fall in a heap to the floor before entering the bathroom.

I started my bath routine; turned in the tap to fill the bathtub, grabbed a bath bomb from the shelf, and tossed it in. It was lavender-scented— calming, apparently.

Not that I expected it to work, anyway.

I added a generous squeeze of shower gel, watching as the water foamed and bubbled.

When the tub was full, I stepped in, wincing and trembling as the lukewarm water lapped against my skin. I sat in and leaned back, letting the overhead shower flow down on me, streams of water cascading down my face and over my body.

The water was supposed to soothe me and wash away my exhaustion, but instead, all it did was make me aware of every ache, every bruise... every bit of me that hurt.

And I did hurt, in every way possible.

Tears welled up in my eyes and started flowing before I could stop them.

Hot and Heavy, spilling over and mixing with the water running down my face.

I pressed my trembling palms against my face, desperate to muffle the sounds threatening to escape, but the sobs clawed their way out regardless.

Loud, raw, and ugly.

And I cried.

No, I wept.

Like my body was trying to expel everything I'd been holding in, everything I'd refused to let myself feel.

The tears didn't trickle—they poured like a dam had broken inside me. My shoulders heaved with every sob, shaking uncontrollably as I gasped for air between the guttural cries that echoed off the walls. My chest burned, each inhales sharp and shallow, like I couldn't get enough oxygen.

I miss my friends.

God, I miss them so much.

I missed Hilary's voice, the way she would always speak to me gently, especially when I was attempting to pick a fight where there was no fight, trying to understand me even when I was the most difficult to understand.

Then, there's Dawn's effortless humor, the mind that could coax a laugh out of me even in my worst days. Her brutal honesty when I am wrong... and I am always wrong.

I missed our gists, our little dramas here and there, and our ridiculous inside jokes. No matter how bad my days were, they always made me forget it all, even if it was just for a moment.

They were literally like my anchor to a version of myself I could barely remember. A version of myself that was happy... if there ever was.

I just want to hug them. That's all. Just to hug them and feel their warmth, and let myself believe, even for a fleeting second, that everything would be okay.

But I couldn't.

My phone was taken from me the day I arrived here. No calls, no texts, no messages. It was like I didn't exist anymore.

The first week, I tried to argue, to negotiate with my mother. But her icy dismissal and the cold, sharp slap across my face had silenced me quickly.

Since then, it was radio silence.

I didn't even know what was happening in their lives anymore. I didn't know if they were worried about me, or if they even thought of me at all.

Maybe they didn't... and maybe that was for the best.

Maybe I don't deserve to talk to them.

I have been such a terrible friend.

Toxic, selfish, cruel.

I can't even count how many times I let my jealousy and insecurity spill over onto them, especially Dawn. I made cutting remarks, started fights over nothing, and lashed out when they didn't deserve it.

I was- am the absolute worst.

And Kizito...

I sniffled, leaning my head back against the edge of the tub as his face flashed in my mind. The way his smiles used to make my stomach flip. The way he could read me, even when I tried to hide how I felt. He'd cared once—maybe even loved me in his way.

As his best friend.

But of course, I'd ruined that too. Just like everything else.

He hated me now. I was sure of it.

And why wouldn't he? I scoffed.

I have been manipulative, possessive, and gone the extra mile just to make sure I cause a rift between him and Gigi Esho... ruining their relationship even. I was desperate for his attention even when I knew he didn't feel the same way.

But I wanted to believe that if I could be like Gigi Esho, he'd see me as more than a best friend or kid sister for once.

I would never be good enough for him... or anyone.

He will never see me as more.

Heck, now he even sees me as less.

As nothing.

The thought settled over me like a cold blanket, wrapping itself around my chest and squeezing it till it felt like I was going to suffocate.

Maybe not being able to talk to any of them was a blessing in disguise. I wasn't good for them. They were better off without me. Hilary, Dawn, Kizito—they deserved so much more than what I could give.

I stared at the foam around me, the water rippling faintly with each shaky breath I took. Slowly, I began to slide down into the tub, the water rising above my chest, then my neck, until it kissed my chin.

My heart pounded in my ears as I let my head tilt back, the water now lapping at my cheeks.

A fleeting thought crossed my mind.

What if I just... stay under?

I closed my eyes, letting my body sink an inch further till I was completely submerged. The warmth of the water enveloped me, quieting the chaos in my mind for just a second.

It was peaceful, almost too peaceful.

I like this. I should do this more often.

Then my lungs screamed for air, and no matter how much I tried to hold it in, it felt like my lungs were tearing apart.

Come up for air, Semeeha!

My head broke the surface, and I gasped loudly, coughing as the water dripped from my skin.

I sat there, my arms hugging my knees to my chest, shivering even though the water was still warm. Tears streamed down my face, blending with the droplets clinging to my skin.

I didn't want to die. Not really.

But living like this...

It made me wish I had the boldness to kill myself.

Minutes later, I was out of the tub, wrapped in a soft white robe, the faint lavender scent still clinging to my skin. My legs wobbled slightly as literally padded into the living room area of my suite.

On the table was the usual: vegetable salad and a tall glass of lemon water.

Or as I liked to call it, Grass.

I stared at it for a long moment, my stomach twisting—not in hunger but in disgust.

For their mind, this is food, bah?

I hated this meal. I hated it with every fiber of my being. For the past month, they'd been feeding me grass like I was a fucking goat.

No seasoning. No flavor.

Just bland, wilted greens and water that tasted like sadness.

For a second, I considered flipping the whole tray over just for the satisfaction, but the thought of the repercussions held me back.

"Bon appétit," I muttered bitterly under my breath instead, ignoring the tray altogether and heading back to the bedroom.

It's better not to eat than to eat that.

As I rummaged through my wardrobe to find something to wear, a memory hit me out of nowhere.

Collins.

I inhaled sharply.

It started small—a fleeting image of his handsome dark-skinned face, that lopsided smile of his that always looked a little too smug for its own good. Before I could stop it, my mind was flooded with him.

His voice, low and teasing, but always warm.

"What did you eat today, Semeeha? Tell me the truth."

And despite myself, I smiled, my hands stilling on the fabric of the blouse I was holding.

Ever since I threw up on him and he made a comment about my blood sugar, he has always been so damn persistent about my eating habits.

Before, it drove me insane. His constant concern had felt intrusive, even insulting at times, like he didn't trust me to take care of myself— not like he was ever wrong, the way he'd show up with food unannounced, insisting that I finish every bite.

It used to infuriate me like he was overstepping some invisible boundary.

But of course, I was being defensive. And now, I realize how much I missed it.

How much I missed him.

And by God, he wasn't just worried about whether I ate or not. It went beyond that. He cared about my well-being in ways no one else ever had. Not just about feeding my body but feeding me.

My soul, my mind, my sense of self.

He had this uncanny ability to see straight through me, to every crack and every broken piece I tried so hard to hide.

And he never judged.

Not once.

And the compliments—those came effortlessly to him. Random reminders that I was beautiful, talented, and worth so much more than I believed. At first, I thought he was just being nice, but over time, I realized he meant every word.

"You are beautiful, Semeeha. Really Beautiful,"

My lips tugged in a wider smile as I remembered our last date, when he took me ice-skating and we ate spicy suya after that.

The hug in front of my house.

The forehead kiss.

Sometimes, I wish I could see myself through Collins' eyes, just once, to understand why he cared so much. Why he was so passionate about me when I couldn't even muster the strength to care about myself?

He cared enough for the both of us.

He cared enough for a thousand people.

I sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the edge of the robe tightly. Deep down, I knew I missed him the most. Collins made me feel like I mattered, like I was worth something.

He made me feel human.

But the thought came with a sting of insecurity that crept into my chest like poison. If he saw me now, would he still think I was beautiful? Would he still care about me?

I literally avoided the mirrors for this very reason—I couldn't bear to face what I had become.

And if I can't hear it... he won't too.

I forced myself out of the spiral, grabbing the hairdryer from the bathroom. At least if I couldn't fix myself, I could try to look presentable. I needed to focus on getting ready. Time has gone.

As I sectioned my damp hair and ran my fingers through it, I felt an odd tug. I frowned and glanced at my hand.

Strands of hair.

Not just a few. A clump.

I froze, staring at the strands resting in my palm. My chest tightened as panic set in. Slowly, I tugged at another section of hair, and more strands came away, fluttering to the floor like brittle leaves in the wind.

"What the hell..." I whispered, my voice trembling.

I yanked another section. More hair.

Panic bloomed in my chest as I stared at the growing pile of hair on the floor.

"No, no, no," I whispered, trying to convince myself that this wasn't happening.

My breathing quickened, and I dropped the dryer, clutching my head with trembling hands.

This can't be normal. This isn't normal.

But as quickly as the panic came, I forced it down, swallowing the lump in my throat and brushing the tears from my eyes.

"You're fine," I whispered, the words trembling out of me like a prayer. "Everything is fine."

I gathered the fallen strands in shaky hands, stuffing them into the trash bin under the sink, trying to erase what I just saw.

If I didn't see it, it wasn't real.

Right?

But deep down, I knew better. Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

My ankle gave out before I even realized it. One second, I was strutting down the runway like I was supposed to, and the next, I was on the floor, my knees slamming against the polished surface with a sickening crack.

Gasps rippled through the room, but they were quickly drowned out by the sharp voice of the instructor.

"Alzati! Get up!" the Italian woman barked, her thick accent slicing through the tension.

She was tall, with an angular face and sharp eyes that missed absolutely nothing. Her mouth twisted into a sneer as she gestured dramatically for me to get up.

"You think you can sit on the floor and still be the face of this fashion show? Stupida ragazza! What a complete joke!" She snapped at me.

Her words were definitely more painful than the fall, but I couldn't let it show. I pressed my palms against the cold floor, trying to push myself up, but my legs felt like jelly.

Damn it!

A few models standing off to the side didn't even bother hiding their amusement. I could hear their muffled giggles, the ringleader being Eloise Appiah.

Of course. I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

Eloise Appiah was Ghanian, my age... and she was everything the modeling world worshiped.

Dark-skinned and breathtakingly beautiful, she had a face so symmetrical and sculpted it could have been chiseled by a goddamn Renaissance artist.

Her cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass, her full lips always painted in a shade that complemented her rich, velvety complexion.

She had the kind of long, lithe body that designers would kill to drape their clothes on—a literal goddess come to life. Every movement she made was deliberate, calculated, and undeniably captivating.

She was the top model in Ghana, a dominant force across Africa, and she knew it. Eloise was the kind of model who didn't need anyone's validation because the world adored her.

But as flawless as she seemed, there was one thing she couldn't quite grasp—one thing she couldn't measure up to.

Me.

And that's why she hated me.

I hadn't done anything to her personally, but my international success was a sore spot for her. She hasn't quite gotten the recognition I have.

Eloise was perfect on paper, but I was the one the big brands sought after, the one plastered on billboards in big countries across the continent and abroad, or featured in the glossiest spreads of Teen Vogue... and Vogue.

And she couldn't stand it.

We worked together on a photoshoot a couple of years ago, and it was hell. Eloise spent the entire time throwing subtle jabs my way, her smiles saccharine and her words dipped in poison.

She wanted me to crack under the pressure, to prove that I didn't belong in her world.

If I was being honest, I admit that my mother's influence had a lot to do with my success. Natasha Malik wasn't just a name; she was a force of nature, and doors opened wherever she went.

My career was more of a product of her power than it was of my work. And that wasn't a blessing, not in the way people thought. Natasha's name came with its own chains, and I was shackled to them.

Probably for life.

But try telling that to someone like Eloise. To her, I was nothing more than an overrated nepo-baby, a fraud walking around in designer shoes I didn't earn.

And she'd made it her personal mission to remind me of that at every opportunity.

"Face of the show, yet she can't even stay on her damn feet," she was whispering to the other models but was still loud enough for me to hear her, her British-accented voice hinting an undertone of irritation. "Truly pathetic,"

There was an audible ripple of stifled snickers from the other girls, their eyes darting between me and Eloise, waiting for my reaction—or maybe just enjoying the humiliation.

I glared at Eloise but she didn't avert her gaze from me. If anything, her eyes remained locked on me like a predator to a prey.

"Honestly, darling," she continued, her tone sweet but venomous, "is this what Natasha Malik's legacy looks like? Because if it is, we're all in trouble." she shook her head.

I didn't have it in me to retort.

Not today.

My hands trembled as I tried again to stand, but my knees buckled, and I slumped back down, feeling weaker than ever. The world around me spun slightly, my vision blurring at the edges.

"Patetico," the instructor muttered under her breath, shaking her head in disgust.

Before I could try again, a shadow fell over me, and a hand appeared in front of my face.

"Come on," a soft, steady voice said. "Let me help you up."

I blinked, my vision swimming as I looked up. I couldn't make out her face clearly, but there was something oddly familiar about her.

Especially her voice.

Where have I heard it before?

Her hand remained outstretched, unwavering, and I knew I didn't have the strength—or the pride—to refuse. My dignity wasn't just bruised, it was shattered... dragged through the dirtiest sewers and back.

I reached out, my fingers brushing hers, and she hoisted me up with surprising ease.

"Thanks," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, her grip firm as she steadied me on my feet.

"Continua! Move!" the instructor barked again, clapping her hands impatiently. "We don't have all day!"

The girl gave me a small, almost imperceptible smile before letting go and walking back to her position. I couldn't even process what had just happened—my mind was too foggy from hunger and dehydration.

Eloise shot me one last smug look, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

As I forced myself to start walking again, my legs trembling beneath me, I bit back the urge to groan. My chest felt tight, my head pounding with every step I took.

But I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.

Stopping wasn't an option—not here, not under Natasha Malik's roof.

By the time rehearsals wrapped up after another two excruciatingly long hours, every muscle in my body was screaming for mercy. I dragged my exhausted self backstage with the rest of the girls for a break, trying to enjoy the fleeting minutes of break before we were summoned again.

I passed a group of girls clustered near the vanity mirrors, their laughter catching my attention.

And again, Eloise was at the center of it all.

A half-dozen models surrounded her, fawning over her and hanging onto her every word, their eyes bright with admiration.

"And then," Eloise said, her tone nonchalant but loud enough to ensure everyone heard, "Gigi was like, 'Eloise, you're a natural. You don't even have to try.'" She laughed, tossing her head back as if she didn't just casually name-drop Gigi Hadid.

Hearing the name Gigi was enough to give me a whiplash of a certain Gigi I knew.

I just hate that name.

The girls around her giggled and gasped, nodding enthusiastically as Eloise continued.

"But that was months ago," she said, brushing off with a wave of her hand. "After this show, I've got a shoot lined up with Bella Hadid in Paris." She sighed dramatically. "Honestly, it's exhausting sometimes, juggling it all."

She's just casually name-dropping the Hadid sisters.

I bit the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to scoff out loud.

Eloise was doing the most, again. Always reminding everyone who cared to listen how she was rubbing elbows with the biggest names in the industry.

But as much as I wanted to roll my eyes and move on, something else caught my attention—something that made my stomach twist.

Eloise wasn't just talking.

She was eating.

Right there, in front of everyone, she was devouring a burger with cheese dripping down the sides and fries spilling out of the wrapper. To top it off, she had a milkshake in hand, sipping through a straw like she was on a casual lunch break instead of a high-profile rehearsal.

It wasn't the first time I'd seen her eat like this. Just last week, she was scarfing down smoky jollof rice and chicken, a plate piled high with salad on the side.

And the shocking part?

Her manager was the one to order it for her, delivering it like it was part of some secret routine.

Something Natasha or Sheba would never do for me.

It was an abomination.

And yet... Eloise still looked perfect.

Her body was the epitome of the model ideal—slim and toned with curves in all the right places, her skin radiant and glowing. Not a hint of bloating or the telltale puffiness that came from indulging like that.

Unlike me.

The sight of her, so carefree and unapologetic, filled me with a burning envy that I couldn't quite swallow. My gaze lingered on the way she took a bite, laughing mid-chew without a care in the world.

How was it even possible?

How could she eat like that and still look like... that?

Meanwhile, I was starving. Literally starving.

I haven't had even a sip of water today and my stomach hasn't stopped reminding me of how I was punishing it. But if I even thought about touching a burger—no, even smelling one...

I don't need to say in plain terms what would happen to me.

My hands clenched into fists at my sides as I forced myself to look away. It wasn't just jealousy; it was resentment, raw and bitter.

Eloise didn't just get to eat. She got to live. To enjoy.

And it was so unfair it made my chest ache.

I wanted to hate her for it. But deep down, I only hated myself.

And as if the universe wasn't done punishing me, another one happened... one I couldn't resist.

The scent hit me first, warm and rich, cutting through the faint trace of perfume and hairspray that clung to the backstage air.

My steps faltered as my nose caught it—

Abula.

Amala, Gbegiri, and Ewedu.

It couldn't be.

I had to be hallucinating. Hunger had a way of playing tricks, and I was probably imagining it.

But then I saw it.

Sitting boldly on a vanity table, unbothered and unapologetic, was the most glorious sight I have seen in weeks.

Three neatly wrapped portions of Amala, right beside a steaming plastic takeaway plate of Ewedu and Gbegiri, with the fat chicken thigh submerged in the soup.

The smell wrapped around me like it was calling me... taunting me, and my stomach growled audibly in protest.

Jesus Christ. I licked my lips, helpless.

My body moved without thought, my legs carrying me toward the table. I could already taste it.

God, I could already taste it.

My fingers twitched as I reached out, only to come to an abrupt halt when someone stepped in front of me, blocking the table—and my view of the food.

My food!

"Excuse me?" I muttered, snapping out of my trance.

The person didn't seem to hear me. She was on the phone, speaking in hushed tones. I blinked and recognized her—the girl from earlier, the one who'd helped me up when I fell on the runway.

She was even more familiar now but I still couldn't place her face.

She was backing me, her posture relaxed as she held her phone to her ear.

"Thank you, Mum," she said, her voice soft and warm. "I got it. It's here already. You're the best. I'll enjoy it for sure." She giggled.

My eyes darted to the table again, my mouth watering.

Was it her food?

My face flushed as reality sank in.

Of course, it was. I can't believe I was ready to pounce on someone else's meal like a starved animal.

I mean, I was a starved animal.

The girl finished her call and turned around, pausing when her gaze landed on me.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, a look of surprise crossing her face. "Hi, Semeeha. Are you okay now? You looked really faint earlier." She said, her voice toned with concern.

I tore my eyes from the food and straightened my posture, trying to appear composed.

"I'm fine," I said flatly. "Thanks."

She hesitated, her brow furrowing as if debating something. Then, to my utter shock, she asked,

"Do you want to eat?"

Ehn?

My brain short-circuited.

I blinked, utterly dumbfounded.

Did she just offer me...?

"Sorry?" I croaked, the word catching in my throat.

"Amala with Ewedu and Gbegiri," She gestured to the table, and spelling out the meal set in front of me didn't help my hunger.

I swallowed my saliva.

"I don't mind sharing," she continued, smiling at me. "Normally, I would finish the three wraps, but I had a heavy breakfast—rice and beans—so I don't think I can manage all this."

Three wraps? Three wraps!

I stared at her in disbelief.

Not only had she eaten rice and beans for breakfast, but she was casually planning to devour three wraps of Amala, and still looked like that?

My eyes involuntarily raked her body.

Her body was perfect—toned arms, flat stomach, hips curved so perfectly, and long legs that went on forever. She didn't even look like she'd eaten a cracker, let alone two full meals.

I couldn't wrap my head around it.

"I didn't buy it, if that's what you are skeptical about," she went on, her tone gentle and her lips still curved in a smile. "It's home-cooked. My mum made it and had it delivered here,"

Her mum cooked it for her. Her own mother.

Natasha Malik could never.

I can't even remember the last time she entered the kitchen to prepare a meal for herself, let alone me.

This was too much.

I don't know whether it was the hunger, the envy, or just my overwhelming frustration, but something snapped inside me.

"Why would I want your disgusting food?" I spat, my voice sharp and cutting. Her eyes widened, stunned by my outburst. "You think I'm some charity case or something?"

Her mouth opened as if to respond, but I didn't give her the chance.

"Just leave me alone," I added, brushing past her toward my dressing room, my cheeks burning with a mix of shame and anger.

The moment the door clicked shut behind me, I leaned against it, squeezing my eyes shut. My chest heaved as I tried to calm myself.

I didn't mean to lash out, but I couldn't handle it—the kindness, the pity, the stark reminder of everything I couldn't have.

And worst of all?

The fact that deep down, I wanted nothing more than to take her up on her offer.

I want to eat Amala... or any good food for that matter.

I don't know how long I sat there, wallowing, but the knock that came on my door was sharp, cutting through the silence in the room and my thoughts. I froze, my heart sinking. I didn't want to see anyone, especially not now.

Before I could muster the strength to tell them to leave, the door creaked open.

It was her again.

She walked in, her expression soft, her lips curved in a small, almost shy smile.

I stared at her, my irritation flaring up again.

What is it, sef!

"What is your problem?" I snapped. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Her smile didn't waver. If anything, it seemed to grow slightly, like she'd been expecting my reaction. She shrugged, her hands clasped behind her back.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her tone so gentle it made my chest tighten.

"Sorry?" I blinked, thrown off by the sudden apology. "For what?"

"For assuming you liked Amala," she said, her eyes meeting mine, steady and warm. "You probably don't, which is why you got upset earlier. That's on me."

What in the world...

I was stunned.

Completely speechless. My mouth opened, then closed again.

I was the one the one that was rude to her. I snapped at her and rejected her offer when all she was being was really nice.

But yet, here she was... making excuses for me?

Is this one a human being like this?

"Since you don't like Amala," She continued as if I wasn't gawking at her like she had three heads. "I thought I'd get you something else." She added.

Before I could ask what the hell she meant, she brought her hands forward. I hadn't noticed the paper bag she was holding. She placed it gently on the table, then reached inside to pull out a takeaway plate.

Smoky jollof rice and fried rice.

Coleslaw.

Barbecued chicken.

Holy Ghost Fire!

The smell hit me instantly, rich and mouthwatering. My stomach let out a traitorous growl, loud enough for her to hear.

She smiled at the sound but didn't comment.

"I really hope you like it," she said, setting the plate neatly in front of me.

I couldn't move. Couldn't think. I just stared at the food, my mind scrambling to make sense of the moment.

Finally, I looked up at her.

"Why?" My voice was barely above a whisper when I asked, because I couldn't for the life of me make sense of it. "Why would you do this?"

Her smile brightened, lighting up her face.

"Because you helped me once."

I blinked, confused.

"What?"

Her expression turned thoughtful, her tone quieter now.

"You probably don't remember, but my name is Nnenna Madichie," she finally introduced herself, that sweet smile still playing on her lips, calming me a bit.

I blinked, still not remembering her.

"We did a shoot together some time ago. It was one of my first big gigs, and I was so nervous." She paused, her smile softening. "You noticed. You encouraged me, in your own... unique way," she giggled like she just made a joke. "Made me feel like I belonged there."

I racked my brain, searching for any trace of recognition, but I came up blank. I couldn't remember her. I opened my mouth to apologize, but she held up a hand, her smile unbothered.

"Don't worry," she said. "It's okay if you don't remember. I just wanted to return the favor, in a way," she gestured to the food on the table.

Why would she return the favor by giving me food?

It didn't make any sense.

"Please eat, Semeeha." She spoke again, her softer and her gaze holding mine, passing a deeper message than her words conveyed. "You'll feel better when you eat." She reassured.

Something in her tone—gentle but firm, carrying a weight I couldn't quite decipher—made my throat tighten. It was like she knew I was starving. Like she could see it.

No one saw it. Or, they did and chose to ignore it.

She saw it and didn't ignore it. She's making me eat.

Before I could respond, she turned and left, closing the door softly behind her.

The silence that followed felt deafening.

I looked at the plate in front of me, my hands trembling. A practical stranger—someone I didn't even remember—had done this for me. She noticed something was wrong when no one else had or cared to.

She cared enough to act.

Someone I didn't even remember helping.

Tears pricked my eyes, and this time, I couldn't fight them. They spilled over, hot and heavy, as I quickly locked the door to my dressing room. The last thing I needed was Sheba—or worse, my mother—walking in.

When I turned back to the table, my resolve shattered into a million pieces. Every single facade I've been holding onto fell like a heap to the floor.

I didn't bother with the chair. I sank to the floor, pulling the plate down with me. My hands were shaking as I peeled the lid off, the smell enveloping me like a warm hug.

Food. Finally. I laughed as I cried.

The first taste of Jollof was heaven, smoky and spicy, and everything I have been craving. My eyes fluttered shut as I chewed, the tears coming harder now. I couldn't stop them.

I didn't even know why I was crying.

What was I crying for?

For Nnenna's kindness? For the way she'd noticed me, really noticed me, when I felt invisible? For the fact that I couldn't remember helping her but she remembered me so vividly?

Or maybe I was crying for myself. For the girl who hadn't felt human in weeks. For the girl who had been so starved—not just for food, but for warmth, for care, for something real.

Something whole.

The spoon clattered to the floor at some point. I didn't care. I used my hands. I tore into the food with my hand, scooping rice and coleslaw into my mouth, the textures and flavors overwhelming my senses, ignoring the grains that fell around me and stained my clothes.

I didn't care.

My fingers tore the chicken into shreds, the barbecue sauce smearing on my palms as I devoured it piece by piece.

And all the while, the tears kept coming. It never stopped.

I sobbed as I ate, my chest heaving with every bite. It was messy and raw and animalistic, and I certainly looked like a homeless person clawing at scraps but I didn't stop.

I couldn't.

I didn't want to.

I wanted to enjoy my food... for once.

By the time I finished, the plate was empty, and the chicken was stripped to the bone. My hands were a mess, and my face was streaked with tears, but I didn't care.

I sat there on the floor, licking the remaining sauce from the foil it was wrapped in like an animal, licking off every trail of sauce or anything sweet off my fingers.

And as I did that, I continued to cry about everything until there was nothing left again to cry about.

By some warped kind of luck, rehearsals ended earlier than usual.

At least by their standards because earlier than usual meant midnight instead of 3 a.m.

Midnight wasn't exactly what most people would call "early," but with the hours of rehearsals and runway drills, it was practically a miracle. Instead of staggering back to my room at 3 a.m., I actually have a shot at a decent amount of sleep.

Four hours at least.

The dressing room was buzzing, filled with the chaotic energy of relief. Girls changed out of their rehearsal outfits, laughter echoing as they traded gossip and complaints about the grueling day.

I wasn't in the mood to join them. My mind was elsewhere.

Sleep... and the fact that I didn't see Nnenna again. 

I wanted to thank her, properly this time. But it was fine; we still had the entire fashion show ahead of us. Tomorrow would come, and so would my chance.

Slipping my bag over my shoulder, I made my way toward the door, already fantasizing about collapsing onto my hotel bed.

The door swung open.

She walked in.

Everything and everyone seemed to pause as she did, heels clicking against the tiled floor with the precision of a ticking clock.

Natasha Malik.

My mother. 

Her presence consumed the room, drawing every eye toward her. Girls froze mid-movement, their gazes snapping toward her like she was a goddess descending from Olympus.

I roll my eyes!

Even Eloise Appiah couldn't hide the spark of fascination in their eyes.

Sheba followed close behind her like a perfectly poised shadow and my heart sank, a knot tightening in my stomach.

Did Sheba report me?

But Natasha didn't look angry. Well, she didn't look like much of anything. Her face has been baptized with botox and smoothened most of her expressions years ago, leaving her face an icy, impenetrable mask.

She could be livid, and I'd never know. 

The slap will just come out of nowhere.

But Mother would never slap me in front of an audience.

Her heels clicked sharply against the tiled floor as she walked toward me, a predator zeroing in on its prey.

I was the prey.

She stopped directly in front of me, her eyes raking over me like I was a mannequin in a display window.

"Iris," she said, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. The sound of my second name jolted me. I hadn't heard it in days—maybe weeks.

And I was very content with that.

Now, heading it gave me a couple of whiplashes.

"Yes, Mother?" I answered automatically, my posture straightening without thought.

Her eyes raked over me, up and down, inspecting. Then she clicked her tongue softly, a dismissive sound that made my skin prickle. She was judging me even without words.

Typical.

"This will just have to do," she said, her tone flat. 

I resisted the urge to look down at myself. 

"Come," she said, turning sharply on her heel. "There's someone I'd like you to meet." 

My brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering through me. Someone to meet? At this hour? I wanted to ask, but years of knowing better kept my mouth shut.

Instead, I followed her silently as she swept out of the room, Sheba falling into step behind me.

The hotel was quiet at this hour, and the sound of the elevator seemed unnaturally loud as we ascended to the penthouse floor.

This was where she stayed.

I hadn't been up there since we arrived in Abuja. Natasha explicitly forbade me from setting foot in her suite, so for her to personally take me there now meant this wasn't just important—it was serious.

The elevator doors opened, revealing a space dripping with luxury. Marble floors gleamed under soft, golden lighting. A massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling, crystals refracting light into a thousand tiny rainbows.

I barely had time to take it all in.

My gaze snapped to the figure standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his silhouette outlined against the glittering cityscape.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a pristine white agbada. A glass of amber liquid—whiskey, maybe—was balanced in his hand. His posture was commanding, and even from behind, he exuded authority. 

Natasha's voice broke the silence.

"Godfather."

The man turned, his movements slow and deliberate, till he was fully facing us.

I frowned, squinting at his face.

There was something familiar about him, but I couldn't quite place it.

He was older, mid-60s maybe, but he carried himself with the confidence of someone half his age. His beard was streaked with silver, and neatly trimmed. Even with the cap on his head, I could tell his scalp was shaven clean.

Before I could even begin to process who he was, my mother strode toward him, her lips curving into a smile—an actual smile.

And then she kissed him.

On the lips.

My brain screeched to a halt and my stomach lurched violently, nausea twisting through me as I stared at them, frozen in place.

What the fuck!

What the actual fuck!

My mother. The woman who had never so much as mentioned a man in her life. Never. She was cold, calculating, too busy climbing her way to the top in whatever way she did to bother with romance.

Hell, I didn't even know who my father was, and I stopped asking years ago. 

Yet here she was, kissing this man—this older man, old enough to be her father. My grandfather, even. My stomach churned violently, and I had to fight the urge to gag. 

I glanced at Sheba, hoping for some reaction, some confirmation that I wasn't the only one completely thrown off by this, some sort of validation of the absurdity of what I just witnessed.

Nothing.

Sheba's face was a mask of cold indifference like this was just another ordinary day.

What the hell is going on here?

"Is that her?" the man asked, his voice deep and smooth, like someone used to being obeyed. 

It took me a second to realize he was talking about me.

I straightened instinctively, my face snapping into an expression of calm detachment, whipping the shock off my face as best I could. 

Natasha nodded, smiling—smiling—as she looked at me.

"Yes. This is her." 

Her voice was brimming with pride, her tone affectionate which was a stark contrast to how she usually spoke to me.

I fought the urge to look behind me.

"Iris, meet the Godfather," Natasha said, her tone casual, as though this was the most normal introduction in the world. 

No name. Just that title that was creepy as fuck.

The man stepped closer, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made me shiver involuntarily.

"Your benefactor," Natasha gestured to him with a kind of reverence that made my skin crawl. "Your sponsor. The one that has been funding this entire fashion show, including you." 

Funding me? What the hell is that supposed to even mean?

I barely had time to process the weight of that sentence before the man took my hands in his, both of them, his lips stretching into a Cheshire smile that made my stomach turn. 

"It's lovely to finally meet you, Iris," he said, his tone dripping with charm—or at least, what he thought was charm.

Then, to my horror, he lifted one of my hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

I visibly cringed!

When he released me, his gaze lingered—too long, too slow. His eyes dragged over me, head to toe, like I was some kind of prize he was evaluating, sweeping over my body, slow and deliberate, taking their time.

It felt intrusive, like he was peeling back layers of my dress with just his gaze. 

I hated it. 

I hated him.

But I did what I always did.

I smiled politely, nodded my head, and swallowed every ounce of rage, disgust, and nausea threatening to spill out.

Because I knew at that moment, with absolute certainty, that I DESPISED this man.

𝐀/𝐍

Draws sign of cross.🥲

Who the hell is this Godfather person? And why is Natasha Malik kissing him on the lips🤢? And why is he looking at Semeeha like he is undressing her with his eyes🤮?

Some old men are creeps!

Now, you have seen where Semeeha is and what she is doing. She is not doing good at all. She is starved, she is dehydrated, and she's dying. Symptoms of her eating disorder is already showing, her hair is falling off.

Just so you know, it only gets worse from here on now🥶.

Who is Nnenna by the way? 🌚 We thank God for her and her intuition. We pray she sneaks Semeeha more food in the mighty name of Jesus. Amen.

Sigh. It is well.

See you when I see you guys!❤️