Chapter 8 Ashes and Storms

Chizaram stood at the edge of her small balcony, a steaming mug of hibiscus tea in hand, her loose cotton robe brushing gently against her calves as the cool Lagos night breeze wrapped around her like a whisper. She gazed out into the quiet tapestry of the city: soft lights blinking in high-rise windows, distant horns echoing like lullabies, and the shimmering dance of headlights tracing the bridges. In this rare moment of silence, she felt a kind of peace she hadn't known existed. Not the absence-of-noise kind, but the deep, almost terrifying quiet of a woman who had nothing left to prove.

She was humming. Just a soft, tuneless sound that came from deep within her chest. It felt like freedom. Like breath finally moving through lungs that had known only suffocation.

Then her phone buzzed.

The vibration broke her trance. She glanced at the screen. It was Yemi, Tunde's head of security. Not a man who called casually.

She answered. "Yemi?"

"Ma," he said, his voice low, gravelly, and urgent. "I need you to listen to me carefully. I've been instructed to increase security around you immediately. Please do not leave the apartment tonight. Lock all doors. Close the blinds."

She blinked. "Wait. What? Why? What's going on?"

There was a pause. Too long. Then:

"I... I shouldn't be the one telling you, ma. But I'll just say this: Mr. Tunde is in a very tense situation with his family right now. Someone made threats. Real ones. You're the target."

The mug slipped from her hands, shattering on the balcony tiles like porcelain rain.

"What?" she whispered. "What do you mean threats?"

"They're trying to force an engagement," Yemi continued. "With Amara Okonkwo. Mr. Tunde refused. Very publicly. And things... got dark. He's refusing to comply, and now they're pushing back. Hard. He told me if anything happens to you, even a scratch there'll be hell to pay."

The line clicked.

She stared at her screen in disbelief.

Disconnected.

The wind howled softly through the open door behind her, carrying with it the sound of breaking glass and broken peace. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the ground, hands trembling as she picked up shards of the mug in a daze. Blood bloomed on her fingertip where a shard was a bit deep. But she didn't feel it.

Threatened?

Because of love?

Her breath caught in her throat as reality closed in on her like a coffin.

She had fought her parents' judgment. She had survived being called a disgrace, endured a life shadowed by her sister's golden glow. She thought the worst was behind her.

But this...

This was something else. This was legacy warfare. This was generational pride dressed as family. This was violence draped in silk.

She touched the ring on her finger. That simple silver promise.

A symbol of love, yes. But now? A lightning rod.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

She stood shakily and walked back inside, bolting every door and window. Her hands moved on instinct, securing, checking, rechecking. Then she sat on the floor, back pressed to the wall, as if the concrete could protect her from power.

She picked up her phone... then dropped it again.

She wanted to call him. To scream. To ask why. To beg him to walk away from all of it.

What if she was the reason he lost everything?

What if they hurt him just to hurt her?

The kind of hurt that came not with fists, but with whispers and poisoned contracts. Blackmail. Ruin.

Her voice cracked in the silence, soft and fractured.

"What have we done?"

Meanwhile, across the city, at the towering Owolabi Estate...

The golden chandeliers still glittered above like they were mocking everything beneath them. Amara stormed down the polished marble steps, her heels clicking like gunshots against the floor. Servants scattered as she approached, their eyes downcast. None dared speak.

She slammed the door of her car shut, her breath fogging up the windows in angry bursts. Her perfectly styled curls were unraveling. Her makeup once flawless was streaked with tears she hadn't realized were falling.

She had never felt this kind of humiliation.

Not when she failed out of Cambridge's business accelerator.

Not when the Okonkwo family lost three contracts in one month because of her poor negotiations.

No, this was different. This was personal.

Tunde had humiliated her.

In front of his board. His friends. His staff.

"She's my wife," he thundered, eyes blazing. "And you will speak of her with respect."

Chizaram. Always Chizaram.

The same Chizaram who had once trailed behind her in oversized uniforms and dusty shoes.

The same girl she had once called a disgrace.

The same girl their parents had silenced, ignored, hidden.

And yet, here they were.

Chizaram had become the symbol of defiance.

Of love.

Of everything Amara had once believed was beneath her.

And worst of all? She had won.

Tunde. The man Amara had paraded to her friends. The man she had tried to mold into a savior. The one person who could've restored her name, her position, her place at the top of the social food chain.

Now?

Now, he belonged to the girl with nothing but honesty in her eyes and fire in her voice.

And Amara?

She had nothing.

No man.

No business.

No legacy.

The Okonkwo name was crumbling. Investors were pulling out. The whispers had started again. About incompetence. About scandal. About the golden girl who lost her shine.

And she couldn't stop it.

As she sat alone in the driver's seat, the lights of the estate glowing coldly around her, Amara rested her forehead on the steering wheel and let out a silent, guttural sob.

She had played her cards.

All of them.

And lost.

"I should have never come back," she whispered, broken.

But deep down, even she knew:

It wasn't just coming back that ruined her.

It was that she came back... and still believed she was the only one who could win.

Back in the flat, Chizaram stood in the darkness, watching the moonlight stretch across her kitchen tiles.

The storm had only begun.

But this time... she wasn't afraid of the rain.