Chapter 2 After the storm

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla danced through the house, floating from the kitchen and winding its way through every sun-warmed corner of their Lagos beach home.

Morning light poured in through the tall windows, painting gold across marble countertops and spilling over ocean-themed art along the hallway. The waves outside sang their low, soothing lullaby a steady rhythm to a quieter, softer life.

Amara stood barefoot on the terrace, wrapped in a flowy silk robe, her hand cradling a steaming mug of mint tea while the other rested protectively on the curve of her belly. She was eight months along now, her stomach round and firm like the promise of something whole. Something healing.

She closed her eyes, let the sea breeze brush against her skin. For once, she didn't need to run. Didn't need to prove. The world already knew who she was. And finally so did she.

Behind her, the clatter of pans and Dylan's humming filtered through the sliding glass doors.

"Are you making your special pancakes," she called out, "or preparing for another culinary disaster?"

"I heard that!" Dylan's voice echoed from the kitchen, followed by a chuckle.

Moments later, he appeared shirtless, apron-wrapped, holding two plates stacked with golden brown pancakes, a generous helping of strawberries, and just the right drizzle of honey.

"You're glowing again," he said, kissing her forehead as he handed her a plate.

"I'm huge," she replied dryly.

"You're beautiful," he said, eyes soft. "And strong. And carrying my daughter who, judging by the kicks, already has your attitude."

Amara raised an eyebrow. "You say that like it's a threat."

"It's a warning," he teased, setting his plate down. "To myself."

They both laughed, the kind of laugh that lived low and real, with no bitterness hiding behind it anymore.

They sat together at the breakfast table that faced the endless stretch of ocean. The horizon blurred into the sky. Seagulls danced across the waves. The world, somehow, had become quiet.

Not silent - just finally at peace.

They had moved here six months ago. Away from the noise. Away from gossip. Away from the chaos of who they once were.

This wasn't an escape.

It was a decision - to live. Fully. Honestly. Together.

"So," Dylan said, chewing thoughtfully, "when do we get to name her?"

Amara took a bite of her pancake, eyes twinkling. "We've already named her."

"Wait, we did?" Dylan blinked.

"Mmhmm. I told you last week."

He frowned. "You told me while I was half-asleep, didn't you?"

"Exactly. That's when you listen best."

He leaned closer. "Okay, give me a hint."

Amara reached into her robe pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Inside was a name written in soft cursive: Nia Monroe Dylan.

"Nia," he said slowly. "What does it mean?"

"Purpose. Resolve. Brilliance."

He grinned, blinking away the sting in his eyes. "She's going to change the world."

"She already has," Amara whispered.

Later that afternoon, a courier arrived.

A white box tied with a golden bow was handed to Amara at the door. Curious, she carried it to the living room and sat gently on the couch.

Inside the box was a plaque. Elegant. Solid. Engraved with perfect clarity:

To Amara Monroe

For building empires in silence - and roaring louder than the storm.

- Global Women's Honor Foundation

She stared at it for a long time.

Dylan came up behind her, reading the words over her shoulder. He kissed the top of her head.

"Your twelfth award this year.

Amara shrugged. "I stopped counting after ten."

He smiled. "You never stop surprising me."

She turned slightly, her expression soft but unyielding. "You just finally started looking."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was honest.

That night, after a slow dinner of grilled fish, roasted plantains, and fresh coconut water, Amara lay beside Dylan on their bedroom couch. The curtains billowed gently in the breeze. Outside, the stars winked like quiet witnesses to their still-growing love.

Their toddler son, MJ short for Monroe Junior was fast asleep in his room down the hall, snuggled with his well-worn elephant plush. His tiny snores carried faintly through the baby monitor, along with the lullaby playing on repeat.

Dylan turned to her.

"Did you ever think we'd make it here?" he asked quietly.

Amara didn't answer right away.

Her hand rested on her belly, where their daughter was now doing tiny flips.

She turned her head slowly and met his gaze.

"We almost didn't," she whispered.

He nodded

"But we did," he said.

She smiled. "Yes. We did.

Dylan reached for her hand again, like he'd done so many times before - at the hospital, at Hyde Park, during therapy, in silence, in apology, in awe. And again now, with reverence.

He rested it gently over her stomach. "Here's to second chances."

"To healing," Amara whispered back.

They fell asleep wrapped in each other's warmth, the waves outside marking time like a heartbeat - constant, soothing, eternal.