Unexpected

A day in my life, thinking about how life is, looking at the sky so blue and bright while the sun hit my face. All I wished for in that moment was for the smile on my face to remain like that forever, with me lost in my thoughts; all I was thinking about was how everything would be okay.

Still lost in my thoughts, before I could realize, the next thing I knew, I had fallen on my feet.

I fainted, " in her sleep memories of how she lives came to her".

Dera woke up at 5:30 a.m. sharp. Every morning, her coffee brewed while she showered, her heels making sounds as she walked. She is always on her laptop, sending emails and feeding deadlines to her soul. She didn't have time for lunch, friends, or love. Please. That was a luxury for people with spare hours.

No one speaks when the elevator dings.

It's like the office exhales in fear the second the elevator door opens and she steps out - Dera, CEO of Beauty Palace. Sharp heels. Sharper eyes. Her presence slices through conversation, cutting laughter at the throat.

No one dares to make eye contact. Her stare isn't cruel - it's worse. It's cold. Calculating. Like she already knows your secrets and is deciding whether they're worth your job.

She doesn't yell. She doesn't need to.

One raised eyebrow could mean restructuring. A tight-lipped smile? Someone's getting fired. Her words are precise - no wasted motion, no mercy.

People say she wasn't always like this, that once, she was kind.

But something changed the day she took the top floor. Some say it was the betrayal of a partner, others whisper about a hostile takeover that left blood on her hands - metaphorically, maybe.

Or maybe not.

Interns whisper

She once fired a director with a single sentence.

She doesn't blink when she speaks.

She knows everyone's login passwords.

But despite the fear, no one leaves. Because Dera builds empires - and if you survive under her rule, you rise faster than anywhere else. That fear? It's part of the game. A test. And she's the final boss.

One day, an assistant spilled coffee on her reports. Everyone went silent, waiting for thunder.

Dera walked over, looked at the mess, then calmly said, "Bring me a new copy. And don't ever let fear stop you from fixing a mistake.

"back to reality" And when I opened my eyes, I was on a hospital bed". I couldn't figure out what was happening.

A doctor came to check on me, and I was just there staring. I couldn't utter a word, not because I couldn't talk, but there was fear in me holding my voice back.

Flashback: I could recall when my husband (Richard) and I were having a misunderstanding. When I spoke a bad word to him, telling him I didn't need him. I didn't mean to say that to him, and I was never like that. I was just under pressure from the baby we lost and looking for someone to put the blame on. I could have actually said something else, but I didn't realize when that came out of my mouth.

Back to reality, the doctor asked me to call my family because it was a stranger who brought me to the hospital. I was told he signed in as my guardian and took care of the hospital bill before he left. I told the doctor to tell me what was wrong with me since I couldn't reach out to my family right away. The doctor kind of hesitated but eventually told me what was wrong with me, and fear gripped me.

Back at home, Richard was with a divorce paper, looking through it and thinking about how he would present it to his wife. He reflected on their early stage before they became strangers...

Richard and Dera were such a beautiful couple that everyone thought nothing could bring them apart. Richard was such a charming, handsome, cool guy, who was a man of his word; he knew how to handle situations. That was what attracted Dera to him.

On a fateful day, it was just supposed to be a normal day. Dera had just finished her work and was headed home, humming to her favorite song, and the weather was so bright and beautiful.

Her car rolled smoothly through the intersection-green light, no distractions, everything was fine. Until it wasn't.

A silver SUV barreled through the red light and slammed into the side of her car. The sound of crunching metal filled the air, followed by the sharp jolt of panic in her chest.

Dera's hands shook as she opened the door and stepped out, her knees weak but steady enough to stand. Her heart pounded in her ears.

The driver of the SUV, a middle-aged man with a tight jaw and an even tighter ego, stormed over to her.

He said, 'Are you blind?'' Don't you know when to stop? You kids don't know how to drive.

Dera blinked, stunned.

'What? You ran the red light.' 'Don't try to pin this on me, 'he cut her off, voice loud and aggressive, already pulling out his phone to call the cops.

'You're lucky I'm not injured.' Her chest tightened. People were starting to watch. She hated scenes like this. Then another voice cut through the chaos.

'She didn't do anything wrong.' Both of them turned to see a tall guy in a leather jacket, in his twenties, calm but firm, stepping out of a car parked nearby. He had a camera in his hand. 'I've got the whole thing on dash cam. You ran the red,' he said to the man, then looked at Dera. 'I saw everything. You drove through clean.' The man's face flushed, suddenly unsure. 'And if you're trying to intimidate her into taking the blame,' the stranger added, 'you might want to think twice. Lying to the cops doesn't end well.' The SUV driver muttered something under his breath and backed off.

Dera looked up at her unexpected defender, eyes wide. "You seriously caught that on camera?"

He smiled-kind, genuine. "Yeah. Lucky I was behind you. Or maybe... fate."

She laughed, nerves finally releasing. "I don't know how to thank you."

"You don't have to. But maybe let me buy you a coffee after you deal with this mess?"

She stared at him for a beat, then smiled through the chaos. "Deal."

That day, she didn't just walk away from an accident. She walked into something better-something unexpected. And when people asked how she met Richard, she always smile.

'Richard and Dera were a beautiful couple who loved each other dearly.' They were living well, not thinking of what others might say. Dera's parents were rich while Richard's parents were not rich, neither starving. Richard was a lawyer while Dera was a CEO in her parent's company. They were happily married even though Dera's parents were against them.

Dera got pregnant; they were so happy and excited. Dera was looking forward to bringing the baby into the world. Exciting, right? But something unexpected happened. It was a sunny afternoon, and Dera was sitting in her room when she suddenly felt a sharp pain in her belly. She thought it was something usual until it became worse. Dera tried getting up, but the pain was too much. She tried calling for help, but it seemed nobody heard her, so she crawled towards the door. Luckily for her, her husband was back and was heading to her room when he heard Dera's voice. He rushed into her room, helped her up, and walked her to the car to rush her to the hospital. Richard was outside the ward, nervous and scared, and sweat was all over him. He was scared, praying, and anticipating. Later, the doctor came out and walked towards Richard.

The present day.....

Back at home, Richard was still grinning at the divorce papers, he sat on his bed in his room, fingers steepled in front of his face. The divorce papers sat in a envelope at his side like a brick-silent, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

He keep staring at the papers like a secret he wasn't ready to share. The bedroom was quiet, bathed in the soft, golden glow of late afternoon sunlight filtering through the curtains. Outside, the neighborhood hummed with life-distant laughter, the low growl of lawnmowers, the occasional bark of a dog-but inside, time seemed to have slowed to a crawl.

He wasn't sad. Not exactly. Not like the movies made you think you should be. He was just... tired. Not physically, though there was that too. It was a deeper fatigue-the kind that sits in your chest and makes your breaths feel like they have weight. The kind of exhaustion that comes from living beside someone who feels more like a roommate than a wife.

Dera had once made him laugh until he choked on his drink. Now, her voice grated. Even the way she walk pass him-made his skin itch. Their conversations had withered into functional exchanges.

It wasn't that she'd done something awful. She hadn't cheated or screamed or thrown things. But years of slow erosion-snide remarks, forgotten birthdays, nights spent on opposite rooms-had worn away whatever love used to live between them. He didn't hate her. He just didn't want her anymore.

He thought about handing her the papers tonight. Maybe when she's settled from work. He'd walk over, say her name, hold out the envelope. Maybe she'd cry. Maybe she wouldn't even be surprised.

When he felt like it was time for Dera to be back from work, so he took the divorce papers and left for Dera's room.

Dera stood in the doorstep for a long time before stepping into the house. The dim lamplight spilled across the living room floor, catching the edge someone standing upstairs where Richard stand, staring at something in his hand, like he always did now-distracted, detached, somewhere else.

She used to know him better than anyone. Now she wasn't sure if he even noticed when she left the room.

They hadn't spoken to each other for awhile, which worried her more than if they had. The silence had grown too wide, like a frozen lake between them. She wasn't sure if it could bear the weight of this conversation.

Still, she had to speak.

She immediately climb the stairs.

"Richard," she called out to him.

He looked up, startled a little, as if she were a stranger in the house.

He quickly hide his hand behind his back.

And answered, "Yeah?"

She swallowed. "Can we talk?"

She asked if he could spare her a moment and invited him to her room.

He sighed. Not loud, but enough for her to hear it. That subtle signal of reluctance, of impatience.

They both walked down to her room and she went ahead to prepare coffee.

She offered him but he refused.

Richard was also lost in thought on how to drop the news.

She gestured to the sofa opposite her. "please sit."

He complied, placing the envelope beside the sofa.

She walked over and sat across from him, on the edge of the bed, her frame thinner than he remembered, a patterned scalf wrapped around her neck . She looked up, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of surprise and resignation.

Knees brushing the coffee table, her hands clenched in her lap. She had rehearsed this a dozen times in her head, but now that the moment had come, her words felt tangled.

"Richard," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper .

He nodded, unsure of how to respond .

The rehearsed speech he had prepared evaporated from his mind .

A silence settled between them thick with unspoken words. Finally , Dera broke it.

I didn't call you here to reopen old wounds," she began, her gaze fixed on her clasped hands.

"But there's something I need to tell you."

Richard lean forward, concern flickering across his face. "What is it?"

She too a deep breath and, steadying herself, "I've been diagnosed with a terminal illness. And I need to go for treatment as soon as possible .

She too a deep breath and, steadying herself, "I've been diagnosed with a terminal illness. And I need to go for treatment as soon as possible .

The words hovered in the room, untouched.

For a moment, he didn't say anything. Just stared at her like he didn't understand the language she'd spoken. Richard was shocked, He paused, the words catching him off guard. "She's sick?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

A strange mix of concern and hesitation flickered across his face.

They hadn't spoken in weeks, maybe months without bitterness. Still, despite everything, a quiet knot formed in his chest.

"Damn," he whispered, the anger fading a little, replaced by something heavier.

And then he blinked, once, twice, and sat back in his chair like someone had punched the air out of him.

"What?" he asked, barely a whisper.

"I didn't know how to tell you," she said. "We haven't been... we're not exactly okay.

But I didn't have anyone to tell.

She waited, bracing herself-for anger, for disbelief, for him to walk away or break down or say something cruel.

But he didn't. His eyes welled, slowly, like he was surprised by his own emotion.

"How long?" he finally asked.

"They said months. Maybe less."

Silence again. But not cold this time. Heavy. Raw.

He looked at her, really looked at her for the first time in what felt like years.

And she wondered, bitterly, if it really did take dying to finally be seen

Dera informed him that it was because she needed guidance.

Dera informed him that it was because she needed guidance; that's why she's telling him this: that she won't bother him and she can't bring herself to tell her parents because they once lost a child, so it would be painful for them.

She told him she had an appointment with the doctor the next day and she would need him to follow her.

Richard went back to his room, and upon getting there, he realized he left the divorce papers in her room. He hid them under the chair, so he was thinking of how to go get them.

He sneaked into Dera's room; she was fast asleep, so he crawled to where the chair was, was directly opposite the bed.

He dipped his hand under the chair and took the divorce papers.

While trying to turn and go out, Dera woke up and faced him.

She asked him if he had started getting interested in her since he realized she was sick and would die soon.

Kola couldn't utter a word, as if something was in his throat.

He quickly got up and ran outside. At the back of the door, he breathed heavily

Richard lay on his side of the bed-his side, though the bed felt like a battlefield now, its empty half a reminder of everything unspoken.

He hadn't closed his eyes since the call.

Early. The word echoed uselessly in his mind. Like it made any of this better.

They hadn't spoken in months s. Maybe longer, if you didn't count the clipped arguments or icy silences in shared spaces. Anger had taken up residence in their home like an unwelcome guest neither knew how to kick out.

But now, all Richard could think about was her face. Not the angry one she'd worn last time they fought, but the one from years ago-smiling under golden afternoon light, barefoot in the kitchen, humming some stupid song he couldn't remember the name of.

He sat up, unable to stay still any longer. The room was too quiet, the sheets too cold. His hand ran through his hair as he stared into the dark. Regret sat heavy on his chest, heavier than anything he'd let himself feel in months.

Why hadn't he asked her if she was okay sooner?

Why hadn't he noticed?

He got up and paced to the window, looking out at the sleeping city. Cars passed like whispers. she was lying in a bed or curled on her couch, maybe scared, maybe angry. Maybe still hating him.

But he didn't care.

He just wanted to be there.

And for the first time in a long time, Richard realized he didn't want to fight anymore.

He just wanted her to know-he still cared. And if she'd let him, he'd prove it.

Even if it was too late to fix everything, it wasn't too late to start over.

The next day, they both left for the hospital. On their way, they were both quiet throughout their journey; the atmosphere was so weird as if two strangers met. This continued until they got to the hospital, parked the car, and entered the elevator.

They were going to the fourth floor, but someone from the second floor wanted to enter the elevator, so it stopped immediately.

The silence between them in the elevator was heavy, the kind that had become far too common. Dera stood with her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the glowing floor numbers. Richard leaned against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

They hadn't said a word since leaving the house.

"Seventh floor," the robotic voice announced.

As the elevator slowed, Richard suddenly straightened, his eyes narrowing toward the doors like he saw a ghost.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. "It's George. Don't move."

"What?" Dera turned, confused.

He ignored the bite in her voice and stepped toward her. "Just pretend. Please."

Before she could protest, he gently took her face in his hands, lowering his voice. "Just for a second. I need this to look real."

The elevator chimed. The doors began to part.

His face moved closer-not touching, just close enough to suggest affection. His hand grazed her waist like it used to, but with none of the old fire.

Dera's heart stuttered. Not because she wanted him to kiss her, but because of how well they could still fake something they'd both given up on.

A woman passed the opening with a polite smile, taking in the intimate moment without stopping. The doors slid shut again.

Richard stepped back immediately, his mask falling. "it was George," he muttered, moving to his side of the elevator again.

The elevator closed back, and he withdrew himself. Dera asked what the meaning of what he did was, and he said it was because the person who was about to enter was George. I guess he stopped because of the situation he saw us in.

Dera swallowed hard, adjusting her coat. "You were always good at pretending."

The elevator opened again, and they went straight to the doctor's office. When they entered, they greeted the doctor.

The doctor asked if it was her husband she had come with, and she answered, 'Yes, he is.'

The doctor went straight to the point.

He said, 'Will it be okay?' If he talks about her condition in front of her? Then she answered yes.

"We've run all the tests. It's serious," he said, voice low, as if saying it quieter would make it less true. "We'll need to act quickly, and it won't be easy."

The room seemed to dim for a second. Serious. The word echoed in her mind like a bell tolling somewhere far off. Her chest tightened, not from the illness, but from something more immediate-more painful.

Richard sat next to her. Not close. Not distant either. Just... there. Like he always was lately, hovering in that no-man's-land between resentment and duty. They hadn't really spoken in weeks-small talk, logistics, silence. Their home was quieter than it had ever been, and somehow, louder than she could stand.

Dera's eyes flicked toward him for the briefest moment. He was staring at the floor, jaw clenched, as if bracing for news he'd already expected.

Fear surged, raw and unfiltered, and she almost gasped-but didn't. She wanted to cry, to fall apart, to be held and told it would all be okay. But the man sitting next to her wasn't the one who used to do that anymore. They were broken, tired, bitter in all the ways two people could be. Still, he was here.

So she did what she always did: she swallowed it down.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said evenly, her voice steady even as her fingers dug into her palms. "What's the next step?"

The doctor explained, but the words melted into a blur. She nodded, asked the right questions, kept her posture straight. Every breath felt like effort. Richard didn't speak. He didn't reach for her hand.

She asked the doctor if her treatment could be delayed a little because she needed to sort some things out.

Richard was so out of it that he shouted at her, asking what was more important to sort out than her life.

Dera kept calm and told the doctor that they would visit him again as soon as possible.

Immediately, Dera informed the doctor that they would take their leave now, said goodbye, and asked Richard if he was not leaving, as he was still sitting like someone who was lost in thought.

He hesitated but eventually stood up, and they both left.

Richard had a lot of things to say to Dera but held them in until they got into the car.

He asked her if she was going to continue to be like this until the end, why did she always do what pleased her, and why did she always act like others' opinions didn't matter? Richard said a lot, but she kept a straight face and she was.

Richard tightened his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles white against the leather.

He had so much to say, his chest was full of it.

Not anger. Not entirely. Just... weight. The kind that builds when your words bounce off someone who doesn't seem to care. Or won't show they do.

Dera sat beside him, Her head leaned lightly against the glass, her breaths shallow but steady. She hadn't spoken much all day-just shrugged when he offered her tea, given a faint nod when he asked if she was ready to leave. No warmth. No softness.

That used to be different.

He wanted to tell her how tired he was of feeling like a shadow in his own marriage. Of her brushing things off with a laugh or a sigh when he reached out. Of the way she turned away-emotionally, sometimes physically-when he needed her to face things with him. He wanted to ask if she still loved him with the same fire, or if it had cooled without either of them noticing.

He wanted to say he felt alone sometimes. That being in the same house didn't mean they were still close. That he missed her.

But she was sick. And tonight, even as the cold shoulder stung more than the night air, he couldn't bring himself to speak it aloud. Not while she looked so fragile. Not while the color had drained from her cheeks and her eyelids fluttered with exhaustion.

So he drove. Silent.