Chike leaned back in the leather sofa of his lavishly furnished sitting room, a glass of whiskey sweating slowly in his palm. The chandelier above him shimmered dimly, casting tired shadows across the room. The evening was cool, but his phone was still warm in his hand. He dropped it gently on the side table as if ending the call took some weight off his shoulders.
"Send me your bank account number now," he had said firmly just moments ago.
"Yes, sir," the voice had responded without hesitation, flat and precise.
"I'll do the transfer once I get your message. And please… keep to your word," Chike added, his voice tight with the quiet urgency of a man playing a dangerous game.
"That won't be a problem, sir. Once I get the alert, consider it done."
That was the last thing he heard before the line went dead. He exhaled sharply, eyes falling on his daughter sitting beside him. Purple, her nickname, was coined from her obsession with everything purple, right from when she was small. She was lounging with her legs curled up on the sofa, a bottle of polish in one hand and a thin brush in the other, applying it with exaggerated care to her long nails.
"Are you happy now?" he asked, not lifting his eyes from her hands.
"Very much happy, Daddy," she replied, flashing a casual smile without looking at him.
There was a silence. Not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken things.
Chike watched her. She looked so young, so carefree, headphones slung loosely around her neck, her phone lighting up every few seconds with messages that made her giggle. He saw in her a version of himself, but without the years of regret and quiet guilt etched into the wrinkles around his eyes.
"Anything I can do to make you happy," he said at last, "I'll do it. No matter the cost."
She turned to him, eyes sparkling. "Thanks, Daddy. Studying abroad has always been my dream."
"I know, dear."
"And I can't wait to start my Master's degree. It'll be fun. I'll make lots of friends... white friends," she added with a giggle, as if the idea of social status came automatically with skin color.
Chike's smile faded.
"But the senior lecturer... he said your results are poor. You've been attending lectures, haven't you?" he asked, trying to hide the concern in his voice.
She paused, brushing the last nail with polish before looking at him.
"Maybe I haven't been studying as hard as I should. But once I get selected for Cambridge, I'll do better. I promise I'll become the best student, Daddy."
Chike almost laughed, but it came out as a low sigh.
"You? Do better? Become the best student?" he asked, looking at her as though trying to decipher a puzzle. He knew his daughter, not the version she presented to the world, but the real one. The one who was more at home in nightclubs than lecture halls.
"Daddy, don't you believe in me?"
"I do, my daughter. But I also know you," he said. "The senior lecturer said your stepsister was among the best five candidates. He called her focused, disciplined. But how can I allow another man's daughter to get ahead of my flesh and blood? That's why I'm sacrificing everything and... bribing your way through. This isn't a small risk, Purple. They had to remove her name, so we can secure a spot for you, and the huge transfer I'm about to make now will shake my expenditure account."
She looked down briefly. "Yes, Daddy. I know. And don't worry, I'll make you proud."
"You say that now... but will you really change?" he asked, a tired edge creeping into his voice. "You'll have to stop smoking, stop drinking, stop partying all night. You'll have to cut off those so-called 'friends' of yours."
She rolled her eyes slightly.
"Okay, Daddy, but that's not a promise, though," she said, rising from the sofa and stretching her limbs like a lazy cat. Then she walked out of the room, swaying casually in her silk shorts.
Chike stared at the doorway long after she had gone.
He thought about the things he'd ignored over the years. The whispered comments from his club employees about the girl who came in every weekend, always dressed to kill. How she laughed too loud, drank too much, smoked like she was born with the habit. The rumors that she slept with older men, his clients, and called them her "sugar daddies" like it was some badge of honor.
He had dismissed it all.
"She's young," he'd told himself. "She'll grow out of it. After all, she took after his raffish lifestyle."
But she hadn't. And now she was everything he had once been, or maybe worse. A mirror. A reflection of choices he never undid. A daughter following in her father's footsteps, not because she wanted to, but because she didn't know any other way.
When his wife died giving birth to Purple, he thought the pain would break him. In his grief, he tried remarrying, hoping a new wife would tame the wildness in him. But no woman ever could. Running a club didn't help; it only gave him more access to the vices he pretended to resist.
And now… the girl he loved the most had become just like him.
He picked up his phone again, staring blankly at the blank screen. The transfer would go through soon. And maybe, just maybe, that money would buy his daughter one more chance at redemption.
But in his heart, he feared it was already too late.
Miguel brought his polished black car to a slow stop in front of Star's quiet house. The sun was beginning to dip behind the horizon, casting golden streaks across the dusty compound. He killed the engine, stepped out, and gently shut the car door, taking a moment to adjust the collar of his crisp white agbada. It was freshly pressed and expertly tailored, a symbol of pride and dignity, paired with polished black leather shoes that reflected the fading light like glass.
He wasn't just here to visit.
He was here to explain and to apologize. The air was heavy with silence as he made his way toward the entrance. He had prepared a hundred words in his head during the drive, heartfelt, sincere, pleading. But something felt wrong. The compound was unusually still. No light flickered from the windows, no sound of music, and no movement.
When he reached the door, he noticed it had a thin layer of dust, like it hadn't been touched in days. He paused, frowning, then raised his hand and knocked, but there was no response.
He knocked again, this time harder, his knuckles loudening against the hardwood. Still nothing.
"Star?" he called softly, peering through the glass pane, but it revealed only darkness within. He leaned in closer and noticed that the padlock was locked from the outside.
His chest tightened.
"She's not home?" he whispered to himself, frustration simmering beneath his calm.
He stepped back and exhaled deeply, fighting the urge to curse aloud. He turned, ready to leave, when his eyes caught something on the ground, a piece of paper weighed down by a small stone, lying just beside the doorstep.
Curious, he bent down and picked it up.
The moment his eyes scanned the handwriting, a wave of recognition washed over him.
"This is Star's handwriting..." he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
His fingers trembled slightly as he unfolded the note. Then he began to read:
Dear Miguel,
Coming into my life, you taught me what love truly is. You made me feel like I mattered. You treated me with kindness, with care... like I was your entire world. You were the perfect man, the one I imagined growing old with. You are every woman's dream.
Maybe that's why my sister insisted that I leave you.
I'm sorry I ignored your calls and didn't reply to the messages. I needed time. Because I saw something that shattered me.
You, with her. My stepsister. The girl I trusted least. The one who has taken everything from me since we were little.
You said you hate heartbreak. But you broke me, Miguel.
You bled me dry.
The love I thought I had found in you became my nightmare. I realized I had been loving a shadow, one that smiled with me by day, and betrayed me at night.
You and I made promises.
We painted dreams together.
We planned the future.
But all of that... all of that was just me. Alone.
Do you remember Juice WRLD's Lucid Dreams?
We promised never to listen to it again because it reminded us of pain. But since that day I saw you with her, I've played it on repeat. It's become my anthem of betrayal.
Still, I tried to be strong. I tried to hold on. But life has a cruel sense of humor.
Purple has bought her way into Cambridge, my dream school. The one I spent sleepless nights working toward. I gave everything, Miguel. Every fiber of my effort. And she, dull and cunning like a serpent, slithered her way in through lies and bribery.
But I believe in justice. I believe that Karma is real, and that the God of the orphans never sleeps.
And then... the final blow. She came to me with an offer. ₦5 million to leave town. To disappear. To give you up. At first, I wanted to spit on that money.
But then I remembered the child growing inside of me.
Yes, Miguel... I'm pregnant. With your child. I was going to tell you on the day of our final exam or maybe on our convocation night. I had planned a surprise.
But fate beat me to it.
I didn't take the money because I wanted it. I took it because I have to protect our baby. I can't stay here anymore, not with the pain, not with the betrayal. I need to start over. For the sake of the tiny life growing inside me.
I'll be at the convocation night party.
But if we cross paths... please, don't speak to me.
Don't look at me like we're strangers who once had something.
Let me go quietly.
I love you, Miguel. I always will.
But some love stories don't have happy endings, and I guess mine is one.
Goodbye, and enjoy your life with her.
Star.
The letter fluttered from his fingers and dropped to the ground.
Miguel stood frozen, the words louring hard in his skull like thunder.
"Pregnant…?" he muttered.
He fell to his knees, slowly, as if his body could no longer carry the weight of the truth. The white agbada he wore was stained by the dusty ground, but he didn't care. His palms pressed into the dirt as tears spilled down his cheeks.
The last time he cried, he was ten, the day they buried his mother. He was twenty-two now. A grown man. A man who thought he had control over love. But this… this was something else.
He'd never cried for a woman before. Never let himself get too close. He had been a proud Casanova, smooth, detached, always in control with no strings attached. Women came and went. He never chased. Never committed. That was the rule until Star came into the picture.
Star had changed all that. With her quiet strength, her kind heart, her fierce eyes that could melt his anger. With her, it had been different. Real and peculiar and sacred. He was ready to make all sacrifices just for her; he loves her so much. And the day he had broken her hymen, he had assured her it was forever, and he would never break that promise.
But Purple had ruined it.
She had played her dirty games. Set her trap. Lied, manipulated, and destroyed the one thing he held dear. That twisted, jealous, empty shell of a woman had taken away his peace and shattered his soul.
Miguel raised his head slowly, dust on his face, fire in his eyes.
"No," he said, voice hoarse but steady.
"Nobody, not even Purple, will destroy this."
He stood up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
"You're carrying my child, Star. My baby. And I swear, I will find you. I will build us a home. We will live the life we planned. I don't care where you run, I'm coming for you."
His hands curled into fists.
"This... is far from over. No one is running away from this love."
He walked out of the compound, the letter left behind, fluttering in the breeze. His white agbada was no longer spotless, but his mind was clear. He made his way out with stains of dust on his bottom.