The three dots on his phone screen pulsed for an eternity. Adams sat on the edge of the cheap hotel bed, each second stretching into a lifetime of dread. Trisha fussed softly, confused by the unfamiliar, sterile smell of the room. He had just betrayed his entire family, his entire world, for a sliver of a chance. If Lara rejected him now, the abyss would swallow him whole.
His phone buzzed. A single message.
Lara: Room number?
The relief was so potent it made him lightheaded. He typed the number with trembling fingers.
Fifteen minutes later, a sharp knock echoed through the small room. Adams opened the door to find Lara standing there, her arms crossed, her expression a turbulent mix of fury, suspicion, and a reluctant, deep-seated concern for her niece. Her eyes did a quick, brutal inventory of the shabby room, his duffel bag, and Trisha on the bed.
"So. The prince has left the castle," she said, her voice devoid of warmth. She stepped inside, not waiting for an invitation. "And you brought the heir apparent with you. I assume your mother is currently burning the Abuja phone lines down looking for you both."
"I left her a note. Told her not to look for us," Adams said, his voice quieter than he intended.
Lara let out a short, humorless laugh. "Oh, that'll stop her. I'm sure she's respecting your privacy." She walked over to the bed and picked up Trisha, her demeanor softening infinitesimally as she held her niece. "Hey, sweet girl. What mess has your daddy gotten you into?"
She turned her sharp gaze back to Adams. "Mina doesn't know you have her, does she?"
Adams shook his head, a fresh wave of guilt washing over him. "I couldn't leave her there, Lara. Not with… them. Not after everything."
"You should have thought of that before you decided to become a human wrecking ball," she fired back, but the heat was gone from her words. She was assessing the situation, moving into pragmatic mode. "You can't stay here. This is the first place they'll look. And you can't keep a baby in a hotel room."
"I know," he admitted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I just… I didn't know where else to go."
Lara studied him for a long moment, seeing the genuine desperation, the utter lack of his former arrogance. She sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "I know a place. It's not much. A friend of a friend has a 'face-me-I-face-you' apartment in Gwarinpa. One room. The bathroom is outside. It's… humble."
The description was a world away from the penthouses and mansions he was used to. It sounded like paradise.
"Thank you," he said, the words imbued with a gratitude that went deeper than the offer of housing.
"Don't thank me," she said curtly, pulling out her phone. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for her." She nodded at Trisha. "And for my sister, who would skin me alive if I left her child in a flophouse. Now, get your bag. We're leaving before your family's private security shows up."
An hour later, Adams stood in the middle of a single, sparsely furnished room. The paint was peeling near the ceiling. A single ceiling fan whirred lazily, struggling against the afternoon heat. The sounds of the neighborhood—children playing, vendors calling, music from different apartments—filtered through the thin walls. It was loud. It was alive. It was real.
Lara handed Trisha back to him. "Rent is paid for three months. That's your runway. There's a market down the road. There's no driver. No cook. Figure it out."
She turned to leave but paused at the door. "I'll tell Mina you have Trisha and that she's safe. What happens after that is between you and her. Don't make me regret this, Adams. If you hurt that child, or if you run back to Mummy at the first sign of trouble, I will personally ensure you regret it."
The door closed behind her, leaving him in the overwhelming silence of his new life.
The first night was a comedy of errors. Trisha, unsettled by the new environment, cried incessantly. Adams, who had never so much as warmed a bottle, fumbled with the kettle, scalding his hand and creating a formula mixture that Trisha promptly rejected. He had to navigate the shared bathroom in the middle of the night, holding a crying baby, feeling the curious and judgmental eyes of neighbors.
He was exhausted, frustrated, and utterly out of his depth.
But a strange thing happened. As the sun rose the next morning, casting light through the single window onto the worn linoleum floor, he felt a sense of accomplishment. They had survived the night. He had, through trial and horrific error, managed to feed and change his daughter.
He went to the market later that day, Trisha strapped to his chest in a carrier Lara had left. He was jostled by the crowd, haggled poorly over plantains, and felt a profound disconnect from the man who used to sign million-dollar deals. But he did it. He bought food. With his own money from his rapidly dwindling stash.
Sitting on the thin mattress on the floor that evening, feeding Trisha her successfully prepared formula, he looked around the tiny room. It was shabby. It was a far cry from the life he'd promised Mina on their wedding day.
But it was his. Every peeling patch of paint, every sound through the wall, every struggle—it was all his. For the first time since the accident, he wasn't a patient, a victim, or a guest in someone else's life.
He was just a man in a room, trying to figure out how to be a father.
He pulled out his phone. He didn't call Mina. He hadn't earned that right. Instead, he took a picture. Not of his daughter's smiling face, but of the room itself. The simple, ugly, beautiful truth of his new reality. He sent it to Lara with a simple message.
Adams: We're okay.
It was the first completely honest thing he'd said in a year. The cliffhanger was no longer about survival, but about growth. Could the prince truly learn to live as a pauper? And if he could, would it be enough to ever win back his queen?