The Adukolapo residence doesn't feel as gloomy as before, but the tension in the air is unmistakable. My absence has stretched longer than my father expected, and word around the house says his patience is fraying. I had avoided my family, and my brothers in particular, hoping that distance would give me clarity. But I couldn't hide forever.
"Welcome, Mr. Aanoni, Water or tea, please?"
Gideon, the chauffeur, greets me with a smile.
That was one thing about Gideon. Fifteen years working under my father's tyranny, and he never once cracked. Not under the weight of insults, not even under the endless hours. Unshakable.
"Water with lemon, please. The cold's been getting to me lately," I reply, allowing him to escort me into the grand sitting room. I sink into the three-arm sofa my mother once imported overseas, a piece she swore no Nigerian craftsman could replicate.
My phone buzzes on the table.
Arin: Are you here now?
Me: I'm in the living room.
I toss the phone aside and absently pick up a fashion magazine, one of the many stacked neatly on the center table.
"Here's your water infused with fresh lemon, sir," Gideon says, carefully placing the glass before me. He makes a deliberate show of pouring, his wrist tilted with elegance. Then he looks up, making sure I notice his exaggerated care.
"Thank you, Gideon. That's enough."
I sip slowly. He struts out of the room, each step deliberate, one foot neatly after the other.
I can't help chuckling. "Bad guy."
Gideon had always been… expressive. Always proud, always polished, always a quiet rebellion in this house of rules. And now, apparently, flirtatious too.
"Sorry, bro—have you been waiting long?"
Arin's voice draws my attention. He slides into the seat beside me.
"Nah. I'm fine. How have you—"
"Aanoni, my dear rebel!"
My mother sweeps in before I can finish, silk lace rustling as she leans down to kiss both my cheeks.
"I'm great, Mum. Thanks for asking." I roll my eyes but shift to make room for her beside me.
"Great? Hmm." She adjusts her pink handmade lace, then lowers her voice as though confiding a great scandal. "Do you know your father has been fuming all day? Since morning, he hasn't stopped pacing."
I arch a brow but stay silent.
"He even called his brothers and friends—every one of them—ranting about you. Imagine! He even disturbed poor Uncle Lawson on vacation, ranting for four straight hours."
She squints and leans closer, whispering now, her gold earrings grazing my shoulder. "He's threatening to cut you out of the will. Said if you keep being stubborn, he'll have no choice."
She places a hand dramatically on her chest.
"But I cannot allow that. No child I carried with my own pain will ever be cast out."
"Mum, please," Arin interrupts. "We all know Dad will never—"
"Keep quiet," she snaps, shooting him a sharp look.
I set my glass down with a soft clink. "I'll handle it."
I rise, but she tugs at the hem of my shirt, holding me back.
"Just… take it easy," she pleads. "He's not in the best of shape anymore."
Her tone carries something heavier than her usual dramatics. I freeze, brows knitting.
"Is something wrong with him?" I ask.
Before she can answer, my father's personal assistant appears at the doorway. "Sir, your father will see you now."
"Thank you Ranti"
"Ahh, ahh—the star of the show! Welcome, sir, please have a seat!" my father mocks, his voice thick with sarcasm.
"No need for the theatrics. You called me here, and now I'm here. What do you want?"
I glance at my phone and notice a notification about Ere's new outfit launch—a fresh men's wear line crafted from yarn and wool. I scroll further and find her holding up one of the pieces, eyes bright with excitement.
I smile despite myself.
She looks so innocent here—untouched, unwrecked.
"Everyone at that party looked at me like I was wrestling with a child!" My father's voice snaps me out of my thoughts.
"Do you have any idea how much work I poured into building this legacy?!" He storms from behind his desk, his shoes striking the floor with force.
"This!" he shouts, stabbing a finger at me. "I gave you this! That little business you run in your cozy corner—I handed you that platform! And you stand here, looking me in the face, telling me you have no interest in the very empire that feeds you?!"
His laugh is harsh, and he puffs his cigar, the smoke curling like a warning through the air.
"I appreciate the privileges I've had," I reply, steady but sharp.
"But I will not be coerced, manipulated, or forced into running something I have no passion for. Ara and Arin are more than capable of carrying the company."
"Ara and Arin?!" he roars, his brows slashing down in fury. "Ara is a puppet! A weak little boy nodding 'yes, sir' to anyone with authority! And Arin? That one would rather hug the world than lead it!"
The words crash into me like stones. His voice isn't searching—it's declaring. He doesn't want a son to inherit. He wants a ruler. A tyrant.
A man like him.
A man like me.
"Tell me!" He jabs his chest with his finger. "Which of them can command a boardroom the way I do?! Which of them can crush opposition with a single word?! None! You are the only one with my blood, my fire, my ferocity to run this empire!"
He throws the cigar ash aside and paces the room with restless authority.
"Ara would crumble the second the board pushes back! Arin would sell his soul trying to keep everyone happy! But you—you have the discipline! The passion! The spine! You were built for this!"
"Ranti!" he barks.
She steps forward immediately, heels clicking, and he whispers something sharp into her ear before waving her off with a dismissive flick.
"I understand you want an heir, but Ara still makes the most sense, Dad." I say, standing. "He knows the ins and outs of the business. He's informed, he's current, he's ready. Unlike me—my head is buried in formulas, chasing the next distinct scent."
I turn to leave, but something gleams at the doorway. Ara's reflective glasses, half-hidden in the frame. My chest tightens.
Shit.
He's been listening.
"Ara is a disciple, not a leader!" my father thunders behind me, his voice shaking the room.
Ara stumbles back, retreating hurriedly down the hall before he can be caught.
I gently open the door, letting the cool breeze of the building wash over my face.
"Aanoni, what happened? We heard shouting. I thought I told you to take it easy," Mum says as she rushes toward me, tugging Arin along by the hand.
"It's settled, Mum. I won't be taking over."
"I already pitched some ideas to him for suggestions," I add, turning to leave—then I catch sight of Ara in the corner, walking down slowly.
"How far? You've been distant," I say, narrowing my eyes, trying to read the truth behind those neutral, humble eyes.
"I've been sleeping all day. Never mind me. How was your talk with Dad—did it go well?"
A lie. He just lied.
I hold his gaze, steady and unflinching, though I keep my tone even.
"Same old, same old. But don't worry—I'll handle it. You'll see soon enough."
I turn from them, my voice low but deliberate.
"Take care of each other. The storm isn't here yet."
And with that, I walk away, my steps calm, deliberate, echoing through the mansion as though the walls themselves should remember them.