CHAPTER ONE
POV
Mira
The Morning of Destiny
The shrill cry of my alarm shattered the quiet of my room, ringing with an urgency that felt almost personal. I groaned, pulling the pillow over my head, but the stubborn machine refused to surrender.
It was 6:00 a.m., the time I had promised myself I would rise.
That morning was not like any other. The air felt different—thicker somehow, as if the universe itself held its breath. I was tired but I can't remain on bed if I don't want my colleagues to eat up my ear drum.
I shook off the uneasy feeling and rose, reminding myself of the task ahead:
A visit to the Nigerian Immigration Office to finally process my passport. A single document, but to me, it was the key to a dream long delayed.
'I think you may want to know who I am! I am my family's miracle baby girl, the believe of my mother and father and love of every member of my family.
My name is Miracle, though most people hardly use it. Friends call me Mira.
Mama calls me Mimi, and when my neighbors are in high spirits, they sing out MeMe as though I am their shared delight. But none of these names carried the weight of what fate had stored for me.
Hmmm, my life is always full with drama's every Monday morning; waking up to do my morning routines.
I dressed quickly, slipping into jeans and a simple blouse, tying my scarf with the kind of precision Mama always teased me about. As I adjusted the last knot, a soft knock came on my door.
"Mimi, you're awake?" Mama's voice floated in, warm and groggy. She always do this and I love her daily!
"Yes, Mama," I replied, pulling the door open. She stood there in her wrapper, hair tied with a scarf, eyes still heavy with sleep.
"You didn't even wait for me to wake and pray for you," she scolded gently, stepping into the room.
"I didn't want to disturb you," I said with a sheepish smile. "Besides, I already prayed a little."
Mama gave me a long look, the kind that stripped away excuses. Then she laid her hand on my shoulder and muttered a quick prayer anyway, whispering words of protection and favor. Her voice was low, steady, almost commanding.
"Amen," I breathed.
She touched my cheek. "Remember, documents can delay, officers can frustrate, but destiny cannot be denied. Go with boldness, my daughter." And may God go ahead of you and bless you'!
Her words lingered with me long after I left the house.
Outside, the North-Central' sun had only just begun its slow climb, drenching the streets with a hazy glow. The familiar sights and sounds of Abuja wrapped around me—the smell of akara (a local beans cake) frying in hot oil, the laughter of children chasing one another barefoot, and the piercing calls of vendors balancing trays of oranges on their heads.
At the bus stop, the chaos had already begun. Conductors leaned dangerously from the sides of danfo (name of a bus) buses, yelling destinations.
"Area one! Berger! Area one!" one shouted. Well,' these are areas where companies and organizations are located,' they are corporate world on their own.
"Nyanya straight, last seat remain!" another barked.
'I raised my hand, flagging one down. The conductor's eyes skimmed me quickly. "Fine girl, enter na! Where you dey go?" meaning where am going, broken English is every day slang in Nigeria.
"Immigration office," I said, climbing in.
"Eh-hehn. Two hundred naira," he announced.
"That's too much. It's normally one-fifty," I argued.
He grinned, revealing a gap-tooth. "Madam, today na Monday no be Saturday. Everything don cost. Enter before I change my mind." This part of the world, you don't need card to swipe in a bus to pay your fare, you enter the bus with your cash, the exact amount of the fare or you will have to fight the bus conductor boy to collect your change'. But they are fun, they can make your day feel great or terrible!
I shook my head but paid, squeezing myself into the narrow space between two women.
The woman by my left glanced at me with a tired smile. "My sister, na so we dey suffer every day. God will deliver us."
"Amen," I answered softly.
The ride was long and cramped. The air inside smelled of sweat, dust, and roasted plantain drifting through the windows. Conductors shouted, drivers argued, passengers groaned. Yet underneath the noise, I felt a strange pull inside me, as if my heart beat to a rhythm that wasn't entirely my own.
When I arrived, the line was already longer than I expected. Men and women fanned themselves under the hot sun, muttering complaints, clutching documents like lifelines. Sweat rolled down faces, papers fluttered like restless wings, and an impatient officer barked instructions no one cared to follow.
I found my place in the queue, pressing my small bag to my chest. The immigration office are full of people today of all days that I decided to start my travelling preparations.
"See line, eh," the man in front of me muttered, shaking his head. "If you no get strong leg, you go faint today."
"God forbid," the woman behind me hissed, already fanning herself with a file. "I just hope they don't close before I reach inside."
I gave a nervous laugh. "I think we'll all make it."
"You never know with these people," the man said darkly. "Sometimes, they'll just tell you to come back tomorrow. Waste of time and money." They can be so frustrating!
I stayed quiet after that, clutching my documents tighter, praying today wouldn't be that kind of day.
'Then it happened'!
The moment that shifted everything.
A sudden gust of wind whipped through the crowded compound, carrying with it the scent of earth after rain, even though the skies were clear. The wind teased the edge of my scarf, sent loose papers spiraling, and drew irritated gasps from the crowd.
But to me—it was different. I closed my eyes for a heartbeat, inhaling. It was wild, raw, and strangely comforting, like a call from someplace far beyond Abuja.
When I opened them, I froze'.
Across the road, just beyond the restless crowd, a man stood watching me.
He was tall, impossibly so, his shoulders broad as though carved by unseen hands. His skin glowed under the morning sun, not with sweat like the rest of us, but with something otherworldly. And his eyes—dear God, his eyes—were the color of molten gold, fixed on me with a hunger that both terrified and thrilled.
The man in front of me nudged my arm. "Sister, abeg move forward. The line don shift."
I barely heard him. My gaze was locked on the stranger.
For a moment, the sounds of Abuja dulled to silence. No shouting conductors, no buzzing traffic, no muttering queue. Just him and me.
My heart pounded, wild and unsteady. I didn't know him, yet somehow, deep within, a part of me whispered his name without ever being taught:
"Alpha".
And though I tried to look away, I couldn't. It was as if invisible threads pulled me toward him, weaving me into a destiny I hadn't chosen. He didn't smile, didn't move—he only watched, his gaze burning through the distance, branding me with a claim I did not understand.
The air grew heavy, charged, and for a second, I swore I could hear the faint echo of a wolf's howl in the distance—low, haunting, almost impossible in the middle of the city.
"Mira?" the woman behind me tapped my arm. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I blinked, and just like that—he was gone.
The line shuffled forward. The officer barked at the next person to step ahead. The vendors outside called for customers.
Everything was back to normal.
But I knew.
That day, at the immigration office, I hadn't just taken the first step toward America.
I had taken the first step toward him!
The Alpha King.
And just as I shifted forward in the line, a voice brushed against my ear, low and commanding, though no one was near enough to speak to me.
"Mine."
I spun around, heart hammering, but the golden-eyed stranger was nowhere to be found.
'I look at myself and smile; because Mama is not with me. if Mama was to be with me right now, she will start speaking in tongues and praying before she will ask me examination questions like
'What did you see?
'Are you sick?
'Are you been chased by a ghost?
Mimi' tell me the truth'! You zoom off!
'When Mama ask questions, she will patiently wait for you to respond. How can I explain my illusion of seeing a Man watching me a far off!
'A man I perceived his powerful Aura over me'!
'A man that commands my attention and body!
In my world', "the part of the world I was born in," 'this is impossible'!
'Hmmm, 'Am I insane?