Tola stood before her mirror adjusting the straps of her sleek tank top, letting just enough of her cleavage show to command attention without seeming desperate. Her curves were effortless, full, balanced, hypnotic in motion. She slipped into a fitted leather skirt that hugged her hips perfectly, paired with tall leather boots that turned her walk into a statement.
Her dark-red bone-straight hair fell sharply down her back, glossy and commanding every strand screaming wealth, beauty, and power.
She met her friends outside minutes later, women who were equally bold, thick, and fiercely confident. Together they stepped into the waiting car, drawing stares even before the engine started. Though they were all beautiful, there was no competition. Tola's presence dominated effortlessly.
The moment they arrived at the club, attention shifted toward them like gravity. Heads turned. Phones lifted. Whispers rippled through the room.
Because Tola had arrived, VIP status was assumed.
The DJ caught sight of her and immediately announced her presence. Laughter and cheers erupted as she playfully sprayed bills into the air. The hypeman echoed her name repeatedly until the club roared with excitement. After the thrill settled, the night returned to rhythm music, dancing, and reckless joy.
At their VIP booth, wealthy young men gathered in confident clusters. Expensive watches glinted beneath pulsing lights. They were good-looking, successful, and clearly eager but none stirred interest in her. They were all too young, too fresh.
Tola preferred men with history. Power. Command.
Men like Chief Job.
Still, the crowd around her grew heavier—requests for numbers, lingering glances, persistent compliments. She brushed them off until one presence held her attention.
Francis.
Tall. Dark-skinned. Well-built. His head was bald, framed by a tied bandana. Glasses rested neatly against his face, adding an unexpected softness to his rugged look. Clad simply in a black T-shirt, he stood apart from the others, not flashy, not desperate, just… observing.
Their eyes locked across the room.
Tola felt something unusual stir.
Yet she dismissed it quickly. She knew the script too well. men stared because they wanted something. She grew restless soon after and decided to leave.
Her friends knew better than to argue when Tola changed her mind. Once she chose to go, nothing could stop her.
Outside the club, purse slung over her shoulder, she almost stepped past him.
"Hi."
She paused.
The stranger was closer now, cooler up close than she had expected.
"Hello," she replied.
"I'm Francis," he said, extending his hand.
"Tola."
Their fingers touched briefly.
They spoke for a while—small talk that flowed unexpectedly well. He was charming, humorous, genuine. For the first time in a long while, conversation came easily without ulterior motives draped beneath it.
When he asked for her number, she surprised herself by saying yes.
That night, after refreshing at home, Tola settled into her living room with a series playing quietly on the television. Her phone buzzed.
Francis:
I just wanted to say—your aura is beautiful. The way you carried everyone tonight was generous and powerful.
She smiled to herself.
It's funny, she thought, he talks to me like I'm not even a celebrity.
Days passed. Their messages multiplied. Calls stretched late into the night. Laughter became routine. Comfort returned.
Before long, they were dating.
Of course, Chief Job and the others still hovered in the background; financial obligations could not be dropped so easily. But Francis felt different. Real.
He gave her hope.
He reminded her that beyond money and charm, there was still meaning in connection. With him, her life began to feel fuller again—happier.
Still, something about her contentment felt fragile.
The last time she had felt this light was when her body had first transformed—when beauty opened the floodgates of sponsorships, fame, endorsements, and wealth. Back then, happiness had arrived with excitement and validation.
Now, for the first time, it was arriving quietly.
…and she didn't know which version of happiness would last.