Mara Vale had grown accustomed to the quiet hunger that lived in the corners of her apartment. It wasn't the kind of hunger that could be sated by bread or eggs; it was a hunger for security, for dignity, for the knowledge that she could one day make a life for herself that wasn't borrowed from luck or circumstance.
Her studio, Vale Stitch, was small and nestled between a barbershop that never closed and a mobile repair shop that smelled of solder and burnt plastic. The walls were painted a soft cream, faded in places, and the single fluorescent tube overhead flickered just often enough to remind her that nothing in life was perfect. Yet Mara loved it. Every fold of fabric, every stitch she made, was hers. Her hands were calloused from years of precise work, and she took pride in the way she could transform scraps into dresses that people would whisper about when they wore them out into the city.
"Mara! Eat before you collapse," her mother, Rose Vale, called from the small kitchenette at the back. Her hands were busy folding laundry, though Mara knew she'd also been watching her daughter, as always, with a careful, almost fearful eye.
"I will," Mara said, threading a needle. "Just… after this one."
Rose shook her head, not arguing. She never argued when it came to Mara. Rose had learned long ago that the world was dangerous enough without adding motherly confrontation to it.
Mara's life was a quiet rhythm of routine. Wake, work, count every naira, make sure every bill was paid on time. She dreamed of expansion, of a boutique of her own, of designing dresses that would be remembered. But ambition in a world like theirs was a double-edged sword; it inspired hope, but hope was fragile.
On that particular morning, Mara's focus was shattered in the most unexpected way.
The mall had never been a place Mara frequented. She preferred the open-air markets where bargaining was a sport and people's lives smelled like spices and effort. But a client had requested a meeting at a boutique store there, insisting that Mara could tailor a gown that "would make her shine."
Mara adjusted her dress, a simple gray sheath she had made herself, and smoothed her hair in the reflection of a shop window. She didn't like being nervous, but today she was. Something in the air seemed… different.
And then she felt it: the sensation of being watched.
It was subtle at first, like a shadow brushing against her shoulder. She looked up.
Across the atrium stood a man, tall, impossibly still, dressed in black from head to toe. Mara's heart skipped, but not because of fear. It was curiosity—an almost physical pull. He didn't move toward her. He didn't speak. Yet his presence filled the space between them, making the crowd around him blur into insignificance.
He was beautiful in a way that didn't feel human. Not in the way of exaggerated features or tailored suits, but in the way someone could exist and make the world bend around him without effort. Mara's stomach clenched. She had seen wealthy men before, men who flaunted power as if it were an accessory. But he… was different.
Luke Blue.
She didn't know his name yet. She only knew the pull of his gaze.
Mara looked away, pretending to check her phone. She was not used to being looked at in that way. Men glanced, sometimes leered, sometimes admired, but never did she feel the weight of someone's attention as if it were tangible, pressing against her chest.
When she dared to glance again, he was still there. Waiting. Watching.
Over the next few days, Mara began to notice things that she tried to dismiss as coincidence.
A bouquet of white lilies left at her studio, with no note.
A rare fashion book she had once admired, delivered by a courier.
A scarf of the finest silk, folded neatly on her chair one morning.
Each gift was carefully chosen, expensive but not ostentatious, meant to be observed, not flaunted. Mara felt both flattered and unnerved. Who could afford such things without explanation?
"Kai," she said one evening, holding the lilies, "do you know anything about this?"
Kai, her oldest friend, leaned lazily against the doorframe. There was always an edge of mischief in their smile, but tonight it was replaced by something more serious.
"Whoever it is," Kai said, "has taste. And money. A lot of it."
Mara's pulse quickened. "Is it… someone from school? Or—"
Kai shook their head. "No. Trust me. This is someone… dangerous."
Mara laughed nervously. "Dangerous? It's flowers and scarves. I think you might be overreacting."
Kai's eyes were sharp. "You'll see."
Two weeks later, Mara learned the truth.
Kai had taken a job as a maid in the Blue House, a mansion so vast it could swallow a dozen families and still feel empty. "I needed to see," Kai said when they returned one evening, face pale. "I needed to know what you're getting into."
Mara's hands trembled. "What do you mean?"
"They… they keep records. Old rituals. Documents locked in safes. Ledgers that go back generations," Kai whispered. "Mara… if you marry into that family, your firstborn—your child—will be claimed."
Mara laughed, a sharp, hollow sound. "That's… insane. Kai, are you serious?"
Kai's eyes glimmered with fear and certainty. "I've seen it. They sacrifice the first child. It's a vow. An ancient vow."
Mara's stomach lurched. Her mind raced. Images of her future child… the little body she would hold, the laughter she would never hear… Blood. Ritual. Sacrifice.
She shook her head violently. "No. This… this cannot be real."
Kai reached for her hand. "It is. I swear it. I came here to warn you."
Mara went home that night in a daze. She told her mother everything.
Rose Vale listened quietly, arms folded, eyes unreadable. After Mara finished, she shook her head.
"Kai doesn't want good things for you," Rose said softly. "They are jealous. Don't let fear destroy your chance at a better life. Don't let it make your heart smaller than it already is."
"But Mama…" Mara pleaded. "The child…"
Rose's hand rested on her shoulder. "Mara. Some things are frightening, yes. But some things… are opportunities. You cannot live in constant fear."
Mara went to bed that night feeling torn. Love and fear waged war in her chest. She dreamed of blood, of shadows, of her child taken from her hands. She woke up with tears staining her pillow, yet the image of the man who had haunted her thoughts—the quiet, watchful Luke Blue—also lingered in her mind.
By the end of the week, she had made her choice.
Luke Blue proposed.
She accepted.
And as she slid the ring onto her finger, a cold shiver traveled down her spine. She forced a smile. Fate, she told herself, could be reasoned with.
But Mara Vale was about to learn that some vows, no matter how ancient, were not open to negotiation.