From the doorway, Julius appeared, adjusting his cufflinks. He looked polished. Expensive. The kind of man people photographed at events like these.
"That's what you're wearing?"
Julius stood in the doorway, eyes scanning her dress with open disgust.
Aida looked down at herself. A simple knee-length dress. Modest. Professional.
"What's wrong with it?"
He stepped closer, circling her slowly. "You look like a church usher. My mother's hosting donors today, millionaires, Aida. And you want to show up looking like… that?"
"It's appropriate…"
"It's embarrassing." He yanked open the wardrobe, pulling out a fitted blouse and a pencil skirt she hadn't worn in years. "This. Wear this."
She stared at the outfit. It was tight. Unforgiving. The kind of thing that would make her hyper-aware of every breath.
"It doesn't fit anymore."
"Then make it fit," he snapped.
Her throat tightened. "Julius…"
"Why do you always fight me?" His voice dropped, dangerous and soft. "Why do you make everything so difficult?"
She took the clothes from his hands.
In the bathroom, she changed with shaking fingers. The skirt barely zipped. The blouse pulled across her chest.
When she came out, he nodded. "Better. Now you look like someone worth showing off."
She grabbed her bag.
"Not that one."
She froze. "What?"
"It's cheap. Use the one I bought you."
"You didn't buy…" She stopped herself.
She had bought it. With her own money. After he'd criticized her old bag in public.
But correcting him would only make things worse.
She switched bags.
He stepped closer, studying her. His hand lifted, and for a second, she tensed. But he only smoothed a strand of her hair back into place.
"Remember," he said softly. "We're perfect tonight."
She nodded.
"My mother invited some important people. Smile. Be gracious. Don't embarrass me."
"I won't," she whispered.
He kissed her forehead. Light. Performative.
"Good girl."
The Grand Marquee was stunning.
Chandeliers dripped light across the hall like liquid gold. Round tables dressed in white linen circled a stage where a banner read: Hope for Tomorrow Children's Foundation.
Aida stepped inside on Julius's arm, her heels clicking softly against marble floors.
People turned. Smiled. Nodded.
"Julius! So good to see you."
"Aida, darling, you look lovely."
She smiled. Thanked them. Played her part.
Across the room, she spotted the Zenith Capital banner near a sponsor table.
Her stomach tightened.
"I hope I won't be embarrassed by my husband today"
Julius guided her toward the center of the room where his mother held court, surrounded by women in expensive dresses and men in tailored suits.
"There's my son," his mother announced warmly, arms outstretched.
Julius embraced her. "Mama. You've outdone yourself."
"Only the best," she said, then turned to Aida. Her smile thinned. "Aida. You came."
"Of course, ma," Aida said, leaning in for the obligatory hug.
His mother's perfume was sharp. Floral and suffocating.
"You look well," his mother said, eyes scanning Aida's dress, her hair, her face, searching for flaws. "Though a bit thin. Are you eating properly?"
"I'm fine, ma," Aida replied.
"Hmm." His mother's gaze lingered. "Still no good news, I assume?"
Aida's smile froze.
Julius's hand tightened on her waist. "Mama, not tonight."
"I'm just asking," his mother said lightly. "Eight years is a long time, Aida. Some women your age already have three children."
The words landed like stones.
Aida's throat closed. She forced her voice to stay even. "We're trusting God's timing, ma."
"God's timing," his mother repeated, as if tasting the phrase. "Or perhaps you're too busy with work to focus on what matters."
Julius laughed softly. "Mama, please."
"I'm just saying," his mother continued, turning to the women beside her. "A man needs children. Legacy. What's the point of marriage if there's no fruit?"
One of the women nodded sympathetically. Another whispered something Aida couldn't hear.
Her chest burned.
She wanted to scream. Wanted to tell them about the eight years of doctors' appointments she'd attended alone. The tests. The humiliation. The monthly cycle of hope and crushing disappointment. The way Julius refused to get tested himself, insisting the problem was hers.
But she smiled instead.
"Excuse me," she murmured. "I'll get us some water."
Julius didn't stop her.
Aida moved through the crowd blindly, head down, hands trembling.
A man needs children. What's the point of marriage if there's no fruit?
She reached the refreshment table and gripped its edge, breathing slowly.
You're fine. You're fine.
"Ms. Aida?"
She turned sharply.
Nat stood a few feet away, holding a glass of wine, concern etched across his face.
"Nat," she said, forcing brightness into her voice. "I didn't know you were here."
"Zenith Capital's sponsoring," he said. "Mandatory attendance for me." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she said quickly.
He didn't look convinced.
"You left church pretty quickly yesterday," he said carefully. "I wanted to check in."
"I'm okay, I'm married" she insisted, hoping that he gets it. "Just… busy."
He nodded slowly, but his eyes searched hers.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then his gaze shifted past her shoulder, and something in his expression changed.
She followed his line of sight.
Julius was watching them from across the room.
Aida's stomach dropped.
"I should go," she said quickly.
"Of course," Nat replied. But he didn't move.
She hesitated, then lowered her voice. "Thank you. For yesterday. At church."
He smiled softly. "Anytime."
She walked away before her resolve cracked.
The evening stretched on.
Speeches. Applause. Laughter that felt too loud.
Aida sat beside Julius at their assigned table, hands folded in her lap, smile fixed in place.
His mother spoke from the stage, voice warm and commanding.
"…and we must remember that charity begins at home," she said. "We must nurture the next generation. Build families that honor God and community."
The crowd murmured approval.
Aida's fingers curled into fists beneath the table.
Julius leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. "Stop looking miserable."
"I'm not," she whispered.
"You are." His hand found her thigh under the table. Squeezed. Hard. "Smile."
She did.
His grip tightened until pain shot up her leg.
"Better," he murmured.
Then he released her and clapped along with the crowd as his mother finished her speech.
Aida's leg throbbed. She didn't move. Didn't flinch.
Across the room, Nat glanced in her direction.
Their eyes met for half a second.
She looked away first.
During the dinner service, Aida excused herself to the restroom.
She walked quickly, heels clicking against marble, desperate for a moment alone.
The restroom was empty. Quiet. She locked herself in a stall and leaned against the door, breathing hard.
Her leg still ached where Julius had gripped it.
She closed her eyes.
And suddenly, she was fourteen again.
The cafeteria. Afternoon light streaming through tall windows.
She'd been sitting alone, reading, when he appeared.
Maxwell. The boy who'd made her school years hell.
"Still ugly, I see," he said, loud enough for others to hear.
Laughter rippled through nearby tables.
She kept her head down. Tried to ignore him.
But he didn't leave.
He grabbed her book. Tossed it across the floor.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you."
She stood. "Leave me alone."
"Or what?"
He shoved her. Hard.
She stumbled back, hip slamming into the table's edge.
Something inside her snapped…
A toilet flushed nearby.
Aida gasped, snapping back to the present.
Her hands were shaking. She pressed them against her thighs, counting breaths.
One. Two. Three.
The restroom door opened. Closed. Footsteps faded.
She was alone again.
She stared at her reflection in the stall door's metallic surface, distorted, unfamiliar.
When she returned to the table, Julius was laughing with a group of men.
He didn't acknowledge her.
She sat down quietly, smoothing her dress.
His mother appeared moments later, leaning close to Julius. "Who was that man Aida was speaking to earlier?"
Julius's jaw tightened. "What man?"
"By the refreshment table. Tall. Well-dressed."
Aida's heart stopped.
Julius turned to her slowly. "Who were you talking to?"
"A colleague," she said quietly. "From work."
"A colleague," he repeated.
"Yes."
His mother smiled thinly. "He seemed very interested in you."
"It was nothing, ma," Aida said.
Julius's hand found her wrist under the table. His grip was iron.
"We'll discuss this later," he murmured.
She nodded.
His mother walked away, satisfied.
Julius released her wrist and returned to his conversation as if nothing had happened.
Aida's pulse hammered in her ears.
Across the room, Nat stood near the exit, phone in hand.
He glanced up.
Their eyes met again.
This time, she didn't look away.
And for one fragile second, she saw something in his expression that terrified her more than Julius's anger.
Recognition.
Not of her success. Not of her beauty.
Of her pain.
He saw her.
The ride home was silent.
Julius drove with both hands on the wheel, jaw tight.
Aida stared out the window, watching streetlights blur past.
"You embarrassed me tonight," he said finally.
Her stomach dropped. "I didn't…"
"Talking to that man. In front of everyone."
"He's my colleague. It was work."
"I don't care," Julius snapped. "You don't talk to other men like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're available."
She turned to him. "I wasn't…"
His hand shot out and grabbed her jaw, forcing her to face him.
The car swerved slightly.
"Don't argue with me," he said quietly.
Pain bloomed where his fingers dug into her skin.
"Okay," she whispered.
He released her and straightened the wheel.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
At home, Julius went straight to the bedroom.
Aida stood in the kitchen, staring at nothing.
Her phone buzzed.
She pulled it out.
Nat (Work): I hope tonight wasn't too exhausting. You seemed… uneasy. If you ever need anything, I'm here.
Her breath caught.
From upstairs, Julius called her name.
Sharp. Impatient.
She stared at the message.
Then deleted it.
But this time, she didn't regret it.
This time, she memorized every word.