Chapter 5

Rora’s POV

The word “married” hangs in the air between us, sharp and impossible.

I stare at him, my brain scrambling to catch up. I think I must have fainted again. I think this is a dream inside a dream, something my  mind has cooked up..

 A proposal? 

Now? 

Because of… this?

“umm.. You don’t have to do that,” I finally whisper. My voice sounds thin and far away, like it’s coming from someone else. “This isn’t your responsibility. It was one night. A mistake.”

“This baby isn’t a mistake,” Ethan says. His voice is low, but it fills the quiet room. He hasn’t let go of my hand. His thumb moves, just once, across my knuckles. It’s the smallest touch, but it sends a shiver down my spine.

“And I am not offering out of obligation.”

“Then why?” The question tears out of me.

 I’m confused, scared, and my heart is beating so hard it hurts. “You don’t know me. 

After what happened… after the money I left…” I can’t even finish. Shame heats my face.

A faint, almost invisible smile touches his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes,

And his eyes watching me so closely makes me feel exposed.

And he whispered 

“You paid for a service. I was… adequately compensated.”

Now I want the hospital bed to swallow me whole. I try to pull my hand back, but his grip tightens, just a little.

 Not enough to hurt. 

Enough to make me stay.

“I am offering,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing each word with care, “because I want to. Because seeing you on your knees yesterday made me feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. 

Anger.

 A need to fix what was broken.” He pauses. “And because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that night.”

My breath catches. I search his face for a lie, for pity, for the cruel joke this must be. I find none of those things. His expression is serious, intense. It’s a lot to take in.

“I have one billion naira in debt,” I say, laying the ugliest truth between us. “My family’s name is mud. People like Liam and Malice will use this against you. Against us.

 It’s a scandal waiting to happen.”

“Let them try,” he says, and the simple confidence in those three words is more powerful than any shout. “The debt will be handled. Consider it an advance on your salary. A very long-term advance.”

“That’s not a salary, that’s a fortune,” I argue weakly.

He finally releases my hand and stands up. He walks to the window, looking out at the city. His back is to me, broad and straight. 

“I am not a good man, Rora. I am not kind or gentle by nature. I am used to getting what I want, and I do not let go of what is mine.” He turns back to face me. “I want you. And that child is mine.

 So the answer is simple.”

The way he says it ‘what is mine’ should scare me. It should feel possessive and cold.

 But

 instead, a strange, tired part of me feels… anchored. For so long, I’ve been drifting, pulled under by a current too strong to fight.

 Here is someone saying, firmly, that he will not let me drown.

“What about love?”

 The question is out before I can stop it.

 It’s a foolish, romantic question, the kind my old self would have asked. The girl who believed in engagement parties and happy endings.

Ethan walks back to the bed. He doesn’t sit. He looks down at me, and his gaze is so direct it feels like a physical touch.

 “Love is a complicated word. It can be grown. It can be built. I can offer you respect. Protection. Loyalty. A home where no one will ever make you kneel again. I can offer you a partnership. 

The rest…” He shrugs, a small, elegant movement. “We will see what the rest becomes. But I will not lie to you. I am not offering a fairy tale.”

It’s the most honest proposal I’ve ever heard. It’s not wrapped in pretty promises. It’s a contract, plain and stark. Safety for me and the baby. In return… he gets me.

I look down at my flat stomach. There’s a life in there. A tiny, unexpected consequence of the worst night of my life. 

This baby didn’t ask for any of this 

for debt, for scandal,

 for a mother who is broke and broken.

 This baby deserves safety. 

It deserves a chance.

I think of my father in his cold cell. I think of my mother’s final, desperate choice. I have been trying to carry a mountain on my back, and I am so, so tired.

I lift my head and meet Ethan’s waiting eyes.

“Okay,” I say. The word is barely a whisper.

“Okay?” he repeats, needing confirmation.

I take a deeper breath. “Yes. I will marry you.”

There’s no dramatic change in his expression. No smile of victory. Just a slow nod, as if we’ve settled an important business deal. But I see it then a slight relaxation in his shoulders, a faint gleam in those dark eyes that might be satisfaction.

“Good,” he says.

 “The doctor says you can be discharged this evening. Rest today. Mark will bring you some things. Tomorrow, you move into my home.”

“So soon?” The reality of it crashes down. Leaving my tiny, empty apartment. Living with him.

“Is there a reason to wait?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.

I shake my head sluggishly. No. There is no reason. My old life is just a shell.

He picks up his suit jacket from the chair. “I have meetings. Mark will be outside if you need anything.

 I will see you tonight.”

He starts to leave, then stops at the door. He looks back at me. “One more thing, Rora.”

“Yes?”

“The next time someone tries to humiliate you,” he says, his voice dropping into that calm, dangerous tone I’m starting to recognize, “you look them in the eye and you tell them to take their complaint to your husband.”

Then he’s gone.

I sink back into the pillows, my mind buzzing. My husband. The words feel foreign and heavy.

A nurse comes in a while later, smiling. “Feeling better, dear? Your husband is quite something, isn’t he? So concerned.”

I just nod, a fake smile on my lips. Husband. It’s going to take a while to get used to that.

True to his word, Mark arrives in the afternoon. He doesn’t come in, but a delivery person brings in bags and boxes soft, expensive-looking bags from stores I’ve only ever walked past. Inside are clothes: simple, beautiful dresses, comfortable trousers, soft sweaters. 

There are toiletries, slippers, even a new phone. It’s not a trousseau. It’s a wardrobe. A replacement for everything I sold.

There’s no note. Just the unspoken message: your old life is over. Here is your new one.

When Ethan returns that evening, he helps me from the hospital bed. His hand is firm under my elbow. We don’t speak much.

 He leads me down to a car that is so sleek and quiet it feels like we’re moving in a bubble.

We drive to a part of the city I’ve never been to, where the houses are hidden behind high walls and gates. 

His home isn’t a flashy modern monster; it’s a grand, older house made of stone, with elegant lines and a quiet garden. It feels solid. Permanent.

A friendly, older woman named Mrs. Davies greets us. “Welcome home, Miss Grayson,” she says, her eyes kind.

“Thank you,” I murmur, feeling like an imposter.

Ethan shows me to a room. It’s not his room, I notice. It’s a spacious, sunlit bedroom with its own bathroom. The decor is soft creams and pale blues, peaceful and inviting. A fire crackles in the fireplace.

“This is yours,” he says. “Rest. Dinner will be ready when you are.”

He hesitates in the doorway. “The debt,” he says. “Consider it settled. I will have the paperwork for you to sign tomorrow. A formality.”

He’s just erased a mountain with a sentence. The relief is so immense it’s dizzying. Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away. I won’t cry. Not now I whisper to myself. 

“Thank you,” I say again, the words inadequate.

He nods. “This is not a transaction, Rora. This is a fresh start.”

After he leaves, I walk to the window. The garden below is neat and still in the evening light. I place a hand on my stomach.

“Fresh start,” I whisper to the quiet room, while the fresh wind brushes through my ears.

And I smile, to the tiny life inside me. It feels fragile, this new beginning I said. It feels terrifying.

But for the first time in a very long time, it also feels like hope.