CHAPTER FOUR

The air thickens with the weight of his presence. His anger radiates off him in waves, and I already know this won’t be a simple exchange.

Trailing behind him, almost hesitantly, are my siblings, Arin and Ara. They keep their heads low, their body language cautious, as if hoping to avoid becoming collateral damage.

My father is dressed in a similar agbada to mine, but his is far more elaborate. The beading on his white fabric glistens under the restroom’s dim lighting, woven intricately with gold. His *Fila (headgear for men)* matches white, with delicate gold embroidery at the tip. His beard is freshly trimmed, his regal red beads layered in descending sizes around his neck, and his polished black loafers gleam against the tiled floor.

He looks every bit the powerful man he is.

And right now, that power is directed at me.

“Ever since your teenage years, you’ve been nothing but defiant,” he starts, his voice sharp. “No sense of urgency. No responsibility. This family’s legacy was built on hard work, on consistency, on sleepless nights—”

And there it is.

The usual lecture.

The carefully constructed speech on how I am the family’s greatest disappointment.

His face is hard, his eyes cold, barely masking the disgust he feels toward me.

I hold my ground.

“I won’t have you talk to me that way,” I cut in, my voice steady, my tone sharp.

His brows lift in surprise.

“I’m an adult,”

I continue.

“I have my own responsibilities, my own company. The only reason I came here tonight was out of courtesy, as a member of this family, do not mistake that for an invitation to belittle me. I won’t have it.”

The room falls into silence.

For the first time, my father looks genuinely stunned. His mouth parts slightly, as if trying to process my audacity.

Behind him, Arin and Ara exchange nervous glances, their eyes silently pleading with me to stand down.

But *calm* is a word they relate to more than I ever could.

It’s why they are the way they are, always nodding, always agreeing, always molding themselves into the perfect, obedient children my father demands.

I, on the other hand, am different.

Rebellious.

Angry.

Darker.

Just like him.

The irony isn’t lost on me. We share the same temperament, the same sharp edges, the same storm beneath the surface. It’s both a blessing and a curse, depending on the situation.

And right now, it’s a battlefield.

The tension in the room grows thicker.

My brothers are sweating harder than I am.

My clapback was the first of many to come. It was rigid. Solid. Precise.

“I see…” My father chuckles darkly, pacing the length of the restroom. His fingers twitch at his sides, his expression unreadable, yet his anger is palpable. “I see that little business of yours has made your balls grow bigger, your ego fatter.”

He stops pacing. Then, suddenly—

“Your audacity!”

His voice booms through the restroom, the sheer force of it shaking the air. There’s no way the crowd outside didn’t hear that. The rage in his voice, the venom dripping from every syllable, it’s unmistakable.

He exhales sharply, eyes narrowing. “It’s your mother. She’s coddled you for too long, and now you think you can roll with the big boys, don’t you, Aanoni?”

Of course. My mother was always the easiest target. Every disappointment, every shortcoming, always landed at her feet.

“You’re only twenty-eight, yet you’re this oblivious.”

His voice drops lower, more measured, but no less cutting.

“Even Arin and Ara wouldn’t dare speak to me this way. Whatever you know now, whatever survival instincts you think you have…”

He wipes his mouth with a handkerchief, the gesture slow and deliberate.

“I paid for them.”

There it was.

The name-calling. The “I did this for you” lecture.

“So let me educate you, Mr. I own a business now.”

He leans in slightly, voice dripping with condescension.

“You’re fickle when it comes to business. You might have my bravery and my audacity, but you don’t have my tenacity or my trickery. And it takes a whole lot more than ‘I love perfumes’ to survive in this world.”

He steps back, adjusting the intricate gold embroidery on his agbada. “Child.”

That single word flips a switch in me.

I inhale sharply, steadying my tone before responding. “I may not be there yet,” I say, watching him freeze midstep, “but I’m well on my way.”

His jaw tenses.

“I might not be as tricky or manipulative as you’ve been all these years, but like you said, I’m a perfume seller. I don’t need deception. Authenticity is my watchword, and I wear it unapologetically.”

My voice drops lower. “Arin and Ara might shake in their boots and rehearse every sentence before speaking to their father,” I say, a humorless chuckle escaping me.

“But I’m not a coward. I stand strong, even if it means standing alone.”

I brush past him, my shoulder barely grazing his, before tapping Arin’s shoulder.

“Meet me upstairs, Arin. I’m done with this conversation, and this party.”

I step out of the restroom and back into the grand hall, still pulsing with chatter and music, but none of it registers. My mind is elsewhere, my body tense with lingering adrenaline.

I had just talked back to my father.

Not just talked back, I had challenged him. Matched his tone. Met his anger with my own.

My fingers are still shaking, my feet feel unsteady, and a thin layer of sweat clings to my forehead. But it was worth it.

The confrontation had been overdue for a long time.

As I move through the crowd, determined to leave, I’m stopped dead in my tracks.

Ayanfe.

The silly little thing from earlier.

She sways slightly, her eyes half-lidded, a tipsy smirk on her lips, and the air around her reeks of champagne.

“Aanoni,” she calls, her voice smooth but slurred, like she’s been waiting for me.

I exhale sharply, my patience hanging by a thread.

“*Ayanfe,”*

I say, forcing a tight smile.

“I appreciate your time, but I’m not quite in the mood. Hopefully, we get to see each other again.”

I don’t wait for a response. I sidestep her and continue walking, my only focus now being my bedroom.

I need space. I need silence.

I take the stairs quickly, two at a time, my heartbeat still unsteady from everything that just unfolded downstairs. The walls of this hotel suddenly feel too suffocating, too thick, too drenched in expectations I never signed up for.

By the time I reach the room at the far end of the hall, I don’t hesitate. I push the door open, step inside, and shut it firmly behind me.

Lock it.

Silence.

I exhale, pressing my back against the door for a moment before pushing myself forward. My agbada feels heavy, a weight I no longer want to carry. I shrug it off, tossing it onto the chair by the window before unbuttoning my tunic.

The room is dimly lit, a soft golden glow from the bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls. The scent of my own cologne lingers in the air, strong, familiar, grounding.

I reach for my phone. A few missed calls. Several messages. My mother’s name is at the top.

I don’t open them.

A knock at the door.

I freeze.

“Aanoni,” Arin’s voice comes through, quiet yet firm.

I say nothing.

Some seconds pass before I hesitantly stride towards the door and unlock it. Arin’s tall frame peers into the room, and I can already tell I’m about to get a soft-launched pep talk.

“Broooo, you should have taken it easy nah, you know how dad can be when you disappoint. And both of your histories aren’t even rosy either. I understand that you want to venture into a new business space and grow yourself, without his constant supervision and criticism. But he only wants your success.”

Another pause.

Deep down, I understood my dad’s obsession with making sure his sons fell in line at all times, but times had changed, and he was severely falling behind.

“Arin, you know Dad,” I continue

“He sees only one path to success: the media. He doesn’t give proper credit to other businesses, even when he doesn’t know enough about them. I’m done trying to make him see the light. I won’t be controlled or manipulated into doing his will, and if that means war, then war it is.”

Arin gets up and strolls around the room, fiddling with the puppy art piece on the dresser.

He wasn’t cut out for long, heated conflicts, and was the general peacemaker in the family.

“Hmm,” he chuckles

“You know, you and Dad are very similar, same anger, same drive, same ego, same everything. Just go easy on him. He might be acting all strong and mighty, but Baba don dey old o. Make he no go get shock abeg.”

“ I don't hear you. Help me tell Ara, I’ll call him soon,” I reply, pulling my shoes and innerwear.

“Oya nah, I’m tired and I want to go to sleep”

He says as he opens the door and exits my room.

I hear the sound of footsteps retreating.

I exhale, dragging a hand down my face. I make my way to the bed and sit at the edge, my head dropping forward as I try to process everything.

My father’s words still echo in my mind, but I refuse to let them settle.

I lean back, pulling the duvet over me. The mattress is cool, the sheets soft against my skin, but my mind refuses to quiet.

For a while, I stare at the ceiling, lost in thought.

But eventually, exhaustion drags me under.

The last thing I remember before sleep takes me is the lingering scent of my cologne, my own creation, my own brand.

And for tonight, that is enough.