CHAPTER THREE

An hour later, Ahmed drives steadily into the hotel’s parking lot before bringing the car to a smooth halt.

“We’re here, sir,” he says.

I peer out of the tinted window and immediately spot my mum and her PA standing at the hotel’s entrance, waving in my direction.

"Shit. This woman likes stress too much."

I sigh, rubbing my temples before unlocking the door.

“Alright, Ahmed, let’s go,” I say, stepping out before he can rush around to open the door for me.

“Mum, I’m coming. Please hold on,” I call out as I stride towards the entrance, Ahmed trailing behind, ready to exchange pleasantries.

“Aanoni, Aanoni, remember I’m gradually becoming an elder,” she says dramatically, tilting her head.

She wasn’t wrong, though. Even with the layers of expertly blended makeup and what I assume is a fresh round of Botox, her voice and the way she carried herself were dead giveaways of her age.

“Please respect the time I give you,” she continues in a hushed yet firm tone. “Your father is upstairs, fuming with anger. I had to lie to him that you were constipated! And you know how he gets when I lie. You cover up for this boy too much; that’s all he says. Even Tracy can testify to the amount of stress—”

“Mummmmmm,” I groan, the irritation unmistakable in my voice.

“You’ve started again. I’m here now, at least. You’ve seen me. Can we proceed? I have other things to catch up on,” I say in an attempt to cut the conversation short before it drags into another thirty-minute monologue.

“Ehn ehn, you and this your uptight attitude! I can’t even say this is where you got it from,” she says, throwing her hands up. “I left multiple calls and texts on your phone. I’m pretty sure you got them. But as usual, I have to call your house staff to reach my own son. What kind of—”

I inhale deeply, exhaling slowly before staring into the distance as her words fill the air, perhaps landing more in Ahmed’s ears than mine.

This here was why I stayed far away from home.

The Adukolapos were experts in complaining, dismissing, berating, and concluding on matters that didn’t go their way.

“I’ll be in the room,” I say flatly, cutting her off mid-sentence and walking past her toward the receptionist’s desk.

I can still hear her in the background, muttering about how inconsiderate I am as a son. Only if she knew how much I loved and missed her when she wasn’t upset.

When she wasn’t angry. When she wasn’t complaining.

“Good evening. I have a reservation booked under Aanoni Adukolapo,” I say, glancing at the receptionist.

She’s dressed impeccably, her crisp uniform fitting the high standards of the hotel.

“Yes, sir. Please give me a moment to confirm your booking,” she replies, tapping away at the computer screen while I wait impatiently, my fingers drumming against the desk.

My mother’s voice draws closer, her words laced with irritation.

“Don’t worry. It’s me who has all the energy to talk like a crazy woman. One day, you’ll wake up, and you’ll see I’m gone,” she says before turning on her heels and making her way up the stairs.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Could this receptionist be any slower?"

“Yes, sir. Your executive suite, Room 317, is on the third floor,” she finally announces, flashing a polite smile. “Here’s your key card. Thank you for choosing us. Do have a wonderful stay.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, quickly taking the key card and heading straight for the elevator, Ahmed silently following behind.

**ONE HOUR LATER**

The atmosphere shifts the moment I step into the event hall.

The space is grand—almost excessive. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows reflect the warm glow of chandeliers. The sound of clinking glasses and distant chatter blends into the melody of a live band playing softly in the background. The room is alive with movement, guests drifting from table to table, engaged in conversations, laughter punctuating the air.

It’s loud. Too loud.

Almost immediately, people start gravitating toward me, some with questions, others simply wanting my attention.

I exhale, straightening my posture as I prepare to navigate yet another night of mindless pleasantries.

I spot my father in the crowd, his face adorned with a forced smile as he exchanges unnecessary pleasantries with guests. Instinctively, I avert my gaze, hoping to avoid the impending confrontation. But just as I do, my eyes lock with someone else’s.

A woman.

Undeniably beautiful.

Yet, personally unappealing.

She strides toward me with practiced confidence, her dress —a pink and gold lace corset gown —perfectly in line with the event’s dress code for women.

Still, my mind remains fixated on the beautiful stranger I had encountered earlier.

I already knew how this interaction would go. She’d approach, introduce herself in the tiniest voice, then roll out her pre- and post-degrees in an attempt to impress me. She’d morph into a chameleon within minutes, adapting her persona to match whatever she assumed I desired.

I exhale subtly, bracing myself.

“Hello, Aanoni,” she says, extending her hand for a handshake.

I plaster on the silliest smile I can manage. “Hello, pretty.”

“I’m Ayanfe”

She announces, beaming as she flips her hair.

“I spotted you the moment you walked in, and I must say, your mother’s description does zero justice to how handsome you are in person.”

Of course, my mother had taken it upon herself to broadcast my bachelor status to every eligible woman in attendance.

I smirk, playing along.

“Nah, don’t flatter me. You look stunning yourself. Stealing the spotlight tonight for sure.”

But even as I speak, my eyes shift to the side, catching sight of my father making his way toward me. His face is set in stone, his posture tense with barely concealed anger.

Shit.

I was about to hear it.

“But give me a few minutes. I’ll be back soon.”

I say smoothly, excusing myself before she can respond.

Without looking back, I make my way toward an empty restroom beside the hall, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

I take a deep breath, straightening my agbada and rubbing my temples. I already knew how this conversation would go; I only hoped it wouldn't escalate.

The door swings open.

My father steps in.