Chapter 4

(Amara's POV)

Mom entered my room looking radiant in her long white night dress. She smelled fresh like a rose, and she came in with Agnes, who greeted me warmly, "Good morning, Amara. I brought your tea and bread."

"Thank you," I told Agnes, accepting the teacup from her hand. I walked to my chair in my room and had a seat, where I sat down and drank my tea while eating the bread with it.

My mom walked to look outside the window, then walked back to meet me and said, "Hurry up. The driver is already here. And why didn't you make up your face? You know that you'll see your husband in the city, so you should look hot when you eventually meet him."

I pouted my pink lips as I finished drinking my tea. I internally didn't have any intention of pleasing the man to whom I might be married. My mom said, "Agnes, get me my makeup box from my room."

"No, Mom. There won't be any need for that. I don't have to pretend in the face of my husband. I am perfectly okay like this—the way I am. If I pretend with him, what if I cannot continue pretending to live the fake life I had presented to him at first sight?"

Mom looked at my face, speechless at first. She said, "Okay. Be fast, then."

"I am through. Mom, I hope Darlington is good. Otherwise, I will be back here, as I did not plan for all this," I said.

Mom sighed and walked up to my side. She said, "You nag a lot. Just hush, and everything will be fine. Let us go downstairs."

"Hmm." I bit my lower lip internally and followed my mother downstairs while Agnes took my used tray and teacup to the kitchen.

My mother and I walked downstairs into the living room, and there we met my father, standing in the center of the living room. He was still in his white robe, and he was speaking to a man I was unfamiliar with.

I watched the middle-aged man greet my father. "Good morning, sir."

"Morning, Mr. Timothy. You should drive safely and ensure you return on time," my father spoke to the man in black pants and a white shirt paired with black men's shoes.

"Okay, sir. I will," the driver replied, and my father turned to face me.

"Amara..."

"Father, good morning," I greeted him. I felt tears well up in my eyes again. Even when I went to school and studied accounting in the city, I didn't cry leaving my parents.

But now, I felt like I was going to my husband's house. I may not be able to return home to live with my parents like I used to. The farms we visited—the harvested products and also my father's factory—I felt like I wouldn't get to see any of that again.

I didn't want to leave home, but I had no other option. It comes at a time in a person's life when they must shoulder a compulsory responsibility to build their own family and a place to call home.

"Your mother and I will miss you. But, like I told you the previous night, we are not selling you off. You can always return home to us if you still don't like the city. But I won't expect you to return home quickly or alone—maybe with my grandkids, at least two or three of them."

"Dad..." My face flushed red. I couldn't believe that my father was telling me about bringing my future kids home and that I would go there to become a mother, too.

I felt pretty emotional about all this, but I knew I had to do it to continue my family lineage and to have someone to look up to in the following years—to carry on with what my parents would eventually leave behind someday, and me.

"It's okay. Stop crying. Now come, let me escort you outside," my father urged me, and I walked up to his side. He patted me closely and reassured me that my husband's people were friendly and that they would wholeheartedly welcome me.

Finally, I got into the sleek black Mercedes-Benz. I waved goodbye to my parents, uncles, and aunties, who had pulled up in front of my father's mansion to say goodbye to me, too.

My aunt, Mrs. Juliet, was sobbing after she heard that I was married off—like I was sold off. My parents also had a sad look on their faces, but I knew that this wouldn't be the end of me.

I wasn't leaving them forever; I was only going to the city to multiply and to become a mother, as my father had said.

I took out my white handkerchief and wiped my teary face. I blew my nose, knowing my face had become a mess. I watched the car start, and the driver reminded me to fasten my seatbelt.

I obeyed him and buckled up. Soon, the black car drove out of my parents' home. Stealing a final look backward, I saw my mother crying and my father hugging her closely, assuring her that I was going to be okay, while he alone waved goodbye at me.

The driver then sped up the car, and we headed to the city. I knew the drive to the town would take hours, as the city was far from the countryside where my parents and I lived—where I had spent twenty-four years of my life.

I decided to search for my husband's profile online, at least to find something to distract my mind and to see the face of the man to whom I was getting married.

I entered the social media network that we used in my country. We used the F******k network to browse, chat, and upload some of our photos online.

I uploaded mine, but after getting plenty of likes and reactions—and the fear of fake accounts impersonating me—I decided to take a break.

Now, I searched for my husband's name: Darlington Briggs. I saw many people with the same name, but finding the actual Darlington Briggs wasn't hard, as he had my father as a mutual friend.

I knew some people didn't use their real names online—well, their choice—but I used mine alongside my parents. It was easy to connect with old family friends, especially those with whom we had lost contact. But if I was using a fake name. I doubted the search would be easy.

Just like that, I entered the Darlington Briggs profile. I gasped as I saw the familiar face of the man I was married to.