6: The Sound of Sizzling Oil

Mr. Richards drove through the gates of my father’s estate: The Hale Residence and I rolled down the window to stick my nose in the air, inhaling the nostalgic scent of freshly cut grass.

Tall iron fences surrounded the vast property, bronze concrete pillars and olden cobblestones remained unchanged since my childhood.

As the Bentley pulled into the courtyard, I realized how quiet everywhere had become without my father.

On a normal day, he'd been roaming around the estate with his gardening tools to trim the hedges, or his plumbing equipment to repair the water fountain.

Despite all his fortune, my father never spent a dime on hiring people to fix whatever was broken around the house.

The old engineer always took great delight in his work but it was quite unfortunate when he couldn't mend his own lungs from collapsing.

“You don’t have to wait,” I said to Mr. Richards “I’ll find my way home later.” I grabbed my purse and opened the door.

“Are you sure, ma’am? Mr. Sterling might not—”

“I’m sure.” I cut in and climbed out of the car, not turning around to see him drive off as I rushed up the entrance steps, pushing open the front door.

The smell of pine polish and old books filled the living room as the old maid looked up from dusting the television console, her face lighting up instantly.

“Amara.” She smiled warmly, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sterling.” She corrected herself.

I smiled back at the old lady, “Whichever you prefer, Agnes.” I said, my eyes scanning the familiar space. “Have you seen my mother?”

“In the kitchen.” She said and I quickly slipped past her, making my way to the kitchen.

My mother stood at the counter while slicing vegetables, her gaze fixated on the chopping board that she didn’t hear me when I walked in.

Her blonde hair was ever radiant, pinned neatly at her back, not a single gray hair in sight, nor a slight wrinkle on her face.

“Mama.” I called her attention, my voice smaller than I intended.

She looked up and my presence startled her for a minute as I wrapped my arms around her. My mother stiffened under my embrace but I held her tighter.

“Amara, you nearly made me drop the knife.” She scolded softly, not reciprocating my hug but I could feel her smile against my cheek.

“I missed you,” I whispered, forgetting to mention why I rushed here in the first place.

“Then, join me.” She pulled away and gestured to the counter. “I’m making jollof rice with grilled chicken. I trust you remember how to chop onions without crying?”

“I’ll manage.” I laughed at her, washing my hands to start.

We worked side by side, chopping, stirring, tasting the sauce, the spicy aroma filling the air it boiled under low heat.

There were chefs in the house who could have prepared everything in half the time but cooking together was our thing.

My father always said he fell in love with my mother over the sound of sizzling oil.

I never understood the full story behind it but whenever my mother would pour some oil into the pot, he’d walk over to her and kiss her.

I was truly in fascinated by their love, praying my husband and I would find happiness in the simplest things.

But I thought of Alex and how he never let me into the kitchen because he was scared I’d hurt myself as though I were a porcelain doll in a glass case.

My mother caught me wrapped up in my thoughts, and her eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

I hesitated for a beat, then tugged down the collar of my chiffon blouse, exposing the faint bruise slowly fading at my neck. “Alex hit me, then tried to strangle me.”

Her knife paused mid-air and she set it down carefully, pressing her lips into a straight line but after a fleeting moment, she resumed dicing her carrots.

“Mama?” I called, waiting for her to say something, to comfort me or sympathize with me.

“Marriage is about tolerance, Amara,” She finally found her voice. “Your father. . .was no saint either.”

“Papa never hit you.”

“Not with his hands,” She said sharply. “But neglect and distance—abuse wears many faces. We wives must learn to endure them all.”

“But—” I shook my head, heat prickling at my eyes. “It’s not the same. Mama, he hit me.”

She turned to me, her gaze stern. “Then be careful not to provoke him next time.”

I stared back at her, my heart sinking like a boulder thrown into an endless pit.

We didn't utter another word to each other as we finished cooking and I hated myself deeply for ruining our little time together over my marital problems.

To take my mind off Alex, I snapped pictures of the food. A serving of steamy jollof rice, grilled chicken, vegetable salad, and fried plantains stacked neatly at the side.

“Perfect.” I smiled to myself and typed in my caption ‘Home Sweet Food’ before uploading the pictures to my anonymous social media account with over 13k followers.

It was my secret world, the only place I could be myself without expectations, without Alex’s shadow. A place where I was valued for what I created, not how I looked standing beside a billionaire.

Before I married Alex, he made me delete all my social accounts, he despised social media, and called it a circus for ‘losers with nothing better to do.’

If he ever discovered I had an active account, that would be the day I join my late father in heaven.

My mother and I set the table, and for the first time since my wedding, we ate together. “The food tastes nice, Mama.” I tried to break the silence but she simply hummed in response.

I sighed and leaned back on the chair, scrolling through my notifications. Some of my followers asked for my recipe, while others wondered if I was African to prepare a jollof rice so nice.

Their kind comments made me blush like a lovestruck teen as I began replying to most of them, but one particular comment caught my eye.

JR_Reigns: Nice ring. Wife or Fiancée?

My heart lurched and I went back to the photo, scanning every detail until I saw my wedding ring, glinting faintly on the pot handle in the third slide of my post.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

My fingertips went cold and numb and I quickly deleted the post, clutching my phone to my chest.

Who is JR_Reigns?

I clicked the username to confirm it wasn’t someone Alex or I knew but all I saw was a private account with a German Shepherd as the profile picture.

My shoulders slumped in relief and yet. . .my pulse wouldn’t settle.

Alex wasn’t wrong, there were eyes everywhere, waiting to scrutinize me, to catch me slipping but I couldn’t shut down the account. It was my last safe space.

“Alex will never know.” I tried to convince myself and immediately my phone buzzed with a message from Alex himself.

Alex: Amara, where are you?

I began to reply to him when another message followed.

Alex: What gave you the right to oppose my rules?

The dots blinked—typing, typing— and my breath became short, my phone trembling in my hand as a hundred million possible offenses raced through my mind.

Closing my eyes, I whispered a prayer and pressed a cold palm to my neck, where my last bruise still throbbed like a warning.