Chapter 6: The Reckless Presence

Alex dragged himself up from the floor with James’ help, his body trembling as though strength had been drained out of him.

His eyes refused to shift away from the frame picture of Amara on the stand.

Her smile was too alive, too warm to belong to someone who was gone.

His lips trembled as if words were fighting to come out, but all he could manage was a broken whisper.

“This is not real… it’s not real.”

On one of the frames where written a memorial note that added more dagger to Alex's broken heart.

“Sir, are you here for the funeral of Miss Amara Akwarandu?”

The soft voice of one of the ladies arranging flowers nearby broke into his grief. Alex’s head jerked sharply towards her.

Her face looked harmless, but her words stabbed like sharp glass. His chest tightened.

“Funeral?” His voice cracked, almost childlike. “What are you saying? Whose funeral?”

The two ladies exchanged quick, nervous glances, unsure if this man standing before them was in his right senses.

The first lady stepped forward again, lowering her voice as if careful with a madman. “Sir, I said—”

“Shut up!” Alex roared suddenly, his hand rising in the air as if to strike the air itself.

The sharpness of his tone made both ladies flinch. Their eyes widened in fear, and they took two quick steps backwards. The trembling candles on the table cast flickers across their uneasy faces.

They stood frozen for a moment, then turned suddenly and hurried away, skirts brushing against the floor as they disappeared through the back door.

James caught his friend’s arm, trying to steady him. “Alex, calm down. Please. You’re scaring people.”

But Alex shoved him off, his voice rising in raw anguish. “No! She’s not dead. Amara! Amara, come out! Enough of this madness. Stop playing this expensive trick!”

His shouts filled the room, echoing against the walls until it felt like the house itself was trembling.

His cries drew the attention of security men outside. Three uniformed officers stormed in, their boots thudding on the tiled floor. They scanned the scene quickly: the crying man, the candles, the casket at the far end of the room.

Their faces hardened.

“What’s going on here?” one officer demanded, his hand already brushing against the butt of his gun. His eyes locked on Alex. “Sir, are you here for the funeral?”

That word again. Funeral. Alex’s body stiffened, his head turning slowly toward the officer as if daring him to repeat it.

His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Don’t you dare say that word to me again.”

The officers exchanged quick glances. The tallest among them shifted uneasily. “Sir, we don’t want trouble. I’ll ask you to leave this place immediately before things get out of hand. If you refuse, we’ll have no choice but to place you under arrest.”

His fingers tightened on the holster.

James rushed forward, spreading his arms between Alex and the officers. “Please, officers, calm down. He’s not here to cause trouble. My friend is just… he’s grieving.”

But Alex ignored the voices around him. His eyes had found the coffin resting quietly by the altar, covered in white lace and roses.

He staggered forward, his hand shaking as he pointed at it. “Open it,” he demanded, his voice cracking. “Open that box now. She’s not inside. She can’t be inside.”

“Sir!” one of the officers barked, stepping in his way.

But Alex shoved past him with wild strength, his steps breaking into a run. He reached the coffin and slammed his foot hard against the lower stand, almost toppling it. “Amara! Amara, answer me!”

The sudden violence snapped the officers into action.

They rushed forward, pinning him by both arms. Alex kicked wildly, his voice raw. “Get your fucking hands off me! Do you know who I am? I’m Dr. Alex Spencer! The world’s best neurosurgeon! Nobody stops me from seeing my wife!”

The officers grunted as they struggled to restrain him. One pulled out his handcuffs, snapping them open with a metallic click. “That’s enough, sir. You’re under arrest—”

But before the cuffs could touch Alex’s wrist, a sharp, clear voice cut through the chaos.

“Officers! Stop right there.”

The command carried authority, feminine yet firm. All heads turned.

At the entrance stood a tall, striking young woman dressed in black, her steps calm but commanding as she advanced. Her face was familiar, carrying the same sharp jawline and delicate features as the smiling picture of Amara.

Her eyes were dark, hard as glass, her lips curved in a smirk that didn’t belong in a mourning hall.

It was Adaobi Akwarandu, Amara’s younger sister.

The officers straightened immediately, their grip on Alex loosening though their eyes still watched him with caution.

“What’s going on here, officers?” Adaobi asked, her voice cool.

One officer quickly explained, gesturing toward Alex who was still struggling against their hold.

“Madam, this man was creating a scene, disrupting the peace. We tried to restrain him before things got worse.”

Adaobi’s lips twitched with a cold smile. Her eyes slid over Alex slowly, deliberately, as though peeling off his pride one layer at a time.

She lifted her chin slightly. “Release him. I’ll handle this myself.”

The officers hesitated, glancing at one another. Adaobi’s smirk deepened. “Did you not hear me? I said let him go.”

Reluctantly, they obeyed, stepping back.

Alex stumbled free, breathing hard, his chest heaving like a man rescued from drowning. He turned, ready to lash out again, but his eyes caught Adaobi’s gaze.

She stood there in silence for a moment, studying him the way a scientist studies a strange specimen.

Then she tilted her head, her voice cutting through the heavy air like sharpened steel.

“So,” she said, her lips curling with mockery, “to what do I owe this reckless presence of my late sister’s deranged husband?”