Lahat ng Kabanata ng The reluctant vow: Kabanata 71 - Kabanata 80

Zara walked into the living room to find her mother seated comfortably on the couch, flipping through pages of a thick wedding magazine. The coffee table in front of her was already littered with two more bridal catalogues, each marked with sticky notes and folded corners.Zara blinked. “Mummy, ah-ah. You and wedding magazine today?”Her mother glanced up with a half-serious frown. “See this girl. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that your wedding is next week.”“Oh,” Zara said, scratching her head. “That’s true. This whole marriage thing… it’s like a blur.”Mrs. Tunde patted the spot beside her. “Come, jor. We have to pick a dress. I would have picked it myself, but you’re the bride—you need to feel happy in what you wear.”Zara plopped down next to her, eyeing the magazine. “At least I’m getting used to the idea of wearing a gown.”Her mother smiled knowingly. “Are you sure it’s just the gown you’re getting used to? Or are you getting used to your husband too?”Zara rolled her eyes. “

Secrets have a way of festering beneath the surface, waiting for the perfect moment to explode. Imani’s secret was no different — only hers wasn’t born from guilt, but from calculation. Ruthless, cold-blooded calculation.For weeks, she had worn the face of a woman scorned yet victorious — the ex-girlfriend carrying Regan’s child. Her timing had been flawless, her story tight, her tears convincing. The moment she told Regan she was pregnant, she spun a web so intricate that even he, the man with walls built high and pride built higher, began to doubt himself.That night — the night everything supposedly happened — was one Regan didn’t remembered all too clearly, Imani had tried to convince him.Yes, he had been drinking. The party had been loud, and the drinks had been flowing freely. But not enough to black out. Not this time. He had barely taken three glasses when she arrived uninvited, slinking into the room like smoke, wearing that same fragrance she used to drown herself in when

Zara didn’t leave her room all day.She lay curled beneath her duvet, blinds drawn shut, the only light coming from the dull glow of her phone screen. The article was still open. She hadn’t read it again, but she didn’t need to. The headline had branded itself into her skull.She had thought she was prepared for drama. She had faced rejection, humiliation, sabotage—but this? This felt personal. Like someone had reached inside her chest and twisted the very heart she had learned to protect.A soft knock echoed at her door.“Zara,” Kemi’s voice came through. Gentle. Careful. “Can I come in?”She didn’t respond, but a moment later, the door creaked open anyway.Kemi stepped in, carrying a tray with food she knew Zara wouldn’t touch. She placed it on the table and sat at the edge of the bed.“I saw the post,” Kemi said quietly. “It’s everywhere. Blogs. Twitter. Even a TikTok edit of Imani walking at the airport like she’s in a music video.”Zara didn’t move.Kemi sighed. “She’s playing th

The sun had dipped low behind the trees, casting elongated shadows across the Tunde mansion. Evening crept in slowly, and with it came the kind of silence that wrapped itself tightly around the house—thick, oppressive, unwilling to be ignored.Zara had not come down since the confrontation. Her dinner tray, brought up by a housemaid hours ago, sat untouched on the nightstand. She remained curled on the rug in the corner of her room, the only source of light being the soft flicker of a bedside lamp that bathed the space in a golden, melancholic hue.Her phone buzzed.Again.And again.Kemi.She finally reached for it, her fingers trembling as she unlocked the screen. A flood of messages appeared, each more urgent than the last.Kemi:Zara please talk to me.I’m coming over.Before Zara could even respond, another message blinked into view.Kemi:Actually, I’m outside. Tell your gate man to let me in.Zara wiped her face, swiped under her eyes quickly, and made her way to the window. Su

The Tunde mansion had become a temporary festival ground.Relatives were everywhere—on couches, on stools, on rugs spread out in the living room—laughing, eating, and shouting over one another. The elders dominated the parlour with their loud, overlapping conversations about old friends, rising fuel prices, and wedding plans. Uncles told stale jokes that still earned belly laughs, and aunties exchanged knowing glances each time Zara’s name came up. The whole house felt full. Loud. Alive.Zara felt anything but.She sat by the hallway window, arms crossed, dressed in jeans and a black oversized hoodie. Even indoors, she wore dark sunglasses. The fabric of the hoodie swallowed her, and the shadows beneath her eyes told a story no one in the room had the courage to ask about.Kemi was in the center of the chaos—barefoot, eating puff puff from a paper serviette and cackling at one of Zara’s uncles who insisted he once smuggled five crates of malt into university during the 90s. Every so o