Not the daughter of a fellow businessman. Not the polished society girl his mother kept pushing at him. He’d chosen Amara Obi, scholarship student, library worker, daughter of a single mother who cleaned houses in third ward. You’re different. David had told her on their first date. Everyone else sees my last name. You see me. She had.
She’d seen the man who volunteered at youth programs on weekends. The man who secretly paid his friends tuition when they couldn’t afford it. The man who hated the pretense of wealth and dreamed of building something on his own. They dated for 2 years, hidden from his family, secret dinners, stolen weekends, whispered plans.
“I’m going to marry you,” David had said one night, holding her in his tiny off-campus apartment, the one his mother didn’t know about. I just need to finish school, build something separate from my father’s empire, then I’ll introduce you properly as my fianceé. Amara had believed him. She’d believed every word. And then she’d gotten pregnant.
The day she told him, David had cried, not from sadness, from joy. We’re having a baby, he kept saying. We’re having a baby, Amara. We’re going to be parents. Your mother,” Amomara had started. “I’ll handle my mother,” David said firmly. “I’m 26 years old. I don’t need her permission to have a family. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Tell her everything.
She’ll have to accept it.” He’d kissed her forehead, held her close, made her believe everything would be okay. The next morning, he’d left for his parentshouse in River Oaks. Amara never saw him again. 3 days later, a black Mercedes pulled up outside Amara’s apartment. A woman stepped out. Chief Mrs.
Gloria Achabi, David’s mother. She was beautiful, tall, elegant, draped in gold jewelry, and wrapped in an aura of absolute authority. Her eyes swept over Amara’s modest apartment building with visible disgust. “So, you’re the girl?” Gloria said. “Not a question, Mrs. Achabi. I Let me be very clear.” Gloria’s voice was ice.
