The mansion had become a beautifully appointed sensory deprivation tank, designed to erase Mina molecule by molecule. Silence was no longer just a response; it was a weapon expertly wielded by every member of the Dared household. It was a silence that screamed her irrelevance.
She was a ghost. If she entered a room, conversations would dwindle to a polite, meaningless hum before dying altogether. Aisha would suddenly remember an urgent phone call. Tunde would find a sudden, deep interest in his newspaper. Hajiya Zainab would simply rise, with the regal air of a queen who had more important places to be, and glide out, leaving the echo of her perfume and her disdain.
The message was clear: You are not part of this conversation. You are not part of this family.
Meals were the worst. She was no longer exiled to her room; that had been too obvious. Now, she was granted a place at the vast table, a single, silent island in a sea of familial chatter that flowed seamlessly around her. They spoke across her, through her, as if her chair were empty.
One evening, Alhaji Ibrahim cleared his throat. "Tunde, I need you to look over the contracts for the new hotel acquisition in Dubai. Your insight on the clauses would be valuable."
"Of course, Baba," Tunde said, puffing out his chest. "I've been reviewing similar deals. I have some strong ideas."
Adams, sitting beside Mina, stared at his plate. Before the accident, such a project would have been his unquestionably. His father wouldn't have asked for his insight; he would have demanded it. Now, he wasn't even considered.
Mina watched Adams's knuckles whiten around his fork. She saw the shame and envy war on his face. She felt a pang of something—pity, frustration—for the man who had chosen this gilded humiliation for them both.
Hajiya Zainab, noticing her son's expression, smiled sweetly. "It is good to have capable sons to rely on, nawa," she said to her husband, her words a velvet-wrapped dagger aimed straight at Adams's heart. "A man's legacy is secured by the strength of his children."
The blow was so perfectly aimed it stole the air from Mina's lungs. Adams visibly shrank in his seat.
Later, Mina tried to find solace in the one thing she thought was still hers: Trisha. She went to the nursery to put her to bed, to reclaim the simple ritual of a lullaby.
The new nanny, a severe woman named Binta, was already there, holding Trisha stiffly.
"Uwargida," Binta said, her tone implying Mina was an interruption. "She has already had her bath and her bottle. It is time for sleep. No disruptions."
"I'd like to put my daughter to bed," Mina said, her voice firm, trying to project an authority she no longer felt.
"Hajiya Zainab said the routine must not be broken. She is sleeping through the night now. No disruptions," Binta repeated, turning her back to block the crib.
No disruptions. The family motto. Mina was a disruption. Her love was a disruption.
From the doorway, a soft, chilling voice. "Is there a problem?"
Hajiya Zainab stood there, watching.
"Mama," Mina began, her heart pounding. "I just want to say goodnight to my daughter."
"And you shall," Hajiya Zainab said, her smile benevolent and utterly cold. "You can blow her a kiss from the door. Binta is right. The routine is everything. We mustn't be selfish, must we? Our wants must come second to the child's needs. And her need is for order."
Selfish. The word was a masterstroke. Wanting to hold her own child was now a selfish act.
Defeated, Mina stood in the doorway and watched as Binta laid Trisha down without a cuddle, without a song. Trisha grizzled for a moment, then stuck her thumb in her mouth, her eyes on the nanny, not her mother.
The connection was severed. Her daughter had been gentled into a stranger's arms.
Mina retreated down the hall, her vision blurring with tears of rage and helplessness. She didn't see the small, decorative side table. Her hip connected with its sharp corner, and a delicate porcelain vase wobbled, tipped, and shattered on the polished floor.
The crash was catastrophic in the hushed house.
Within seconds, doors opened. Aisha, Tunde, Alhaji Ibrahim, and finally, Hajiya Zainab appeared, drawn by the sound of the disruption.
They stood in a semi-circle, staring at the shattered pieces, then at Mina.
"Allah!" Aisha gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "That was Mama's Lalique! A gift from the Sultan of Sokoto!"
"I… I didn't see it," Mina stammered, her face burning under their collective, accusatory gaze. "It was an accident."
"An accident," Tunde repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Things just seem to break around you, don't they? First the peace. Now the heirlooms."
"Tunde, that's enough," Alhaji Ibrahim rumbled, though his expression was disappointed.
But it was Hajiya Zainab who delivered the killing blow. She didn't look at the shattered vase. She looked only at Mina, her eyes filled with a profound, theatrical sadness.
"It is just a thing," she said, her voice soft, laden with a grief that was far more damaging than anger. "Objects can be replaced. It is the carelessness that wounds. This home… it is built on order. On respect for the things we are blessed with. It is a lesson some are never taught."
She turned, a picture of stoic, wounded grace. "Binta, please clean this up. Mina, perhaps you should retire for the evening. You seem… unwell."
The verdict was delivered. She was careless. Disrespectful. Unwell. A destructive force in their ordered world.
As she fled down the hall, she heard Aisha's hissed whisper, loud enough to carry. "It's like she doesn't even belong here."
Mina didn't go to her room. She stumbled out into the vast, manicured garden, the humid night air feeling like a prison yard. She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking, the words echoing in her head.
She doesn't even belong here.
The truth of it was absolute. She was a foreign body, and the organism of the Dared family was rejecting her. They wouldn't need to throw her out. They were simply going to make existing within their walls so exquisitely, so politely unbearable, that she would have no choice but to tear herself out.
She looked up at the mansion, a fortress of light and wealth and cold, impenetrable tradition. Every window seemed to watch her, every light a judgmental eye.
The atmosphere wasn't just unbearable. It was annihilating.
And in that moment, standing alone in the dark, Mina knew with a chilling certainty that she could not survive it. Not as she was. The cliffhanger wasn't about the next slight or the next argument. It was about the terrifying realization that had crystallized in her mind: escape was no longer a desire. It was a biological imperative for her very survival.