Flashes blinded me the moment my heels touched the tarmac. Fred, Zara, and I descended from the jet into a frenzy. The press, paparazzi, and fans all swarmed like bees drunk on honey. Their cameras clicked like their lives depended on it.
Well, maybe they did. Without me, half of them wouldn't have a paycheck.
"Zizi! Zizi, sign my shirt!"
"You saved me! Your music healed me!"
"I love you!"
Their voices cracked with desperation. Some cried openly, arms outstretched like I was a prophet instead of a pop star. I twirled my lollipop between my teeth, masking a laugh. They didn't love me. They loved the fame. Strip me of the wealth and spotlight, and these same people would turn their backs before my next heartbeat.
"Move! Move!" Zimba barked, wrapping a protective arm around my waist.
"Zim, we need more security," I whispered through my practiced smile.
"Dad's team is on the way," he assured me.
"Daddy's here!" Zimba shouted a moment later, sprinting ahead. I slowed, allowing the guards to form a wall between me and the chaos. Fred trailed silently behind me, sunglasses shading his forest-green eyes. Zara, on the other hand, waved dramatically at anyone with a camera like she was already on the payroll.
Then I saw him—my father.
Arthur Wills. The Arthur Wills. Legendary musician. My blood, my anchor, the man whose shadow I was both cursed and blessed to walk in.
They embraced first—Zimba and Dad. A handshake, then a hug. Their laughter carried across the terminal, forgetting me for a moment. I sighed, then walked forward with elegant steps, the press roaring my name like waves breaking on shore.
"Hello, Daddy's princess." Dad's smile softened as he kissed my cheek.
"I missed you so much." My voice cracked despite my effort to sound poised. I wrapped my arms around him, inhaling the cologne I remembered from childhood.
"You too," he said warmly. "And these must be your friends."
"Yeah. Fred. And Zara."
Before I could say more, a journalist shoved forward, mic first. "This is AGTV! Exclusive coverage! We are here with one of the most influential musicians of our generation, Arthur Wills—reunited with his daughter, global teen sensation Zizi Kora, and his son Zimba Wills, CEO of one of the world's fastest-growing companies!"
Cameras zoomed in, bulbs flaring.
"How do you feel meeting your daughter after so many years, sir?" another reporter shouted.
Dad's smile widened. "Excited. Very excited."
"And how does it feel, sir, seeing your daughter taking over musically? Ranked fifteenth best female teen artist in the world?"
Dad chuckled, leaning toward the mic. "How would you feel if your son was the best in academics? Hm?"
The journalist blushed, laughing nervously. "I'd be super proud."
"Then that's your answer." Dad winked, brushing past her.
"Move!" the guards barked as a desperate woman lunged toward me. Zara squealed, clutching Fred's sleeve as security shoved the woman back.
We slipped into the stretched limo, doors slamming shut against the chaos. Outside, fans pounded on the tinted glass, chanting my name.
"Does your dad own all these cars behind us?" Zara whispered, eyes wide at the convoy of sleek black SUVs tailing us.
"Who else?" I answered with deliberate pride.
Her jaw dropped. "Your dad is so rich! Damn! I'm gaining followers like wildfire since that video of us dancing—1.2 million already! Please, date my brother!"
Dad burst into laughter at her shamelessness. He leaned forward, amused. "And who might you be?"
Zara's cheeks flushed. "I'm Zara. I can't believe I'm actually talking to you! I thought you'd be… mean. You're on every poster in my room. Can we take a picture? Please?"
"Group pic," Zimba interrupted, pulling us together before Zara combusted from excitement. The flash went off, sealing the moment into her phone and, no doubt, her socials.
Fred stayed unusually quiet, eyes locked on Dad and Zimba as they struck up a conversation about business and music. His silence unsettled me; it wasn't like him to fade into the background. Meanwhile, Zara made TikToks in the corner of the limo, lips glossed, lashes fluttering.
I sat back, tugging at the hem of my pink oversized hoodie, my boots crossed neatly. Compared to Zara's ash-colored crop top and thigh-skimming skort, I looked soft, girly, almost innocent. Fred, in his hoodie and sweatpants, looked frustratingly good despite pretending not to try.
---
The gates opened to reveal Dad's mansion. Even after years, it still stunned me.
Seven point eight billion dollars' worth of jaw-dropping opulence. Golden gates. Pristine lawns. Marble fountains that glittered under the California sun.
"Welcome home, Daddy's little princess," Dad said, kissing my forehead as we stepped out.
"Dad, I really missed you! Now you're going to let me own all the things you never wanted me to have, right?" I teased.
"Don't worry, princess." His arm curled around my shoulders as we entered the mansion.
Fred stopped dead in the doorway, mouth open. "Oh. My. God." His voice cracked in disbelief as his eyes swept across diamond chandeliers and gold-edged walls.
"You own this?" Zara shrieked, spinning in circles.
Dad shifted uncomfortably, as though embarrassed by the grandeur.
"Yeah, this is my dad's mansion," I bragged, lifting my chin.
"Shut up. They know that already." Zimba's eye-roll almost bruised my pride.
I snarled under my breath, stepping closer to Dad like the princess I was.
The interior sparkled like a dream: chandeliers dripping diamonds, marble floors polished to mirrors, dining halls fit for royalty. I lost myself staring upward until Zimba's voice broke in.
"WBM?" he asked with a smirk.
Dad frowned. "What's that?"
"What 'bout me?" Zimba translated, crossing his arms.
Dad laughed, ruffling his hair. "Neglecting how bird-brained you are, I love you too."
The room exploded with laughter as Zimba scowled playfully. Dad smacked the back of his head, sealing the joke.
Then Dad leaned down, his voice dropping low for my ears only. "So… is he your boyfriend?" His eyes flicked to Fred.
"Dad!" My cheeks ignited red.
"Tell me."
"Yes!" Zara screamed before I could answer, her voice echoing through the golden halls.
Dad chuckled, clearly entertained. "Alright, alright. Welcome, all of you. You must be tired. Let's get you settled. Neil!" he shouted, summoning a butler from nowhere.
---
Note: Dad was a black American, tall and built like Ronaldo in his prime. At nearly the same age, people often mistook him for the footballer. He and Mom had married young—him at twenty, her nineteen. One year apart, yet perfectly matched. To the world, they still looked like the golden couple, timeless and untouchable.
And now… the world was watching me step into his shoes.