Golden sat curled into the corner of the couch, an iPad resting on her lap, its screen dark. She wasn't reading. She wasn't watching. She was simply staring.
Her eyes drifted to the quiet corners of the living room — the pristine marble floors, the chandelier casting soft shadows, the massive television mounted silently on the wall.
Everything looked perfect.
Everything felt empty.
The silence in the house had a weight. It pressed into her shoulders. It stretched across the leather seats. It hummed in the faint air conditioner breeze.
She reached for her phone, thumb hovering over Xavier's name — paused — then dropped the device gently like it could shatter.
He won't pick.
She sighed and leaned back, letting her head fall against the cushion.
The clock ticked — loud, steady, mocking.
Days trickled into weeks.
Xavier spoke less. Smiled less. Looked at her less. He slept more often in the guest room now — claiming he "worked late" and didn't want to disturb her.
Golden would wake in the night and listen for footsteps that never came. Her calls rang and rang.
Her texts delivered — blue ticked — never answered.
Staff came to clean. Drivers came. Errands happened. But the house — their home — felt like a museum of silence.
Only his family's calls warmed her. Sometimes once a week, sometimes twice.
Xavier's mother's voice was surprisingly gentle, "Golden… have you eaten today?"
"No, mom, I'll eat soon."
"You should. Take care of yourself, my dear."
Sometimes she'd chuckle softly, "Hire a maid. Just someone to keep you company during the day."
Golden always declined, politely, quietly.
The older woman would sigh, "Alright. At least take walks. Go out. Smell air. Don't stay inside too much."
Those short calls were lifelines — thin threads holding her together.
Then came a spark of warmth.
Xavier's younger sister and mother moved from Apu and settled in Lagos — just about forty minutes away.
They visited often. They cooked in her kitchen, music playing softly as pots bubbled and spices danced through the air.
They dragged her out for ice cream, spa treatments, braids, pedicures — laughter echoing down mall hallways. They took pictures. Told silly stories. Avoided the word "baby."
No pressure. No sighs. Just presence.
Sometimes, Golden would stare at them laughing and feel tears prick her eyes — not of sadness, but relief. She started smiling again. Not wide. Not every day. But sometimes.
One evening, she opened her sketchpad again.
Her hands trembled — but pencil touched paper. Lines formed. Just doodles. But it was something. Hope didn't return like thunder. It whispered.
⸻
And then the silence returned. Louder. One night ticked quietly into another. The living room lights were dim. Golden sat cross-legged on the couch, dressed in silk nightwear. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulders. The AC hummed softly — the only sound breaking the emptiness.
The wall clock ticked past 11:07 PM.
The metallic click of keys against the side table echoed as Xavier walked in. He didn't look at her. Just headed straight for the freezer.
Golden watched him… silently.
He grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap aggressively, and gulped.
Finally, she spoke, "You're late again."
Xavier froze mid-swallow, shoulders tensing, "Yeah… had a lot to handle."
"You said that yesterday," she added gently, voice careful, "And the day before. Is this how it's going to be now?"
He shrugged, closing the fridge, "What do you want me to say? I'm out working. It's not like I'm partying, Golden."
She sat up straighter, "Working? You don't even call. I sit here wondering if you're okay… if we're okay."
He laughed — a dry, humorless sound, "Since when did 'we' mean checking in every five minutes?"
Her brows knitted, "It's not about checking in. It's about respect. About care. About us."
He threw himself onto the adjacent couch, eyes tired, "Golden… every time I walk into this house, it feels heavy."
Her breath hitched, "You think I enjoy this? You think I want to feel alone in my marriage?"
He rubbed his forehead, frustrated, " I'm tired."
A shaky breath escaped her lips, "Do you know what hurts the most?" Her voice softened to a whisper — raw, trembling, "It's not just that I haven't given you a child… it's that you're making me feel like I'm not worth coming home to."
Xavier's jaw tightened. He stood slowly, "I didn't come home for a fight."
Golden scoffed — a sad, breathy sound, "No. You came to sleep… and leave again. Like a stranger."
He stared at her — eyes unreadable, "I need rest, Golden. We'll talk later."
She swallowed hard, "That's what you always say. We didn't start this way, Xav."
He walked past — not touching her shoulder, not glancing back — just a brush of air and footsteps fading up the stairs.
Golden remained still — frozen — staring at the space he left behind. Her tears fell silently, slipping onto the couch fabric, darkening tiny patches.
The house, once filled with laughter, now echoed with nothing but the hum of the air conditioner and her heartbreak.
*************
The city's hum floated faintly through the tinted windows of Xavier's office — the rhythmic beeping of traffic, the distant honk of impatient drivers.
Inside, everything gleamed: polished glass table, framed awards, the faint scent of expensive cologne and ambition.
Xavier sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, eyes buried in a document spread out before him. The room was cool, the low hum of the AC filling the silence.
Then the door opened.
"Baba Xav!" a deep familiar voice boomed, followed by a burst of laughter.
Xavier looked up, smiling faintly, "Dee. Long time, man."
"My guy!" Dee grinned, striding in, suited sharp, wristwatch glinting. He gave Xavier a firm handshake and dropped into the chair opposite him, "You? Still drowning in paperwork as usual."
Xavier chuckled, leaning back, "Someone has to make sure the company doesn't collapse while you're out enjoying your life."
Dee laughed. "Touché." He glanced at the open folder on the desk. "So… this the big deal I've been hearing about?"
"Yeah," Xavier said, tapping the papers, "If this goes through, we'll be expanding into Abuja by next quarter."
Dee nodded, impressed, "That's huge, bro. You've done well. Your dad would be proud."
Xavier smiled briefly, his eyes flickering with quiet gratitude, "Thanks, man. We've worked hard for this."
They talked business — strategy, projections, new investors. Their voices filled the room with purpose until Dee leaned back suddenly, crossing one leg over the other, that sly grin creeping across his face.
"So tell me, Xav…" he said casually, twirling a pen between his fingers, "How's madam? How's the wife?"
Xavier looked up from his document, voice calm, " She's fine."
"Just fine?" Dee teased, "After seven years, that's all you've got to say? No little Xaviers running around yet?"
Xavier's expression didn't change, "Dee…" he warned lightly, "Let's focus on the deal."
Dee raised his hands, grinning, "Ah, my bad, my bad. Just asking. But bro…"He leaned forward, voice dropping lower, playful but edged with sincerity, "Don't tell me you're still waiting on one woman to give you a child. You? Fine boy, rich, successful. I'm sure women are dying for a chance."
Xavier's jaw tightened. He adjusted his cufflink, refusing to meet Dee's eyes, "Let's leave my family out of this conversation."
But Dee wasn't done. He sighed, shaking his head slightly, "You know I care, Xav. But it's been seven years, man. Seven. How long do you plan to wait? You want to grow old still praying for a miracle?"
Xavier said nothing.
Dee's voice softened, "If you're worried about cheating, fine. Don't cheat. But you can take another wife. Or… just get a divorce and start over. No one will blame you. You're a man, not a saint."
The room went still. The air felt heavier, colder.
Xavier finally looked up, eyes steady — calm, but sharp, "Dee." He said the name slowly, firmly, "You're my friend. A good one. But don't tell me how to run my home or my life."
Dee blinked, a little taken aback. Then he gave a small laugh to ease the tension. "Relax, boss. I only meant well. You know me."
Xavier exhaled, leaning back again. "I know. And I appreciate your concern. But some things… aren't open for discussion."
Dee nodded, lips pressed together, "Fair enough."
For a moment, silence. Then Xavier picked up the file again and pushed it across the desk. "Now," he said, voice returning to business, "let's talk about the Abuja deal before you start giving me marriage counseling."
Dee chuckled, taking the papers, "Deal. But don't say I didn't warn you when I'm the godfather to your second wife's baby."
Xavier shot him a look that made Dee laugh harder.
They dove back into numbers and contracts, but even as they spoke, Xavier's mind wandered to a quiet house, a woman on a couch, and the ache he couldn't fix.
************
The bass thumped through the neon-lit club, colors pulsing like a heartbeat. Perfume, sweat, liquor, bodies — they mixed in a haze of heat and noise.
Dee lounged on a leather couch in the VIP section, one arm stretched lazily along the backrest, a glass of whiskey swirling in his hand.
Half the club recognized him — smiled, nodded, whispered.
He liked that.
A familiar voice purred behind him, "Small world."
He turned.
Diana.
Short dress. High slit. Dark lipstick. Eyes sharp and hungry.
She slid into the seat across from him without asking.
"Dee," she greeted, crossing her legs like a statement.
"Diana." He raised his brow, "Didn't expect to see you here."
She scoffed, "You think I spend every night stitching files at the office?"
They both laughed lightly.
Dee took a slow sip, "So. Still hovering around Xav?"
Her smile twitched, "Someone has to remind him what good taste looks like."
Dee chuckled, "He seems… pretty committed to his wife."
Diana rolled her eyes, the annoyance sharp, "Golden is a pretty face with a tragic story. That's it. Nothing more."
Dee tilted his head."…..You don't like her."
"Like?" She almost laughed, " She's pathetic. A small town girl. Always crying. Always weak. Xavier deserves better."
Dee's gaze sharpened, amused. "Better… like you?"
Diana leaned forward, voice dropping. "Yes. I've been with him since the start — told him which deals to take, helped him build that company. I've been loyal." Her jaw clenched. "All that woman gives him is depression."
Silence.
The music pulsed around them.
Finally, she asked — quiet, but urgent, "Talk to him for me… please."
Dee stared at her, watching the desperation flicker behind the makeup, "Xav isn't easily swayed."
"But he listens to you," she pushed, "If you tell him to see me differently… maybe he will."
Her voice trembled with hope she hated showing.
Dee leaned back slowly. A smirk crawled onto his lips, "And… what would you give me in return?"
Her eyes narrowed, "Give you?"
"Yes." He swirled his drink, "Nothing in this world is free. Not even friendship."
Diana swallowed, "Just name it. I'll pay. Money, favors, connections—"
He cut her off, voice dripping with suggestion, "Not money."
She stared.
A beat passed.
"…then what?"
Dee's gaze traveled over her body, slow and deliberate, "You already know."
Diana stiffened, "Sex?"
He shrugged casually, "Why pretend to be shocked?"
She scoffed, masking the sting, "There are plenty of women here. Pick one of them."
Dee's tone darkened — soft, but dangerous, "None of them are useful."
Diana blinked, "Useful?"
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, smile sharp as a knife, "I can get you what you want. I can put the idea of you in his head." He tapped his temple, "Plant the seed."
Diana's lips trembled — excitement simmering under fear, "And in return, you want one night?"
Dee's laugh was low, "One night?" He shook his head slowly, "No. Two nights. Every week."
Diana's face drained, "That's insane."
He shrugged, "Your call." He gestured to the dance floor, "Go chase him yourself then. Let's see how far that gets you."
She stood abruptly, anger flooding her expression, "You're disgusting."
Dee lifted his glass in a mock toast, "And you're pretending to have morals you never had."
She froze.
He leaned back, voice silk-smooth but venomous, "Face it, Diana. Xav doesn't see you. At all." His smile widened, "You need me."
Her heart hammered. Her breath trembled.
Two nights.
It echoed in her skull. She bit her lip — hard — tasting blood, humiliation, longing.
She whispered, barely audible, "…..and after that… he'll notice me?"
Dee's smile turned predatory, "I'll make sure he does."
She stared at him — disgust, desire, desperation twisting in her stomach. Her voice cracked, "Let me think." She turned and walked away.
Dee watched her walk away, eyes gleaming like a man who enjoyed the hunt more than the prize.
He sipped his drink. "The things people trade for love…" He smirked. "...or the idea of it."