Wellington, New Zealand
9:50 a.m.
SHARON
"Somtochukwu, get down from that bookshelf! Chidimma, put the flower vase down! Chinonso, step away from the window!"
At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if the neighbors down on Third Street could hear me yelling.
These kids—God, they're going to drive me insane. I swear, one day I'll wake up and find a strand of white hair right in the middle of my head.
Is this what motherhood really feels like when you have quadruplets? Because, if it is, then Lord, have mercy.
Every time their father travels for business, I become this wild, frazzled woman sprinting from room to room like a headless chicken. I may be the mother of four, but sometimes it feels like I'm ruling a tiny kingdom of chaos—with all its burdens resting squarely on my shoulders.
It's just… too much. Far too much.
The nannies are doing their best—honestly, they are. Now I finally understand what they go through when I'm not around. My husband hired four of them to help manage the kids, and even with two here right now, it feels like I'm running an army.
Still, I can't just sit back and watch. I'm their mother.
And blood, as they say, is thicker than water.
I sent two of the nannies out to run an errand, while the remaining two are trying to keep the kids calm. Meanwhile, I'm juggling the three restless ones while nursing the fourth in my arms.
They're only seven months old—seven months—and already trying to walk.
Two boys, two girls. A perfect set, people say. The kind of symmetry you only see in magazines or prayers answered too literally.
They were born two minutes apart—like clockwork. Chinonso came first, then Chidimma, then Somtochukwu, and finally Chimamanda.
Two minutes. Two minutes. Two minutes.
And with each one, my sanity slipped just a little further away.
Don't get me wrong—I adore them. But if I ever whisper the word "pregnant" again, someone please slap me with a frying pan.
Motherhood is love.
Motherhood is laughter.
Motherhood is madness.
Sometimes, I still can't believe I'm the mother of these four bright, beautiful souls. Me—of all people. The same woman who once swore marriage wasn't her thing.
I never thought I'd become a wife, let alone a mother. Especially not after the kind of life I lived before this.
Marriage used to sit at the very bottom of my list, and I shoved it there for a reason—because of what I grew up watching. My parents divorced when I was eight, and by the time they found their way back to each other, I was already fifteen.
And if you ask me, I'll tell you straight: it was all because of one person.
My late aunt, Adila Cecilia Omowummi.
May her soul rest in pieces.
Even in death, I can't forgive her. She almost destroyed my parents' marriage. The chaos she left behind could have buried us all.
But thank God, my parents made it through. Somehow.
"Chidimma, if you touch that flower vase one more time, I will spank you!"
Honestly, talking to these children is like telling a fly to stay away from poop—it's not happening.
Anyway, this is me now.
Mrs. Sharon Pelumi Felix Ayomide Okafor.
The "after."
My parents still call me Rose of Sharon, though. It's one of those things that never fades, no matter how many titles life throws at you.
But before the husband, before the babies, before the sleepless nights and the chaos—there was another me.
The before.
The woman I used to be.
Five years ago, in another world entirely.
Let me take you back there—to where it all began.
**** Flashback ****
Five years ago.....
Osaka, Japan
11:45 a.m.
I hated clumsiness.
Couldn't stand lateness.
Untidiness irritated me.
Nosiness? Don't even get me started.
If you asked me back then, I'd say I almost hated nature itself.
I was a woman of extremes—always too much or never enough. Never in the middle.
Strict. Blunt. Easily angered.
A perfectionist wrapped in fine silk and constant exhaustion.
It was nearly impossible to please me.
I could hire someone in the morning and fire them before sunset. Sometimes before lunch.
And if you'd asked why? I wouldn't have had a real answer—only that something in me was always restless.
Always simmering.
Always on edge.
Maybe I was born that way. Or maybe the world made me that way.
Either way, that was me.
You'd probably wonder—did I even have friends?
Of course, I did. But not the soft kind. My friends were like me—sharp, bold, reckless, and brilliant in their chaos.
Most of them were business partners or colleagues. We met in glass-walled boardrooms, toasted to mergers, signed billion-dollar contracts, and partied under city lights that never slept.
That was friendship in my world—transactional, intense, brief.
You could never predict my mood.
One minute I'd be quiet, the next I'd be ready to bite someone's head off.
And the moment people assumed I was calm? That was the exact moment I was about to explode.
That was me—the old Sharon.
The one who believed peace was overrated and control was everything.
If taking lives could buy silence, I would've counted it among my guilty pleasures.
Not literally, of course—but I did love watching people squirm.
Maybe that's why my parents kept setting me up on blind dates, hoping love would soften me.
Spoiler alert: it didn't.
I wasn't interested in romance.
I was in love with power.
With the empire my parents built brick by brick.
With the thrill of being in charge.
My father owns a global business empire—industries that stretch from oil to tech to real estate, all stamped with his name: Felix Ayomide Holdings.
Since childhood, I've watched him move like a king—steady, deliberate, untouchable.
I wanted that.
Not the throne, but the presence.
And I earned it.
Sebastian and I—my half-brother—we run that empire together.
He's not my father's blood, but he might as well be.
We're two sides of the same coin—same ambition, same ruthlessness.
Sebastian is my twin in spirit, only bolder, colder, and with a heart even harder to reach.
He's turning thirty soon and still treats commitment like a trapdoor.
Maybe that's why my father split his fortune evenly between us.
Fifty-fifty. No questions asked.
I'm his only biological child, but he never made Sebastian feel like an outsider.
And I admire him for that.
My father is… unmatched. A man of power, grace, and impossible standards.
If I could choose my family all over again, I'd pick them—every time.
So tell me, why would I trade that kind of freedom for marriage?
I had everything: wealth, influence, legacy.
And if I ever needed a little… bonus support, I had friends in every corner of the world.
Marriage would only ruin the peace I built.
It'd be like pouring sand into a glass of fine wine.
If anyone needed to marry, it was Sebastian. He's older, after all.
But every time I brought it up, my parents threw that line at me again—
"Women hit menopause, not men."
God, how I hated hearing that.
Sebastian, though… his story's complicated.
He has ties with some underground group—something dark, something quiet.
Maybe that's why he avoids attachment.
Maybe it's just who he is.
Either way, he's a womanizer.
A beautiful disaster of a man who loves control but hates emotion.
And I can't judge him. Because truth be told, I wasn't so different.
I've had my flings—short-lived, fiery, and forgettable.
Nights of red wine, cigarette smoke curling in the air, and laughter too loud for the hour.
Call me wayward if you want, but it was never my lifestyle—just my escape.
Because when it came to business, I didn't play.
I was my father's daughter, and I treated his empire like it was my heartbeat.
And right now, that heartbeat was thundering in a glass-walled boardroom in Osaka.
The room was sleek—silver accents, mirrored ceilings, not a single thing out of place. The air itself felt engineered.
Across from me sat a group of top executives from one of the world's most powerful tech corporations. Their posture screamed confidence. Their eyes betrayed desperation.
This deal was worth thirty-five billion dollars.
I leaned back in my chair, crossed one leg over the other, and tapped my pen against the polished oak table.
Once. Twice. Then silence.
The tension was exquisite.
"Jun-Kong," I said to my translator, a tall Japanese-American with surgical calm, "tell these gentlemen I'm offering twenty billion. I'm not impressed. If they get serious, they know where to find me."
The room froze.
I rose slowly, gathering my folder. The executives exchanged alarmed glances, whispering to one another in rapid Japanese.
Let them talk.
I don't chase deals.
I make the world come to me.
As I stepped out, my bodyguards formed a shield, ensuring not even the air brushed too close.
Behind me, the executives scrambled toward my secretary, desperate to reschedule.
I didn't look back.
Power doesn't explain itself.
---
Osaka, Japan
7:48 p.m. — Grand Liora Hotels
The city lights below glittered like liquid gold. I was back in my father's hotel, draped across a cream leather couch, sipping Spanish whiskey when my phone buzzed.
"Ma'am," came the voice of my secretary, Mary Tobias—Australian, crisp, painfully efficient. "They agreed to reschedule the meeting for the thirteenth."
"The thirteenth?" I repeated, arching a brow. "That's almost two weeks away."
"Yes, ma'am. It's the earliest date they could—"
"Cancel it," I said flatly. "I'm no longer interested."
Click.
And that was the end of a thirty-five-billion-dollar deal.
Mary stayed silent for a few seconds. I could hear her steady breathing on the other end—measured, professional, but tight.
This was the fourth major deal I'd dropped in a week.
She didn't understand. Most people didn't.
But I don't move on impulse. I move on instinct.
It's not about the money. It's about the future—about quality, timing, and leverage.
"Do you have something to say, Mary?" I asked finally.
"No, ma'am," she said quietly. "The deal's canceled."
"Good. Send me this week's appointments."
"Yes, ma'am."
I hung up before she could finish.
It wasn't personal. It never was.
Say what you want about me, but I take care of my people.
Luxury. Safety. Comfort. It's part of the job description when you work under Sharon Ayomide.
I leaned back, took another sip of whiskey, and scrolled through Instagram.
Liam—my cousin—was on my feed again. Trophy in hand. Another win.
God, he never stops.
Liam Nifemi Damian Ayomide, the global soccer icon.
The man who makes stadiums roar and headlines bow.
I smiled, tapping "like."
The Ayomides—we were all gifted.
Success wasn't just in our blood. It was our DNA.
But somehow, none of us the new generations were married.
Not one.
It was like an unspoken curse, or maybe just a family trait or personal problem cause.
Even Liam, at twenty-seven, hadn't settled down.
Not for lack of offers. People lined up, waiting for a chance.
But we all said the same thing, every time:
I'm not ready.
And maybe we never would be.
I drained the rest of my glass, stood from the couch, and stretched.
Time for a bath.
Because no matter how loud the world gets, or how many billions hang in the balance—
I always end my day in silence, in water, in control.
That's who I was.
Back then.
Before everything changed.