Morning came softly in Benin City.
Ivie woke to the sound of movement in the kitchen and froze, disoriented for a moment—then memory rushed back. Femi. The night. His apology.
She sat up slowly, one hand resting over her stomach.
For the first time in days, she hadn't woken up afraid.
She stepped into the small kitchen and stopped short.
Femi stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, carefully stirring a pot. The sight felt unreal—this man who commanded boardrooms and headlines now focused intently on not burning pap.
"You're awake," he said, glancing over his shoulder.
She crossed her arms. "You don't have to do that."
"I know," he replied calmly. "I want to."
Something in his tone—steady, without expectation—made her chest tighten.
They ate quietly. No pressure. No promises.
After breakfast, he followed her outside and surveyed the house with a thoughtful frown.
"The roof leaks," he said. "The back wall needs reinforcement."
She stiffened. "I don't want charity."
He turned to her. "Then don't take it as charity. Take it as responsibility."
She studied his face, searching for arrogance.
There was none.
By afternoon, Ivie's younger siblings arrived from a neighbor's place.
They froze when they saw Femi.
"Who's that?" her brother whispered.
Ivie hesitated.
Before she could answer, Femi crouched down to their level.
"I'm Femi," he said simply. "I'm your sister's friend."
Friend.
The word felt intentional.
He spoke to them gently, asked about school, listened—really listened. By evening, they were laughing around him like he'd always belonged.
Ivie watched from a distance, heart aching in a way she hadn't expected.
This man could have bought their loyalty.
Instead, he earned it.
That night, Femi stepped outside to make a call.
His voice was low but firm.
"Freeze the accounts," he said. "Every one linked to Ada da Silva."
A pause.
"Yes. Immediately."
By morning, the news was already spreading—Ada's social circle whispering, her reputation unraveling, her lies exposed. The world she had built on manipulation collapsed quietly, efficiently.
Femi didn't smile.
Vengeance wasn't the point.
Justice was.
Later, Ivie found him sitting alone on the porch, staring out at the road.
"You didn't have to destroy her," she said softly.
"I didn't," he replied. "I removed her access to power."
She sat beside him, a careful distance between them.
"You stayed," she said. "Without demanding anything."
"I learned something," he said. "Love isn't ownership. It's patience."
Her breath hitched.
She turned to him. "I can't go back to how things were."
"I don't want you to," he said. "I want to build something new. Slowly. On your terms."
Silence stretched—gentler now.
Finally, she nodded.
"One step at a time," she said.
He smiled—not the confident smirk she hated, but something softer. Earned.
That night, as Ivie lay in bed, she felt a sense of calm she hadn't known in weeks.
Outside, Femi fixed the porch light himself, refusing help.
Not because he had to.
But because he wanted to be useful.
And for the first time since Lagos, Ivie allowed herself to believe:
Maybe love didn't have to hurt to be real.