The decision didn't come all at once.
It arrived quietly—like dawn creeping through cracked windows.
Ivie stood in her grandmother's yard, watching her siblings chase each other through the dust, laughter echoing against old walls. For the first time in a long while, she wasn't counting days in fear. She wasn't planning an escape.
She was breathing.
Femi stood a few steps behind her, phone tucked away, presence steady but unobtrusive. He hadn't asked her again about returning to Lagos. Not once.
That restraint mattered.
"I can't live here forever," Ivie said softly, still facing the yard.
"I know," he replied. "And I won't ask you to."
She turned to him. "But if I go back… things have to change."
"They already have," he said. "Starting with me."
The drive back to Lagos felt different.
No tension. No silence sharpened by anger.
When they arrived at Femi's estate, Ivie hesitated at the gates. Memories surged—doubt, betrayal, loneliness.
Femi noticed.
He stepped out first and held the gate open.
"You don't enter as a guest," he said. "You enter as my partner."
Her throat tightened.
Inside, the house felt transformed. Her wing remained untouched—but now the rest of the space felt… open. Lived in. Warmer.
Staff greeted her respectfully. No whispers. No avoidance.
That night, Femi made a public call.
"She's under my name," he said into the phone. "Any disrespect toward her is disrespect toward me."
The message traveled fast.
Weeks passed.
The pregnancy progressed, and with it, Femi's quiet devotion.
He attended every appointment. Learned every detail. Read books in the evenings, occasionally asking questions that made Ivie smile despite herself.
One afternoon, during an ultrasound, the technician paused and smiled.
"There are two heartbeats."
Ivie's breath caught. "Two?"
"Twins," the woman confirmed.
Femi went completely still.
Then—slowly—he reached for Ivie's hand.
"Boy and girl," the technician added.
Ivie laughed through sudden tears.
Femi closed his eyes, emotion cracking through his composure. "Perfect," he whispered.
Ada tried once more—one final public statement, vague and bitter.
Femi shut it down publicly.
A press release followed. No details. No drama.
Just a sentence that shook Lagos society:
Femi da Silva confirms his commitment to Ivie and their growing family.
For the first time, Ivie wasn't hidden.
She was chosen.
One evening, as they stood on the balcony overlooking the city, Ivie leaned against the railing.
"I used to think love was a trap," she said.
"And now?" Femi asked.
"Now I think it's a choice," she replied. "One you have to make every day."
He turned to her fully. "I'll choose you every day."
She looked up at him, eyes steady. "Then stay."
He smiled. "I'm not going anywhere."
Below them, Lagos pulsed with life—unaware that a love born in hate, broken by lies, and rebuilt through truth had finally found its footing.
Together.