Chapter Two: A Love That Was Planned
Amara had always believed memory was reliable.
That the past stayed where it belonged, unchanged and honest. But sitting alone in her sister's guest room, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, she realized memory could betray just as deeply as people did.
Sleep refused to come. Each time she closed her eyes, moments from her marriage replayed themselves, no longer soft, no longer safe. She began to question every detail she had once cherished.
Their first meeting.
She had been leaving a charity fundraiser when he approached her in the parking lot, polite and unassuming. He'd apologized for nearly bumping into her, then offered to walk her to her car. At the time, she'd thought it was chance. Courtesy. Fate, even.
Now, lying awake, she wondered how much of that had been staged.
Her phone buzzed beside her. A message from Kweku.
Please talk to me.
She turned the screen face down without replying.
The next morning arrived heavy with exhaustion. Amara rose early, showered, and dressed with mechanical precision. The woman staring back at her in the mirror looked older somehow—her eyes dulled by disbelief.
At breakfast, her sister Efua studied her carefully. "You're really not going back?"
Amara wrapped her hands around her mug. "I can't."
Efua hesitated. "Did he say why?"
"Yes," Amara said flatly. "And I wish he hadn't."
She spent the day walking through familiar streets, seeking comfort in routine. But everywhere she went, the past followed her. Cafés where they'd shared quiet laughter. Parks where he'd held her hand as if it were something precious.
Each memory now felt contaminated.
By afternoon, her anger sharpened into something more dangerous—clarity.
She drove back to the house.
Kweku's car was in the driveway.
He was seated in the living room when she entered, posture rigid, as though he hadn't moved since she left. His eyes lifted immediately, hope flickering before caution took its place.
"I'm not staying," she said before he could speak. "I just need answers."
He nodded. "You deserve them."
She didn't sit. "When did you first notice me?"
He exhaled slowly. "At the fundraiser."
Her chest tightened. "So that wasn't an accident."
"No," he admitted. "I knew who you were."
The truth fell between them, heavy and undeniable.
"I researched your family," he continued. "I knew where you'd be. I knew how to get close."
Amara closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself. "And every smile? Every conversation?"
"Started with intention," he said. "But it didn't stay that way."
She laughed bitterly. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"No," he said quietly. "It's just the truth."
He told her how anger had guided him at first—how grief had hardened into resolve. How he had believed proximity to her would bring satisfaction. Control.
"But you weren't what I expected," he said. "You were kind. Unassuming. Nothing like the image I'd built in my head."
She crossed her arms. "So I humanized myself out of revenge."
His eyes met hers. "You changed me."
Amara turned away, fighting the sting behind her eyes. "You don't get to decide when your love becomes real."
"I know," he said. "And I hate that I didn't stop sooner."
She faced him again. "Why didn't you?"
He hesitated.
"Because by the time I wanted to, I was already married to you."
The words landed with cruel irony.
Silence stretched between them, filled with everything unsaid.
"I need space," Amara said finally. "Not to punish you. To protect myself."
He nodded, pain etched clearly across his face. "Take all the time you need."
As she left, she realized something that unsettled her even more than anger.
Despite everything, a part of her still loved him.
And that frightened her most of all.