đ NATHANIEL'S POV
People like me are not supposed to feel empty.
That's the rule nobody says out loud, but everybody believes.
If your life is structured, if your money is steady, if your name carries weight in rooms you don't even have to enter, then your heart is supposed to follow that same order,complete, satisfied, at peace.
Especially when you come from where I come from.
Not struggle.
Not survival.
Legacy.
My grandfather built it. My father multiplied it. I⌠expanded it.
Old money doesn't shout. It doesn't prove. It simply exists.
And everything about your life is expected to reflect that,composure, control, continuity.
But nobody prepares you for the quiet kind of emptiness.
The one that doesn't shout.
The one that doesn't break anything.
The one that just⌠sits.
I wake up before my alarm.
5:12 a.m.
Same time. Every day.
No dreams. Or maybe I stopped remembering them.
The ceiling above me is plain, expensive, intentional. Everything in this house was chosen carefully. Designed. Placed. Perfect.
Just like my life.
I sit up slowly, elbows resting on my knees.
For a moment, I don't move.
I just breathe.
And there it is again.
That feeling.
Not pain.
Not sadness.
Just⌠absence.
By 7:30 a.m., I'm dressed.
Dark suit. Clean lines. Everything fitting exactly how it should.
Musa opens the gate as I step out.
"Good morning, sir."
"Morning."
Abuja is already awake, moving with its quiet urgency. Cars, people, routine,life happening in layers.
I sit in the backseat, watching through tinted glass.
Close enough to see.
Far enough not to feel.
My phone rings.
Kelechi.
"You don wake?" he asks.
"I've been up."
"Of course. Machine no dey sleep."
I don't respond.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"You."
I pause.
"You're becoming dramatic."
"I'm becoming honest," he replies. "Two different things."
I lean my head back.
"I have a long day."
"You always have a long day. That's not new."
Silence.
Then.
"You're not okay."
I close my eyes briefly.
"I'm fine."
"You've been saying that for years," he says quietly. "Same voice. Same face. Just more money."
That lands.
"You think money solves everything," he continues, "but it just hides things better."
"I didn't say it solves everything."
"But you built your life like it should. Like once everything is in place, you'll finally feel something."
I don't respond.
Because that part is true.
"You don't laugh like before. You don't get angry. You don't even get excited. You just⌠move."
"I'm focused."
"No," he says. "You're empty."
The word sits between us.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know you," he replies. "And this version of you? He's successful⌠but he's not alive."
I open my eyes slowly.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Feel something," he says. "Anything. Even if it's messy."
"I don't have time for messy."
"Then you don't have time for real life."
Silence stretches.
"You ever ask yourself⌠if everything stopped today, what would actually matter to you?"
I swallow.
"Everything matters."
"No," he says softly. "Everything functions. That's not the same thing."
I hang up.
But his voice doesn't leave.
Work is easier.
Work makes sense.
Numbers don't lie. Effort produces results. Decisions create outcomes.
No confusion. No emotions.
"Expansion into Warri is still a risk," one of the executives says. "Logistics, local influence, security"
"Profit margin?" I cut in.
"Strong."
"Then we move."
They exchange glances.
"We need deeper local integration."
"Then we build it," I reply calmly.
Silence.
"Warri is growing quietly. That's where the real opportunity is. We don't come late and compete. We come early and lead."
They nod slowly.
"Prepare full projections. No fear-based thinking."
"Yes, sir."
Meeting over.
Clean. Efficient. Successful.
Empty.
By afternoon, I'm alone in my office.
Glass walls. Structured space. A life that looks exactly how it should.
My phone lights up.
Mummy.
"Nathaniel."
"Mummy."
"You've forgotten your house."
I almost smile.
"It's twenty minutes away."
"That doesn't mean you live here. You pass."
I lean back.
"I've been busy."
"You've always been busy. Even when you were small."
That makes me pause.
"You don't come and visit anymore. You are just busy carrying different women, not once have you showed interest in any one or even bring home. You don't rest."
"I'm talking to you now."
"You're answering me," she corrects. "That's not the same thing."
Silence.
"You're coming for dinner. Today."
"I have.."
"You will adjust it."
I exhale lightly.
"I'll be there."
"Ada is home."
Something softens.
"How is she?"
"She's fine. But she misses you."
Our family house is just twenty minutes away, but it feels different. Not louder. Not bigger.Just⌠rooted.
Everything in it has history. Nothing is there to impress.
It simply belongs.
My father is already seated when I arrive.
Straight posture. Calm presence. Quiet authority.
"Nathaniel."
"Sir."
Respect.
Always.
Ada breaks that immediately.
"NATHAN!"
She runs into me, hugging me tightly.
"You forgot you have a sister!"
I chuckle.
"I didn't forget."
"You did. Don't lie."
I pull back, looking at her.
She's grown.
Confident. Alive.
"When did you become this big?"
"Please, I've been big."
"You're still small."
"Mummy!" she shouts, laughing.
And just like thatâŚ
the house feels warmer.
Dinner is intentional.
The table is set like it means something.
Because it does.
This is not just food.
This is legacy sitting together.
"Nathaniel," Mummy calls.
"Yes, Mummy."
"You're not getting younger."
Ada coughs.
"I'm aware."
"You have built something good. Your father and I are proud."
I nod.
"But life is not only about work."
I glance briefly at my father.
He's watching me now.
"I understand."
"Do you?" she asks gently.
No pressure.
But intention.
"There are families we respect," she continues. "People we trust. Good women."
Ada shifts.
"MummyâŚ"
"I've had conversations," she adds.
That makes me look at her fully.
"Conversations?"
"Nothing forced. Just alignment."
I exhale slowly.
"Mummy"
"I am not arranging your life," she says calmly, "but I will arrange a meeting."
Silence.
My father speaks.
"In this family, we don't leave important things to chance."
I hold his gaze.
"I'm not ready."
"For what?" he asks.
I don't answer.
Because I don't know.
Mummy's voice softens.
"You deserve a full life, Nathaniel. Not just a successful one."
That word again.
Full.
"I hear you."
"That's not the same as understanding," she replies quietly.
Silence settles.
"Can we not marry him off today?" Ada says lightly.
Tension softens.
But it stays.
Later, Ada pulls me outside.
"You're not okay," she says.
I sigh.
"You too?"
"I'm serious. You look like someone who has everything⌠but is still waiting."
I look away.
"I don't know what I'm waiting for."
She nods.
"Maybe that's the problem."
Back home, the silence returns.
Same walls. Same order. Same emptiness. To get my mind of it, I began scrolling,
Business pages. Market trends.
Then I pause.
Olivia Threads.
I don't know why, but I open it.
The designs are different.
Real.Then I see her.
Imani.
Not just once.
Again.
And again.
Different outfits.
Same presence.
A fitted dress hugs her waist, falling naturally over her hips like it was made for her body alone.
Nothing forced.
Nothing hidden.
She turns slightly, adjusting the fabric, and smiles.
Soft. Unfiltered.
Real.
I scroll.
Another post.
Different design.
Same effect.
Her skin catches light effortlessly.
Warm. Rich. Alive.
Her eyesâŚ
There's something in them.
Something free.
I pause.
Scroll back.
Watch again.
Then another video.
She's in a kitchen.
Flour on her hands.
Laughing.
Talking like nobody is watching.
"IMANI'S KITCHEN and OLIVIA THREADS."
I read it again.
Imani.
I don't know her.
But something about herâŚ
holds me.
Not just how she looks.
But how she exists.
Like she's not trying.
And that's exactly why you can't look away.
That night, I stand by my window.
Abuja stretches quietly outside.
My father's expectations.
My mother's plans.
A future already being arranged.
And then.
A girl I've never met.
Laughing in flour.
Living like she feels everything.
I don't understand it.
But I felt it.
And maybeâŚ
that's where everything begins.
********
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