That evening, Bummi lay on the bed, pretending to scroll through her phone while secretly watching Damian. He stood at the vanity, facing the mirror, carefully knotting his tie with focused precision.
She slipped in her earphones, letting Ellie Goulding's"Guns and Horses" fill her ears as she absentmindedly played Candy Crush Saga. But her mind wasn't on the game.
Damian hadn't spoken to her—not tonight, not in days. It was as if she didn't exist. His silence filled the room more heavily than words ever could.
He gently curled his dark hair, each motion deliberate. He wore the Golden Opulence Tuxedo, a masterpiece by Stuart Hughes and the House of Bishop. Its estimated worth—over a million dollars—seemed believable under the room's dim light.
The tuxedo gleamed: 24-karat gold thread embroidery, 18-karat gold buttons, and 150 grams of pure gold woven into the fabric. Diamonds and other precious stones were embedded in the hand-stitched silk and wool blend, a testament to rare craftsmanship. Bummi couldn't look away. He looked like a myth—less a man, more a god with his own golden kingdom.
His black shoes, specially crafted by John Lobb William, caught Bummi's attention. She tilted her head, subtly stretching her neck to confirm whether such high-end footwear truly fit him as well as it appeared to.
Everything Damian wore tonight oozed exclusivity. From head to toe, his outfit was a masterclass in luxury. The shoes were no exception—handmade from the finest leather, with a sleek, classic design, built for both comfort and longevity. The polished shine on them was almost blinding, perfectly complementing his tailored black trousers and the subtle gleam of his black bow-tie cufflinks.
Bummi watched him, a quiet frustration building in her chest.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She'd dressed to make him jealous, to reclaim a sense of control. But somehow, he'd reversed it—without saying a word, without even looking her way.
Now she was the one unraveling. Not over his outfit, not over the designer labels or the gold-threaded tuxedo. No—what gnawed at her was the thought of other women watching him tonight. The glances. The whispers. The smiles he wouldn't return—but might still remember.
The table had turned. And it was facing her now.
Bummi winced at the mental image—Damian, arm-in-arm with two stunning women, grinning effortlessly under the paparazzi's flash, soaking in the attention like he was born for it.
A sour wave rose in her throat. In a blink, she was off the bed and rushing to the bathroom, bile burning its way up from her stomach.
When she finally returned, her strength had drained away. Her limbs felt heavy, her eyes dull and unfocused. She blinked slowly, trying to steady herself.
She touched her forehead, half-expecting heat. But her skin was cool. No fever. No chills. Just... normal. Her body gave her no explanation.
She had felt fine all day. So what was happening now?
Back in the bedroom, she paused.
Damian was gone.
Had he left already?
The question echoed in her mind, sharp and quiet.
Her eyes fell on a small note lying on the bed. She picked it up, recognizing Damian's handwriting instantly.
*If you're still coming, my chauffeur will be outside waiting. He'll take you to the venue.*
Bummi let out a bitter breath, crumpled the note in her fist, and tossed it to the floor.
Seriously?
After days of silence—after acting like she didn't exist—this was how he chose to communicate? A scribbled message left behind like an afterthought?
He could've just kept ignoring her. She was getting used to it. Maybe even enjoying the distance.
But no—he had the nerve to walk out without her, like she didn't matter. Like she was just optional.
What a joke.
She reached for her dress, ready to throw it on and show up anyway. But as soon as she tried, her strength gave out again. Her arms felt heavy. Her stomach twisted. That sick feeling clawed its way back up her throat, and this time, she couldn't hold it back.
She gripped the edge of the dresser, breathing hard.
Something wasn't right. And it was more than just him.
After the fourth time throwing up, Bummi sank onto the edge of the bed, drained and defeated.
But this strange, creeping sickness? It wasn't going to stop her.
Not tonight.
She forced herself up and slipped into the dress, the fabric clinging perfectly to her figure. Standing in front of the mirror, she took a deep breath and stared at the woman looking back—bold, breathtaking, unshaken.
With a few strokes of HD makeup, she brought life back to her tired face. Then she pulled on a sleek, shoulder-length bob wig in a rich, glossy brown. It framed her face like armor.
One final look in the mirror. One subtle, knowing smile.
Then she turned and walked out—tall, composed, and unstoppable.
*******
The party unfolded aboard a colossal cruise ship, glowing like a city on water. The guest list was stacked with elites—global celebrities, industry powerhouses, and socialites, all gathered in opulence.
Inside, Ellie Goulding's "Don't Panic" thundered through the sound system, the music so loud it pulsed through the walls and into the open air.
Bummi paused as she stepped onto the deck, suddenly self-conscious. Her dress—bold and striking in the mirror—now felt too revealing under the weight of so many eyes. The air kissed bare skin she now wished was covered. Doubt crept in.
She wanted to turn back. Change. Hide. But it was too late.
Outside, guests sipped wine, exchanged knowing smiles, and leaned into conversations that were part gossip, part performance. Laughter floated through the night, effortless and refined.
Most of the men were dressed in sharp tuxedos and tailored suits. The women shimmered in elegant evening gowns, moving with practiced grace.
Bummi stood still for a breath, then lifted her chin.
Whatever storm she felt inside—no one could see it. Not tonight.
Most of the guests were white Westerners, with only a few Black Westerners and even fewer who looked African.
As Ellie Goulding's"Codes" played in the background, the atmosphere took on a surreal elegance. Some guests moved gracefully across the dance floor, dancing with classic precision while sipping wine. Others stood in clusters, talking and laughing, completely at ease in their world of polished charm and quiet power.
Bummi hadn't seen a single familiar face from Nigeria since she arrived. And she wasn't surprised. This party was clearly designed for a very particular crowd—the ultra-exclusive, the premium tier.
She had assumed it might be a naming ceremony, a reunion, or maybe a chic social mixer. But this was something else entirely—grander, louder, more overwhelming.
The place was packed. Famous faces everywhere. A-list actors from Africa and Asia. Bestselling authors. Popular bloggers and journalists. Chart-topping artists. Influencers with millions of followers. High-powered businesspeople. Politicians. Cultural icons. Even a few names who'd become legends in their industries.
Bummi was certain she'd seen many of them on TV, heard their voices on the radio. Especially the Western women—those flawless faces she'd admired in Hollywood films.
And now she was standing among them. Dressed to match. But still feeling like an outsider.
Bummi took a few discreet photos—wide shots of the dazzling crowd and a quick selfie—then sent them to the Friends Zone group chat she shared with Lola and Ojo.
She stood off to the side, sipping red vintage wine from a martini glass, quietly observing the glamorous chaos around her.
Almost immediately, their responses popped up.
Ojo sent a flurry of shocked emojis, followed by a message:
*Babe, afar na? Abeg, help me collect autograph from my favorite American actress, Patricia Toni.*
Seconds later, Lola added:
*Send me a pic of you and my best blogger, Matthew Jones. Don't leave without it o!*
Bummi rolled her eyes.
Seriously?
They expected her to push through this sea of high-profile strangers—just to hunt down a celebrity and a blogger? In this crowd?
That was asking way too much.
She wasn't the type to go chasing autographs or squeezing in for selfies. Especially not in a room packed with some of the most elite people in the world.
No way. Not happening.
Bummi stood quietly in her corner, sipping her wine, letting the rich taste distract her as she slipped her phone back into her purse.
Her gaze drifted across the room again, scanning the crowd for any sign of Damian. With so many celebrities and high-profile guests in attendance, she couldn't help but wonder—were all these people really his former classmates? The idea felt absurd, but then again, so was this entire evening.
A sudden beep from her phone cut through her thoughts, making her flinch slightly. Probably another message from Lola and Ojo—or maybe even a missed video call.
She reached down to check the notification, but just as her fingers brushed the phone, a cold hand gently gripped her arm.
Startled, she looked up, expecting—hoping—it might be Damian.
It wasn't.
"Christopher?" she said, eyes widening.
There he was, grinning ear to ear like he'd just stumbled into a dream, his full set of white teeth on proud display.
She hadn't seen him in years, and of all places, she hadn't expected to find him here.
For a moment, she wondered if he might be one of Damian's classmates too. But she doubted it. More likely, he was an invited guest like herself—part of the carefully selected crowd brought in for this exclusive event.
Still, his sudden appearance felt strangely timed. And oddly familiar.
It had been ages since Bummi last spoke to Christopher.
Back then—before Damian—she had wanted something meaningful with him. Something more than a casual fling. She chased sincerity; he gave her silence. He ignored her messages, brushed off her calls, and only reached out at random, as if she were just an option on standby.
That version of her—the one who used to care—was long gone.
Whatever feelings she once had for him had turned cold. Now, the disdain she felt far outweighed any affection that had ever existed. Especially after learning the truth—that he was nothing more than a slick-talking playboy, charming one moment, disappearing the next.
Now here he stood, grinning like a fool, his eyes roaming shamelessly over her figure.
To him, she was just another opportunity. Another conquest.
Bummi's stomach turned.
She hated the day their paths first crossed. Just seeing him now made her skin crawl.
"Hello, sweetheart. Long time no see," he drawled, his deep voice laced with false charm.
She didn't smile. She didn't soften.
She just stared, unimpressed—and unmoved.
His hand trailing over her small round shoulder while his eyes googling her watering big boobs which where peeking out on her cleavage.
"I blame myself for ever having anything to do with you," Bummi said through clenched teeth, yanking at the top of her dress in frustration. The fabric clung stubbornly, refusing to give her the modesty she craved. It was too tight—too revealing. She regretted wearing it more with each second.
"Stop staring at me like that, you animal," she snapped, folding her arms tightly over her chest as Christopher's hungry eyes lingered on her body.
"What are you hiding, baby?" he said with a sly grin, taking a step toward her.
Bummi immediately stepped back—two long strides—her pulse quickening. Even in the middle of a crowd, she felt cornered. Christopher had always been a manipulator, skilled at getting what he wanted without shame or boundaries.
"You've been ignoring my calls. You even blocked my number," he said, feigning offense. "Why?"
"I hate you. That's why I blocked your damn calls," she shot back, her voice sharp with conviction.
He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, lips curling into a smug grin. "Really? Hate? Wow. I'm not impressed."
He reached toward her, fingers extending—
But before he could touch her, another hand shot in, firm and unyielding, swatting his arm away with force.
Bummi stood tense, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if bracing against a storm. Then she looked up—and froze.
Damian.
She recognized him instantly, but the expression on his face was unlike anything she'd ever seen. Not even in her worst imagination.
He was furious.
His eyes blazed with a rage so fierce it looked capable of crushing anything in its path. He looked like a predator unleashed—like a lion wounded and ready to kill.
In just a few strides, he closed the space between them.
Christopher paled. The bravado vanished from his face, replaced by sheer panic. He looked like he was praying under his breath, pleading with the universe to make him disappear.
Damian's hand snapped forward, seizing Christopher's wrist in a grip that made him cry out.
"Ah—bro!" Christopher gasped, wincing in pain.
Bummi's breath hitched. Damian's grip looked brutal—tight enough to fracture bone. She wanted to reach out, to calm him, to place a hand on his shoulder and bring him back from wherever his fury had taken him. But something in his expression stopped her. She was afraid even her touch might not reach him.
Christopher's knees nearly buckled. Sweat poured down his face. His whole body shook as if the force of Damian's grip was draining the strength out of him.
He looked like he might collapse—or cry.
Or both.
And now, a few heads had turned. The crowd was starting to notice.
Suddenly, Damian's voice cut through the air—low, sharp, and thunderous. Even with the blaring music, Bummi felt every word vibrate through her chest.
"The next time you lay a hand on what belongs to me, Christopher," he said coldly, "I swear—I'll turn you into a Christmas chicken. Do you hear me?"
Christopher opened his mouth, scrambling for words. "Actually, I wasn't trying to—"
"Do you hear me, Christopher?" Damian snapped, louder this time, his voice tight with barely restrained fury.
Bummi could feel the tension radiating off him. He was holding back—for the sake of the crowd, for the sake of the setting—but it was taking everything in him not to explode.
And in that moment, she saw something she never thought she'd see.
Christopher was scared.
Truly scared.
The man who once brushed off everything with a smirk was now pale, sweating, and visibly shaking. Damian had reduced him to silence with a few words and a deadly glare.
Bummi realized then—Damian wasn't just someone Christopher respected.
He was someone Christopher feared.
Deeply.
Because Christopher knew exactly what Damian was capable of. He knew that if Damian made a threat, it wasn't for show—it was a promise. And now that he understood Bummi was Damian's woman, that fear ran even deeper.
From now on, if Bummi moved left, Christopher would go right. If she turned right, he'd vanish left.
He would never dare cross her path again.
"Y-yes, yes! Of course," Christopher stuttered, nodding quickly. "I swear, I'll never go near her again."
"Now get. Out." Damian barked, his voice sharp and teeth clenched as he emphasized each word.
In a flash, Christopher spun around and disappeared into the crowd without daring to look back.
Damian turned to Bummi, his eyes still burning with fury.
"What was that supposed to be?" he demanded. "Are you trying to get other men's attention? Trying to make me jealous?"
Bummi stared at him, stunned. She hadn't expected this. Not after the way he just protected her.
"What? No! What the hell are you even talking about?"
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Don't play dumb, Pearl. That doesn't suit you. You know what I'm talking about."
"I really don't," she replied defensively. If she knew, she'd have admitted it already.
Damian's gaze swept down her body, slow and intense.
"Do you want me to point it out?" he said, his voice like ice.
Bummi followed his eyes—and it clicked.
Her dress.
It was bold, form-fitting, dangerously stunning. A dress that demanded attention. A dress she knew would spark reactions.
She looked back up at him, then let a smirk curl on her lips.
Perfect.
Everything was going just as she planned.
Bummi placed her hands on her hips, her posture defiant. "So what? I like what I'm wearing. How does that affect you?"
Damian's brows arched, a hint of disbelief crossing his face. "Really?" His voice was low, laced with frustration. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? Trying to make me jealous by teaming up with that idiot?"
He shoved his hands into his pockets, his eyes never leaving her. "By the way, have you and Christopher met before?"
Bummi rolled her eyes, her annoyance palpable. She wasn't about to get dragged into a conversation about her past. She and Christopher were over, and that chapter was done. There was no need to revisit it now, especially not in front of Damian. It would only remind her of the hurt she'd long buried.
"For the record," she muttered, her voice tight, "I never collaborated with Christopher, and he was my ex."
Damian's laugh was cold, disbelieving. "Really? Let me guess. You invited him here tonight?"
"Jesus Christ!" Bummi snapped, her frustration boiling over. "You're being ridiculous, Damian! How could you even think that? Seriously!"
She turned sharply, ready to walk away, but before she could take a step, his hand shot out, gripping her arm and pulling her back.
"Let go of me!" she spat, trying to shake free.
"No." His voice was firm, the finality in it clear.
Bummi fought to break free from his hold, but his grip was unrelenting. "You're hurting me, Damian," she pleaded, her voice strained. "Let me go… please."
Her words were swallowed in an instant when, without warning, his lips crashed against hers.
For a few seconds, Bummi stood frozen, completely caught off guard by the intensity of the kiss. Her mind scrambled to make sense of it.
He was waiting for her to push him away, to resist. But instead, she felt an undeniable pull, and before she could stop herself, her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, the heat between them growing impossible to ignore.
It started off rough—wild, almost desperate, as if he were trying to prove something. But gradually, the urgency faded, replaced by something slower, more tender. It became a kiss filled with an unexpected passion—gentle, yet burning with quiet intensity.
His hands gripped her waist, strong and steady, as if he feared she might slip away from him with the slightest movement.
When he finally pulled back from the kiss, his gaze didn't leave her face. His breath was warm against her skin, fanning over her cheeks, making her heart race. Her eyes remained closed, the intensity of the moment still lingering in her mind.
She bit her lip, her breath shaky, before she slowly opened her eyes. What she saw took her by surprise—his gaze was locked onto hers, intense, searching.
He lowered his face again, brushing his lips against her lower lip in a soft nibble. It sent a wave of heat through her, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of red.
"Why did you choose to punish me with silence all this time?" His voice was hushed, his breath mingling with hers, sweet and fresh, causing her to tremble slightly.
His eyes never wavered from hers, as if he was looking for something, some answer that could only come from her. They shifted to her lips, lingering there for a moment before he spoke again, softer this time.
"Why?" he repeated, his voice almost a whisper.
Bummi felt the weight of his question, and for a moment, all the words she'd been holding back seemed to come rushing forward. She had been silent, distant, but why? She swallowed hard, meeting his gaze with a quiet intensity of her own.
"You started it first," she murmured, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside. "I was just playing along."
He chuckled, a rich sound that reverberated in her chest, his thumb gently caressing her soft, silk cheek. "Don't ever punish me with silent treatment again. It might send me to an early grave."
"Geez." Bummi playfully punched him in the chest, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "Stop scaring me."
He dramatically placed his hand over the left side of his chest, faking a look of horror. "Oh my. I'm so sorry, dear. Didn't mean to scare you."
Bummi's heart softened, but a thought lingered in her mind. She wanted to ask something, but it felt strangely difficult to voice it. Was now the right moment? The question seemed simple, but the words wouldn't come.
It was as though Damian could sense her hesitation. His gaze softened, and with a slight tilt of his head, he asked, "What is it?"
"Em…" She stumbled over her words, feeling a knot in her stomach. It was just one question, but why did it feel so hard? She took a steadying breath, determined to push past her nerves. "Did… did erm…"
He raised an eyebrow, concern flickering in his eyes. "Is something wrong?"
She shook her head quickly, her nerves starting to settle. "Uh, no. I just wanted to… thank you for showing your caring side to Nifemi and my mom."
He smiled, a soft warmth spreading across his features. He reached up to caress her chin, his touch gentle. "Stop thanking me for loving my family."
Her heart fluttered. There was something about hearing him refer to her family as his own that made everything feel even more real, more intimate.
Bummi pulled him into a tight hug, burying her face in his chest. "This is too much for me," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.
Damian's hand slid up her back, the touch light but electrifying. His fingers brushed her bare skin, sending a rush of warmth through her. She could feel his heart beat steady against hers, and in that moment, she felt like they were the only two people in the world.
"It'll get colder later tonight," Damian said, pulling back from her, leaving Bummi to wonder what he was about to do. He removed his evening jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
The jacket hung off her frame, much too large, covering nearly all of her dress and making her look tiny in comparison.
She couldn't help but laugh, glancing at herself in the oversized jacket. "This looks so big on me, Damian."
He feigned a pout, though there was amusement dancing in his eyes. "Who cares, other than me? I should be the one complaining, but I'm not."
Before she could reply, two figures approached them, seemingly materializing from the crowd.
It was Owen and his wife, Philomena. They had been observing Damian and Bummi from a distance, envious of the undeniable chemistry between them. They had always dreamed of a relationship as vibrant and connected as theirs. Owen casually held a glass of whiskey in one hand, his other arm wrapped around Philomena's shoulders.
Philomena's eyes widened when she spotted Bummi, and she gasped, clearly taken by surprise. "Oh my god! She's so beautiful! Like, strikingly hot!"
Her voice carried her excitement, and it was impossible for her to hide her admiration for Bummi.
That was when Damian and Bummi realized they weren't alone. They turned to find Owen and Philomena standing a few feet away, both of them beaming with wide smiles.
Damian immediately picked up on the look in Philomena's eyes—clearly, she'd been waiting to meet Bummi for a long time.
With an instinctive gesture, Damian pulled Bummi closer to his side, almost as if shielding her from the attention. "Hi, Mena," he greeted Philomena with a smile, purposefully ignoring Owen.
Philomena's face lit up, and she blushed slightly. Owen, noticing the attention Philomena was giving Damian, shot him a mock glare. "Hey, what about me? No 'Hi' for me too?" he teased.
Damian rolled his eyes, clearly amused, while the two women giggled at Owen's jealousy. "Now I see why I've always called you one of Philomena's kids. You've got the attitude to match the youngest sibling," he quipped.
Owen shook his head, chuckling as he turned to Bummi. "Your husband hasn't changed a bit. Still a troublemaker."
Philomena, clearly excited, closed the gap between them and wrapped her arms around Bummi in a warm, heartfelt hug. "You must be Pearl. I've heard so much about you," she said, her voice full of warmth.
Bummi smiled, feeling both overwhelmed and touched by the genuine affection Philomena showed. The hug was tight but comforting, and Bummi couldn't help but feel at ease.
As Philomena let go, she beamed at her. "It's so wonderful to finally meet you in person."
Philomena was undeniably beautiful, but it was her warmth and easygoing nature that truly made her stand out. She was the kind of woman who made people feel comfortable just by being herself—friendly, unpretentious, and effortlessly engaging.
Damian could tell that if anyone was going to gossip about Bummi, it would be his best friend, Owen.
He leaned in close to Bummi, his voice low as he made the introductions. "Babe, this is my best friend, Owen, and his wife, Philomena. We're celebrating their baby tonight."
"Oh, I remember now!" Bummi smiled and nodded, recognizing them. "Hi again."
Philomena's eyes lit up. "I saw your son in the FIFA match last week. He's amazing! So young, so talented—looks just like his father. So handsome!"
Owen cleared his throat, his face showing a hint of jealousy. "Uh, babe, are you okay?" he asked, rubbing her back.
Damian fought to keep a straight face. He could tell Owen wasn't thrilled about Philomena fawning over Bummi's son. But what was really surprising to Damian was Philomena's sudden interest in soccer—when had that started?
Before he could dwell on it, Philomena grabbed Bummi's hand excitedly. "Come on, let me introduce you to some of my friends!" The two women laughed, looking like schoolgirls rushing off to play.
Once they were out of earshot, Damian's friends—Calvin, Brandon, and Elliot—approached, each holding a glass of wine and whiskey in hand.
Damian's friends couldn't hide their awe. They'd heard about Bummi, but seeing her in person was something else entirely. She was beyond anything they had imagined—an epitome of beauty. No wonder Damian was so protective of her, constantly keeping her by his side and hidden from the world. The more they looked at her, the more they understood why he was so possessive.
"Damn, is that your wife?" Calvin asked, clearly taken aback. "She's stunning! I almost thought she was Destiny Etiko with all those curves."
Owen nodded in agreement. "Yeah, with that figure, I can totally see why you're so possessive."
Damian's jealousy flared up. He wasn't a fan of his friends gushing over his wife. "Guys, seriously? That's my wife you're talking about," he warned, his tone firm. "Show some respect."
Brandon chuckled, tucking one hand into his pocket as he took a sip of his wine. "Man, sometimes I really wonder how you pulled this off."
Damian shot him a confused look. "Pulled what off?"
Brandon grinned. "You know, the magic that got you a seventeen-year-old son who's a soccer sensation."
Elliot added with a laugh, "Yeah, you're basically raising a world-class athlete."
"I wonder where I was all those years while my buddy was out here making history—starting with having kids at such an early age," Calvin joked, his tone light.
Damian smirked, his expression confident. "It's called grace, okay?" he replied with a touch of humor. "And as for my son, that came about by chance, but I'm grateful every day for it. Never regretted a thing since I met Pearl."
Owen shook his head with a smile, clearly agreeing. "Yeah, I get it," he said, his tone softened with respect.
*******
On the other side of the cruise ship, a group of women were gathered, chatting and laughing, their voices rising in the lively atmosphere. They sipped their wine and exchanged stories, their conversation filled with gossip and amusement.
"You should see the lingerie my husband bought me from Japan," Jessica grinned, proudly showing a picture on her phone.
"Wow, that's fire!" Regina exclaimed, her eyes wide with admiration.
Philomena took the phone from her, inspecting the image more closely. "I love the colors. That floral touch is gorgeous."
Jessica tossed her hair back, a smug smile spreading across her face. "Uh-huh, of course, Calvin's completely wrapped around my finger."
Jessica was Calvin's cherished wife, and the affection between them was unmistakable. Calvin would do anything for her, and she knew it.
Meanwhile, Bummi sat quietly at the end of the table, her glass of wine cradled in her hand as she stared out over the dark ocean, lost in thought. The gentle waves reflected the moonlight, calming and endless. A cool breeze drifted by, and she closed her eyes, inhaling the crisp air. Damian's large evening jacket rested on her shoulders, offering warmth, and she adjusted it comfortably before taking another sip of her drink.
She was completely unaware of the women's conversation, her mind focused on the peaceful solitude around her.
Brandon's wife, Regina, couldn't help but notice Bummi's quietness. She leaned over to Philomena, clearly intrigued.
"Pearl? You've been awfully quiet. Is everything okay? You don't seem like yourself," Philomena asked gently.
Caught off guard by their sudden attention, Bummi quickly shook her head, offering a small, reassuring smile. "Yeah... I'm fine," she responded, though her words didn't quite reach her eyes.
Regina shrugged, her hand instinctively resting on her growing belly. "Well..." She glanced at the others, almost teasingly. "We were thinking maybe you could share a little about how you met your husband?" she asked, her voice playful yet genuine.
Bummi's eyes softened as she looked at Regina, who was six months pregnant. It reminded her of her own pregnancy with Nifemi. Those were tough months—her mother had taken care of everything, from shopping to housework, while Bummi dealt with mood swings and the discomfort of carrying a child. It was hard. And then there was the heartbreak of her father running off with his girlfriend, Eniola, leaving Bummi and her mother to fend for themselves.
Bummi had learned a lot during those months. Womanhood wasn't easy—pregnancy was exhausting, the labor was intense, and the emotional toll it took was no small feat. But she had made it through.
Looking at Regina, who had been waiting five years for this moment, Bummi felt a pang of admiration. To struggle with infertility for so long, to remain hopeful through all the uncertainty—it must have been incredibly hard. Regina was a strong woman, and Bummi knew the weight of that strength.
She smiled warmly at her friend. "I admire you," Bummi thought to herself. "You're going to make a wonderful mother."
"Come on, Pearl, say something," Christine urged gently, nudging Bummi's arm and pulling her from her thoughts.
Christine—Elliott's wife—was a bestselling contemporary romance writer and publisher based in New York. Warm-hearted and full of life, she had always been enchanted by real-life love stories. That was one of the reasons Elliott's mother had chosen her for her son. And now, just three weeks pregnant, Christine seemed to glow even more.
Bummi let out a steady breath and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Alright," she said softly, gathering her thoughts. "It started when I was thirteen. I was young, curious… hungry for knowledge. I wanted to be a journalist—someone who could ask questions, uncover truths, and write stories that mattered."
The women leaned in, listening intently.
"One day, my dad sent me on an errand to the nearest supermarket. On my way out, I noticed something lying on the ground—an invitation card. It was for a party. I remember picking it up and thinking, 'I have to go. Just once. I want to see what it's like.'" She paused, her fingers gently grazing the diamond ring on her hand.
"I went and…" Her voice cracked. Tears welled in her eyes. "I—I can't…" She stopped when she noticed both Regina and Christine already in tears.
They didn't need to hear more to understand the weight of what was left unsaid. The silence was heavy, but it was filled with compassion.
Jessica and Philomena were visibly moved, their attempts to hold back tears evident in the way they dabbed at their eyes and exchanged glances. The room had shifted; the weight of Bummi's words lingered in the air.
Bummi paused, her voice trailing off as she noticed the tears welling in her friends' eyes. Guilt washed over her—she hadn't intended to bring them to tears. She felt a pang of discomfort, wishing she could take back the pain her story had stirred.
Philomena rose from her seat, her movements slow and deliberate. She crossed the room and enveloped Bummi in a warm embrace. "You're such a strong woman, Pearl," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Jessica, her hand pressed to her chest, managed a shaky smile. "How did you endure such hardship at such a young age?" Her voice cracked, betraying the depth of her empathy.
Christine, her face pale, wiped away a tear. "That wasn't just pain; that was suffering," she murmured, her words barely audible.
Regina, ever the nurturer, placed a comforting hand on Christine's back, her touch gentle yet firm. "It's okay, Christine," she soothed. "Remember, you're pregnant. Let's not let the emotions overwhelm you."
Philomena, sensing the need to shift the atmosphere, stepped back and retrieved a bottle of non-alcoholic wine. She poured a glass for each of them, her hands steady despite the emotions swirling within her. "A toast," she declared, her voice regaining its usual warmth. "To resilience and to the strength found in friendship."
The clink of glasses resonated in the room, a brief but comforting sound that momentarily lifted the heaviness.
Just as Bummi raised her glass, a sudden wave of nausea hit her. She quickly set the glass down, her face paling. "Excuse me," she murmured, standing abruptly. "I'll be back in a moment."
"Don't be long, we have a selfie to take, babe!" Regina called after her, her tone light, though concern flickered in her eyes.
*******
After throwing up, Bummi leaned heavily over the sink, her hands gripping the edge as she tried to steady her breathing. Her body felt limp, drained of every ounce of strength. She hated how weak she became after each episode—it left her feeling helpless.
She rinsed her mouth, then splashed cold water on her face, hoping it would bring her back to herself. As the water dripped down her chin, she stared at her reflection, pale and exhausted.
Tomorrow, she promised silently. First thing tomorrow, Damian is taking me to see a doctor. This can't just be ordinary fever. Maybe it's malaria… or typhoid.
But just as she lifted her head again, a shadow appeared in the mirror behind her. Her heart skipped.
Charlotte.
Her face was stone cold, her eyes burning with rage. It wasn't just anger—it was venom. Her fists were clenched, her breathing sharp. If looks could kill, Bummi would've dropped dead on the spot.
"Are you carrying another bastard for him again?" Charlotte hissed, voice low and dangerous.
Before Bummi could even process the words, the slap came—sharp and sudden.
Smack!
The force knocked her off balance. She hit the floor with a cry, her body slumping to the cold tiles.
"Ah!" she gasped, pain shooting through her cheek, her limbs refusing to cooperate.
She lay there, breathless, dizzy, and shaken. The nausea returned, and with it, a wave of fear she couldn't push down.
Before Bummi could fully regain her footing, Charlotte grabbed her roughly, dragging her toward the back of the ship with frightening force.
"You manipulative witch!" Charlotte hissed through clenched teeth. "Acting all innocent, like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. But you're nothing more than a gold-digging snake. You think you've won? That you can steal Damian and walk away untouched? Not tonight. I'll make sure you never try this in your next life."
Bummi struggled in her grasp, panic surging. "I didn't steal anyone from you, Charlotte! He met me first—"
"Liar!" Charlotte shouted, slamming her knee into Bummi's side.
Bummi gasped sharply, her body folding as she fell to the floor in pain, her vision spinning. She could barely move—her limbs heavy, her breath shallow.
Meanwhile, Philomena sat nervously with the other women. Ten minutes had passed since Bummi left. Too long.
She stood, gently taking her drink along with her. Something felt off.
Taking the hallway toward the restrooms, she called softly, "Pearl? Are you there?"
No answer.
Just as she turned to head back, a faint, distant scream sliced through the air.
Her heart raced.
She followed the sound instinctively, the music from the main deck growing fainter behind her. When she turned the final corner toward the ship's rear, her eyes widened in horror.
Bummi lay slumped on the cold metal floor, her body limp. Charlotte stood above her, seething.
The wineglass slipped from Philomena's trembling fingers and smashed onto the floor, red liquid splashing like spilled blood.
"Aaarrrgghh!" Philomena's scream shattered the silence.