Present Time – The Girls, The Glory, and the Chaos
The sound of feet—no, hooves—pounded down the marble hallway like a miniature stampede.
"LADIES!" Yayomi's voice echoed like a siren as she bounced from room to room, barefoot, wild-haired, and armed with the energy of five espressos. "Get up, get dressed, and report to the dining room immediately! Our celebrity chef is in the kitchen, and you all know that girl don't play!"
She kicked open the next door.
Without hesitation, Yayomi burst into Adeola's sunlit bedroom, pulling back the golden curtains with a dramatic flair. The sunlight splashed across the room, bathing Adeola's caramel skin and red hair in a soft, glowing halo.
"Wake up, Dee!" Yayomi grinned, bouncing onto the bed. "You know you can't be a monarch if you're late for breakfast!"
Adeola groaned, dragging a pillow over her face, but a reluctant laugh escaped her lips. Yayomi's energy was infectious, her caramel legs tangled in silk sheets. "Yayo, please. It's too early for this nonsense. Do they feed you battery acid in your dreams?"
"Oh please." Yayomi rolled her eyes dramatically, tossing a satin pillow aside. "You're twenty-five, you're single, your skin is glowing, and your heart is literally magical—wake up and thank God!"
"That was yesterday," Adeola muttered, pulling a blanket over her head like a shroud.
"Exactly! Yesterday, today, who cares? We are celebrating ALL WEEK, and that's on PERIOD." Yayomi began to bounce on the bed, clapping her hands in rhythm. "Go Deola, it's your birthday, go Deola!"
Adeola peeked out from under the covers, her striking red hair splayed across the pillow like fire against brown sugar. "Where did I meet you again?"
"I came with the package deal," Yayomi grinned. "Now get that divine body up, cardiologist of the century. We've got waffles and chaos waiting downstairs."
The estate was quiet—until it wasn't. Down in the girls' wing, chaos was a love language.
Breakfast had been prepared by no less than Ziora herself—international culinary queen and self-declared kitchen tyrant. The moment you entered her domain, you surrendered your taste buds and your free will.
"Who left the salt near the sugar jar?" Ziora snapped, her glossy chef's jacket still crisp despite the heat. "Do you want to die this morning?"
"I'm not awake enough to answer that," Oreofe mumbled, walking in wearing mismatched slippers and carrying something that looked suspiciously like a homemade drone.
"Is that thing going to fly?" Mayeli asked, sipping her espresso with the calm of a woman who charged fortunes to defend criminals in four countries.
"It might," Oreofe said. "Or explode."
"Great," Briana said, ducking casually. "Let me know which, so I can schedule therapy in advance."
This wasn't just a family—it was a phenomenon.
There were eleven in total—nine girls, two boys, and one glorious estate that had somehow survived their collective energy. Each child had their own house now, still within the gated compound in Lagos. It was less like a family home and more like a private kingdom.
And at the center of it all?
Karayah.
The queen bee. The unbothered billionaire. The only daughter of the Adebanjo Williams empire know to the media.
She entered the dining room like a Vogue cover had just whispered her name. Skin like rich mahogany, hair swept into a braided crown, cheekbones so sharp they could cut a man's ego. She wore a white silk robe as if it had been hand-stitched by angels and stepped onto the marble like it owed her money.
"You're late," Ziora said without looking up.
"I own the brand of the robe you're cooking in," Karayah replied, pouring herself a glass of grapefruit juice with the grace of royalty. "If I'm late, the clock is wrong."
Yayomi rolled her eyes. "Here she goes."
"Oh please," Mayeli chimed in. "Leave her. She's been a billionaire since age twenty-two. She's earned the right to be insufferable."
"Thank you," Karayah said smoothly. "At least one of you is evolving."
Adeola laughed softly as she joined the table. "Good morning to you too, sunshine."
Karayah glanced at her, and something warm flickered behind the usual cool. "Happy birthday, Adeola. Magic hands and all. I assume no one flat lined overnight?"
"Not today," Adeola smirked. "But it's early."
As the plates piled high—jollof, waffles, spicy omelets, suya bacon, and bottomless coffee—the sisters laughed, bickered, and gossiped like it was sport.
They were a constellation of excellence:
Karayah, a board director on six international boards, co-owner of multiple empires in luxury automotive, perfumes, and fashion. A billionaire with stilettos that could pierce through tax evasion.
Yayomi, high fashion goddess and mad designer, running a brand that used self-tailoring robots she designed with Lewa. She wore chaos like couture and looked good doing it.
Mayeli, global criminal defense attorney, known for collecting both fees and secrets.
Oreofe, their personal Tony Stark. Mad, brilliant, unpredictable, and proudly funded by Karayah, who kept a fire extinguisher in her boardroom "just in case."
Briana, neurologist to the stars. Literally. If your brain failed you, she was your last call. They called her Hands of God, and for good reason.
Ziora, the flavor queen, with a restaurant chain in Lagos, New York, and Dublin. Her food healed heartbreak—and maybe high blood pressure.
Tinuke, adopted, adored, and now CEO of her father's oil and gas firm. A silent tycoon planning a "girls-only" luxury getaway to introduce the man she swore was the one. "For now," she added.
Iwalewa, their AI robotics genius. She built robots for Yayomi's tailoring empire and was currently working on a voice-activated assistant named "Mind Your Business."
Adeola, queen of hearts—literally. One of the world's top cardiologists, known for performing surgeries so complex, surgeons flew in just to watch. Her calm demeanor cloaked fire beneath. They called her Magic Hands—but she preferred Deola.
"Alright, alright," Tinuke said, clinking her mimosa glass with a spoon. "Since most of you are now properly caffeinated, and Yayomi hasn't spontaneously combusted, can I make my announcement?"
"No babies, please," Oreofe muttered, adjusting the barely-soldered circuit on the drone sitting beside her breakfast plate.
"No babies," Tinuke confirmed with a smirk. "But I am planning a little something for us. A girls-only getaway next weekend."
Yayomi shrieked and threw both arms in the air, nearly knocking over her iced coffee. "YES! I knew it! I felt the holiday spirit in my shondo this morning!"
"Girl, that was the double espresso," Briana said flatly.
Ziora arched a brow. "Where to? And do I get a proper kitchen or am I expected to pretend those resort buffets are food?"
Tinuke leaned forward, resting her chin on her perfectly manicured fingers. Her long braids were pulled into a sleek bun, and the diamond studs in her ears weren't subtle. "We're heading to the Shoreline Royale—my fiancé's private island resort. Full luxury. Private jets. Custom menus. Spa treatments. You name it."
Pause. Silence.
Then the table exploded.
"WAIT—hold on," Karayah said, raising a hand like a principal handling a classroom of gifted but unruly children. "Did you say fiancé?"
Tinuke blinked innocently. "Oh, did I forget to mention that part?"
"You 'forgot'?" Adeola echoed. "Girl, the last time you had a man, you called him 'the seasonal hire.' And now you're engaged?"
"Correction," Tinuke said smugly. "Happily engaged. To a man who doesn't make me want to fake a coma."
Mayeli set her coffee down slowly. "And when exactly were you going to tell us?"
"On the trip," Tinuke said sweetly. "After you all got your massages, at peak emotional vulnerability."
Lewa, who'd been quiet, finally spoke. "Is he human?"
Tinuke laughed. "Yes, Lewa. No AI. No wires. Real heart, real brain, real… assets."
Karayah narrowed her eyes. "And what does he do?"
"He owns the resort," Tinuke said smoothly. "And six others. Hospitality, yachts, and private aviation."
"So… soft billionaire," Oreofe mumbled.
"I beg your pardon?" Tinuke said, hand on her hip.
"I said…" Oreofe smiled. "Respectfully."
"Anyway," Tinuke went on, "you'll all love him. He's smart, reserved, and won't try to impress you with fake crypto deals or red-bottoms bought in traffic."
"Fine," Karayah said, still eyeing her. "But if he blinks wrong or mispronounces brioche, I'm pulling you out of there by the wig."
"I'm not wearing a wig," Tinuke replied.
"Exactly."
The room broke into laughter again.
Deola smiled to herself, watching them. Each sister had a storm inside her, but the table was their calm. Every time. Every year.
"We'll fly out Thursday," Tinuke said, tapping her tablet. "I'm sending an itinerary and a wardrobe guide. No crocs, no stress, and no invention explosions."
"Hey!" Oreofe protested.
"Unless it's waterproof," Tinuke added, "and can float."
Adeola looked across the table. "Do we get to interrogate him?"
"Of course," Tinuke replied. "I expect nothing less from nine nosy overachievers. Come armed with judgment and passive-aggression."
"I'll bring my legal pads," Mayeli said.
"I'll bring cupcakes," Ziora offered.
"I'll bring mood swings," Yayomi chimed in.
"I'll bring explosives," Oreofe added.
Everyone turned.
"…Kidding," she said, not kidding.
The rest of the morning unraveled with playlist debates, outfit planning, and ten overlapping conversations. The sisters moved as one—fluid chaos with rhythm.
In the corner, Adeola sipped her second coffee, her eyes drifting to the massive glass doors that overlooked the estate's gardens.
She couldn't help but wonder—if Tinuke could find something real, maybe…
She stopped herself.
Not today. Today was breakfast. Laughter. Birthdays.
But the thought lingered.
Just a little.