Some people wear their wounds like wall paint loud and visible.
Chinedu Obianyo wore his like silk smooth, buried, pressed into perfection.
You wouldn't see them unless you looked closely.
That day, I looked too closely.
The mansion was unusually quiet that evening. No footsteps. No echoes. Just the faint hum of the AC and the distant splash of the pool filter.
I had just finished mopping the east wing and was passing by Chinedu's study to return the cleaning cart.
Then I heard it.
First, a muffled voice.
Then, a glass shattering.
Followed by something heavier slamming into the wall. I froze.
Was someone hurt?
Cautiously, I stepped closer. The study door was slightly ajar.
Through the narrow gap, I saw him back turned, shoulders tense, breathing unevenly.
The whiskey tumbler lay in shattered pieces on the floor. His left hand gripped the edge of the desk so tightly, I thought it might snap too.
Photos were scattered across the table. Some crumpled. Some torn. One photo rested by his elbow, face down.
I did not want to pry.
I did not want to be seen.
But then he said a name barely above a whisper.
"Chioma."
I did not know why that name hit me like a slap. Maybe because of the way he said it. Not like a memory. Like a wound.
My breath caught just a small sound, but enough.
His head snapped up. "Who's there?"
I tried to step back, but my shoe bumped the metal cart and made a soft clang.
The door opened fully in one swift motion.
"Tomiwa."
It was not a question.
I was just I began.
He raised a hand. "Don't lie. Just don't."
I lowered my gaze, heat rising in my cheeks. Shame. Embarrassment. Maybe fear too.
He stared at me for a moment. Then, surprisingly, he turned and walked back to his desk, sitting down with the weight of someone older than he looked.
"She was supposed to be my wife," he said quietly.
I did not move. I didn't dare breath too loud.
"We were together for five years. Everyone knew. My parents. Hers. Lagos society. She was in every picture beside me." He gave a bitter smile. "Until she wasn't."
I swallowed. "What happened?"
"She left me. For my brother. Two weeks before the wedding."
Silence dropped between us like a curtain.
My chest tightened. Not just from the betrayal, but from the way he said it as if the pain had hardened into something permanent.
I'm sorry, I said, voice soft.
He laughed. But it was the kind of laugh that held no humor. Just history.
I should be over it, right? Two years ago. New businesses, new women, new money." He looked up. "But some wounds don't care about time."
"I understand," I whispered.
He blinked. "Do you?"
I nodded slowly. Not her kind of betrayal. But I know what it is like to be left. To be disappointed by people you thought would stay.
He studied me for a moment longer than necessary.
Then, as if something inside him cracked, he whispered, "You remind me of her at first."
My breath stopped.
"Then I watched you clean the same table twice. Bite your tongue instead of speaking, keep your eyes low even when you're angry and I realized you are not like her at all."
I didn't know what to say.
He stood and walked over to me, stopping just inches away.
"You listen, you don't beg. You survive."
His hand moved slightly, as if he wanted to touch my shoulder but he didn't.
Instead, he whispered, "Don't ever be like her."
Then he turned and walked past me.
I stood there, numb, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air between us.
Later that night, just before lights out in the staff quarters, I found a small brown box outside my door.
No note. No message.
Inside? A pair of soft black flats. My size. Far too expensive for someone like me.
I should have returned them, but I did not.
Because part of me, the part that still believed in softness, wanted to believe that maybe he was not entirely broken.
And maybe just maybe neither was