David drove roughly back to the hotel where he was lodging, his hands gripping the steering wheel as though it held the answers to his anger. The ride felt like an eternity, each sharp turn and sudden acceleration making my heart leap into my throat. His roughness behind the wheel scared me to hell.
"Amara," he called the moment we entered the hotel room, his voice low but laced with fire. "The day you leave me, I don't know if I will survive. You are taking me for granted."
He went on and on, his words a restless storm crashing against me. At some point, I wanted to scream, "I'm tired!" but the voice remained trapped in my chest.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, his tone softened. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
One thing I had come to notice about David over the years was his pride and uncontrollable temper. He was a good man in many ways—he could give you the world—but he was never ready to take responsibility for his actions. Was it a tribal thing? I muttered to myself. Why can't he control his temper?
David pulled me close, holding me as though I was the only thing that mattered. Every kiss he planted carried an unspoken vow, one he could never put into words. His breath was warm, trembling against mine, his heartbeat wrestling with my own until, finally, we surrendered. His touch held both urgency and tenderness, making me feel as though the world had melted away, leaving only the two of us. The night stretched endlessly, filled with whispered promises and the fragile warmth of our closeness.
A few days later, David traveled back after submitting his project in town. Not long after, the silence began. His calls grew fewer until I stopped hearing from him altogether.
Truthfully, I didn't know much about his family or his background. I never took the time to listen, and up until now, I can't explain why I didn't care as much as I should have about someone who was recklessly smitten with me. All I knew was what he had chosen to tell me: his parents were late, and his only sister—the one he went to visit in the village the day we first met—had practically raised and trained him. He wanted us to visit her several times, but I always told him I wasn't ready yet to meet his family.
His second family, however, was his best friend Victor. They had grown up together in Awka and shared an unshakable bond. Yet, from the beginning, Victor had never liked me. He told David I was too young, too stressful, and that what David needed was stability—not me. That opinion alone created a distance between us, so I never asked for his number nor tried to bridge the gap.
Victor, on the other hand, had introduced David to Peggy. She was a banker in her early thirties, beautiful, experienced, and thriving as a manager in one of the most prestigious banks at the time. David had "friend-zoned" her, as he put it, but Peggy's presence was always there, lingering.
Whenever we argued, I would catch him staring at her, his eyes lingering too long, and it unsettled me. When I confronted him about how it felt almost demonic to me, he brushed it off.
"She makes me feel good," he would say. "She's a good friend. You treat me like trash, and she respects me like a king."
Their conversations were always open, often happening right in my presence. They were light, easy, filled with laughter. Sometimes, David would even tell her—while I sat there—how much he loved me, how stubborn I was, and how much he wanted me as his wife. Peggy would laugh wholeheartedly, advising him to be patient with me, reminding him that I was simply a younger version of herself.
David would usually end such talks with his favorite line: "If we're meant to be, the universe will make it happen."
Oddly enough, I never hated Peggy. In fact, I admired her from a distance. Perhaps because, in my heart, I felt she might be a better match for him than I was. I never said it aloud, never admitted it, but deep down I knew. I loved her because she was everything I was not—calm, mature, certain. And still, I clung to David, not the way he was, but the way I wished he could be.