Before you read—tap that orange star, okay? The younger me would totally pout if you don't. Don't make me pout. 😒✨
Hi, I'm Zikora, the only child of my ridiculously rich parents. When I say wealthy, I mean the type of money that screams in bold letters. So yeah, I was spoiled, pampered, and handed everything I wanted on a silver platter.
Dad? A US-based musician.
Mom? A businesswoman, social media influencer, and fashion queen who owns a brand that makes clothes, jewelry, skincare—you name it. And me? Famous without trying. Brands slide into my email begging me to be their ambassador. Call me a braggart if you want, IDC.
I was treated like a princess everywhere: parties, events, even at home in our gigantic mansion with personal servants. Not that they loved hanging around me—I've got a temper, and I don't hide it.
Anyway, I go to one of the most expensive schools in the city (of course). I'm the popular kid—the beauty no one can ignore. Period.
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"Miss Zikora, pardon me, but Madam is calling you for dinner," my maid, Sarah, stammered.
"Get lost. Tell Mom I'm not joining her. Disturb my beauty sleep again, and I'll slice your toes," I snapped.
Her face drained of color. Good. Lesson learned.
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Bored, I opened Instagram—buzzing as usual with random lovestruck comments on my recent posts—when I heard footsteps.
"Zi!"
"Mom! Do you want me deaf?"
"Dinner time, young lady. Don't tell me you're seeing someone else instead of me?" she gasped dramatically.
I glared. She grinned. Typical Mom.
She stood there in her navy-blue nightgown (her "seduction uniform," as she calls it when Dad visits 🙄).
"Get downstairs. Now."
"But I'm not hungry!" I whined.
"You know Dad won't be home until next year."
"Then why are we in Nigeria instead of the US with him?"
"Because this villa is safe—a secret heaven," she replied dreamily. Honestly, is she sure she's not sixteen?
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Fast-forward: I got my way. Ordered fried rice, salad, a chicken lap (not just any chicken), and yogurt. Don't judge—I'm on "weight watch," and Internet haters live for body-shaming. Not giving them ammo.
Mom, meanwhile, was hyped about a fashion shoot for her brand's new collection, Gothic Kitty Cat. She wanted me front and center.
"Mom, you've got models already. Must I?"
"You're the clickbait, Zi. Teenagers see you in it—they'll go crazy!"
She kept reminiscing about how I designed at fourteen, how the company blew up, yadda yadda. I love her, but I needed sleep. She finally left—with her usual door-slam exit.
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Later, Mercy brought my food but—tragic—she stepped on my Italian clogs.
"The fried tomatoes!" (my code for when something's too much).
I lost it. Threatened to sack her. Switched to flip-flops. Headed to dinner fuming.
Cue Mom's sermon.
"Why were you screaming at Mercy?"
"She stepped on clogs worth millions."
"She's older than you!"
"And I'm richer than her."
"You're proud."
"Because my parents are rich!"
Classic Mom vs. Zi showdown. Eventually, I shut her down with a "Can I eat already?"
She left, reminding me about the video shoot. I rolled my eyes. Honestly, I miss Dad—he never lectures me.
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And that's how Chapter 1 ends. 🎬
If you're still breathing after all that drama, don't forget to tap that orange star ⭐ or you might lose your breath. (Kidding… kinda 👀). Drop a "2" in the comments if you're ready for Chapter 2!
Love y'all 😘
Your favorite teen authoress 🔰📑
Oziomajasmine 💝💝