Chapter 4

**Amara's POV**

My mom arrived in my bedroom, looking radiant in her long white night dress. She smelled fresh like a rose, and she came into my room with Agnes, who greeted me warmly, "Good morning, Amara. I brought your tea and bread."

"Thank you," I told Agnes, accepting the teacup from her hand. I walked over to my chair in the room and took a seat, where I drank my tea while eating the bread.

My mom walked over to look out the window, then returned to me and said, "Hurry up. The driver is already here. Why didn't you put on some makeup? You know you'll see your husband in the city, so you should look your best when you meet him."

I pouted my pink lips after finishing my tea. I had no intention of pleasing the man to whom I might be married. My mom said, "Agnes, get me my makeup box from my room."

"No, Mom. There’s no need for that. I don’t have to pretend in front of my husband. I am perfectly okay like this. If I pretend with him, what if I can't continue living that fake life I presented at first sight?"

My mother looked at me, speechless at first. She finally said, "Okay. Be quick then."

"I'm done. Mom, I hope the man is good. If not, I will be back here, as I did not plan for all this," I said.

My mother sighed and walked to my side. "You nag a lot. Just hush, and everything will be fine. Let’s go downstairs."

"Hmm." I bit my lower lip internally and followed my mother downstairs while Agnes took my used tray and teacup to the kitchen.

My mother and I walked into the living room, where we found my father standing in the center. He was still in his white robe, speaking to a man I didn't recognize.

I watched the middle-aged man greet my father, "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, Mr. Timothy. Please drive safely and ensure you return on time," my father said to the man in black pants and a white shirt, paired with black shoes.

"Okay, sir. I will," the driver replied, and my father turned to face me.

"Amara..."

"Father, good morning," I greeted him, feeling tears well up in my eyes again. Even when I went to school and studied accounting in the city, I hadn’t cried when leaving my parents.

But now, as I prepared to go to my husband's house, I felt like I might not return home again to live with my parents as I used to. I thought of the farms we visited, the harvested products, and my father's factory. I felt like I wouldn’t get to see any of that again.

I didn't want to leave home, but I had no other option. It was the time in a person's life when they must shoulder the responsibility of building their own family and creating a place to call home.

"Your mother and I will miss you. But, like I told you last night, we are not selling you off. You can always return home if you don’t like the city, but I won't expect you to return quickly or alone—maybe with my grandkids, at least two or three of them."

"Dad..." My face flushed red. I couldn't believe my father was talking about bringing my future kids home and that I was going there to become a mother too.

I was pretty emotional about all this, but I knew I had to do it to continue my family lineage and to have someone to look up to in the coming years—someone to carry on what my parents would eventually leave behind.

"It's okay. Stop crying. Now come, let me escort you outside," my father urged me, and I walked up to his side. He patted me closely and reassured me that my husband's family would be friendly and would welcome me wholeheartedly.

I finally got into the sleek black car—a Mercedes-Benz. I waved goodbye to my parents, uncles, and aunties, who had gathered in front of my father’s mansion to say farewell.

My aunt, Mrs. Juliet, was sobbing when she heard that I was being married off, as if I were being sold. My parents also wore sad expressions, but I knew this wouldn't be the end for me.

I wasn't leaving them forever; I was only going to the city to multiply and become a mother, as my father had said.

I took out my white handkerchief and wiped my teary face. I blew my nose, knowing my face looked a mess. I watched the driver start the car and reminded me to fasten my seatbelt.

I obeyed him and buckled up. Soon, the black car drove away from my parents’ home. Stealing a final glance backward, I saw my mother crying and my father hugging her closely, assuring her that I would be okay while he waved goodbye to me.

The driver sped up, and we headed to the city. I knew the drive would take hours, as the city was far from the countryside where my parents and I lived and where I had spent 24 years of my life.

I decided to search for my husband online, at least to find something to distract my mind and see the face of the man I was to marry.

I logged into the social media network we used in my country. We commonly used F******k to browse, chat, and upload photos online.

I had uploaded mine, but after getting plenty of likes and reactions and dealing with fake parody accounts impersonating me, I decided to take a break.

Now, I searched for my husband's name: Darlington Briggs. I saw many people with the same name, but finding the real Darlington Briggs wasn’t hard, as he had my father as a mutual friend.

I knew some people didn’t use their real names online—it was their choice—but I used mine alongside my parents’ names. It was easy to connect with old family friends, especially those with whom we had lost contact. But if I was using a fake name, I doubted the search would be easy.

As I entered the Darlington Briggs profile, I gasped as I saw the familiar face of the man I was married to.