Gift's fingers trembled as she held the wedding invitation in her hands.
Davis Andrew & Abigail Williams
Date: 10th October.
Venue: 1100 Ohio Drive, SW, Washington.
Her heart pounded. This couldn't be real.
Andrew was dead.
She had cried over him. Mourned him. Spent three years believing she had lost the only man she ever loved.
Yet here he was—alive, breathing, and getting married to another woman.
Her legs felt weak, and she sank onto her bed. Her cousin, Mary, sat beside her, eyes filled with concern.
"I thought you said he died in an accident," Mary whispered.
Gift's voice was barely a whisper. "That's what I was told."
The memories hit her like a storm.
Andrew had left for Germany three years ago on a business trip. The next thing she heard was that his car had crashed on a lonely road at night. His family held a quiet funeral. No corpse was shown. No real explanations. Just silence.
And now… this?
Mary grabbed her hand. "Gift, are you okay?"
Okay? How could she be okay?
Her first love, the man she had given everything to, had faked his death. And he hadn't even tried to tell her the truth.
Gift stood up, her body shaking.
"I need to see him."
Mary's eyes widened. "Are you sure?"
Gift nodded. She needed answers.
And maybe… just maybe… she needed revenge
The Mall was bright with golden lights. Laughter and soft music filled the air as guests arrived in elegant clothes.
Gift walked in, her heart pounding so loudly she could barely hear anything else.
She didn't belong here. But she had to do this.
As she stepped into the hall, she spotted him.
Andrew.
He was standing at the far end, wearing a dark suit, smiling at a group of people. Alive. Laughing. Breathing.
Her fingers curled into fists. How could he?
As if sensing her presence, Andrew turned.
Their eyes met.
The smile on his face disappeared instantly. His body stiffened. Shock. Guilt. Fear. It was all there in his eyes.
Gift took a step forward.
For three years, she had cried herself to sleep. For three years, she had believed she lost him.
Now, it was time for the truth.
And Andrew was going to tell her everything
Andrew's chest tightened as Gift's eyes burned into his.
She was waiting for an answer.
Chief Williams (Abigail's father)and Abigail were watching.
Other guests had started whispering.
He couldn't afford to mess this up.
So he did the only thing he could.
He let go of her hand and stepped back.
"I think you're mistaken," he said, his voice calm, cold.
Gift flinched. "What?"
Andrew turned to Chief Williams. "Chief, I don't know who this woman is. Maybe she's confusing me with someone else."
Gift's lips parted in shock. "Andrew…"
His stomach twisted, but he couldn't stop now.
He shrugged. "Sorry, miss. I don't know you."
The whispers in the hall grew louder.
Mary raised an eyebrow. "Really? Because she looks like she knows you very well."
Gift's hands shook. "You're lying." Her voice was low, broken. "Andrew, look me in the eyes and say you don't know me."
He forced himself to meet her gaze.
And for the first time in his life, he lied to her face
"I. Don't. Know. You."
A sharp breath left Gift's lips.
Her fingers curled into fists, her whole body trembling.
For three years, she had cried for him.
For three years, she had believed he was dead.
And now, here he was—denying her like she was nothing.
Tears filled her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away.
She would not cry.
Not here.
Not in front of him.
Gift lifted her chin. "Fine."
She turned on her heels and walked away.
Andrew's heart pounded as he watched her go.
His nails dug into his palm.
This was the only way to protect her.
If Chief Williams found out the truth, Gift wouldn't just be heartbroken.
She would be dead.
He took a deep breath and faced the crowd again. "Let's continue the wedding."
The wedding hall was alive with music, laughter, and clinking glasses, but to Andrew it all felt... wrong.
His heartbeat was uneven, his chest felt tight, and his mind wouldn't stop racing.
He sat beside Abigail his new bride, but he could barely feel her presence. The air in the hall was warm, filled with the scent of expensive perfume and freshly prepared food, yet everything around him felt cold.
He forced a smile each time someone approached, nodding politely as guests congratulated him. He clinked glasses with important men, laughed when necessary, and played his part.
But his mind was elsewhere.
Gift.
The way she had looked at him.
Her eyes were wide with disbelief.
The way her body had trembled as he denied her, the sharp pain in her voice when she whispered his name.
He had never seen her so broken before.
And it was his fault.
But what choice did he have?
Chief Williams was sitting right across from him, his expression unreadable as he sipped his drink.
The man had invested too much in him—he owned him. And if he ever found out about Gift…
Andrew swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table.
Chief Williams was not a man who forgave betrayals.
If he ever discovered that Damilare had lied, that there had been another woman before Adaobi, he wouldn't just come after him.
He would go after Gift.
And he wouldn't stop until she was gone.
Andrew's fingers curled into fists beneath the table. He had to find her. Fast.
But he couldn't move recklessly.
Chief Williams' men were watching.
There were always eyes on him.
"Darling," Abigail's voice pulled him back. Her fingers traced his arm lightly. "You're so tense."
Andrew turned to her, his face unreadable. "I'm just tired."
Abigail tilted her head, studying him with interest.
Her lips curved into a small smile, her perfectly manicured fingers tapping against her wine glass.
"That woman…" she started, voice soft yet sharp. "You knew her, didn't you?"
Andrew's pulse spiked.
For a second, he was certain she could hear his heartbeat.
But he kept his expression neutral. "What are you talking about?"
Abigail leaned in, her lips close to his ear.
"You looked like you saw a ghost."
She swirled her wine lazily, then took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving his face.
"Don't worry," she whispered, her voice almost teasing. "I won't tell my father."
She placed the glass down, her red-painted nails tapping softly against the table.
"Yet."
Andrew felt his stomach drop.
Something in her tone sent a chill down his spine.
Abigail was playing with him.
She was watching him.
Testing him.
And that was dangerous.
He clenched his jaw, forcing a small, tired smile. "You're imagining things."
Abigail said nothing. She only lifted her glass again, taking another slow sip, her eyes still locked on him.
Meanwhile…
Gift's heels clicked softly against the lonely pavement as she walked away from the hotel.
The night air was cool, but she felt nothing but heat burning beneath her skin.
Her mind wouldn't stop spinning.
Her heart wouldn't stop racing.
Andrew had denied her.
He had looked her in the eye and said he didn't know her.
Her Andrew.
The man who had once held her close on cold nights whispered promises into her ears and made her believe in forever.
It had to be a lie.
It had to be.
Her fingers clenched around the small handbag she carried, her nails digging into her palm.
Why would he lie?
Why would he fake his death?
Why would he throw her away like she was nothing?
A lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down.
She had shed enough tears.
She would not cry again.
Not here.
Not for him.
A faint rustling sound echoed from behind her.
She froze.
Her breath hitched as she glanced over her shoulder.
The street was empty.
But… something didn't feel right.
The silence was too heavy.
The air was too still.
She quickened her pace, gripping her handbag tighter.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of slow, deliberate footsteps followed her.
Her pulse
hammered.
Someone was behind her.
She wasn't alone.
Heart pounded as she quickened her steps.
The footsteps behind her matched her pace—slow, steady, deliberate.
She wasn't imagining it.
Someone was following her.