Amara’s words echoed in his mind. He stared at the ceiling, remembering who he used to be.
A fighter, a builder, a man who survived storms. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to rise again, even from a chair.
Three quiet days passed in the Williams mansion. Amara continued her duties without complaint, cleaning, cooking, helping Michael and sometimes just sitting quietly beside him.
She never acted impressed by luxury. She was humble and focused. Michael, however, began to change.
He asked to go outside more often. He requested newspapers. One afternoon, he asked Mara to help him sit at his office desk.
“You can’t type,” she said kindly. Then I’ll think,” he replied. “Maybe even dream again.”
She smiled. Life was slowly returning to him. But one evening changed everything. It was almost 900 p.m.
The house was quiet. Amara had just finished washing dishes when she saw Ruth walking past the kitchen in a tight black gown, glittering heels, and bold red lipstick.
Her perfume filled the air. “Ma, should I pack dinner for you?” Amora asked. Ruth turned sharply.
Who asked you to talk to me? I was only. Ruth raised her hand. Mind your business.
Orphan. Amora lowered her head. Sorry, Ma. Ruth rolled her eyes and walked out. Amora looked through the window and saw Ruth step into a black car at the gate.
Inside sat a tall, muscular man with dreadlocks and a tattoo on his neck. Her heart raced.
That must be Derek. She ran to Michael’s room. Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I think there’s something you should see.
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Michael frowned. What is it? I think your wife is going out again with someone.
Are you sure? I saw the car, Amara said quietly. And I overheard women at the pharmacy.
