BENEATH

Chapter 1 — Time of Death: 1:30 AM

It all started in Spring.

Starboy

The music was loud enough to drown out everything my thoughts, the city, the low hum of something uneasy settling in my chest. Bass rattling through the speakers of my Audi, windows cracked just enough to let Lagos breathe into the car.

My father had handed me an address the way he hands me everything folded, no explanation, no context. Just an expectation dressed up in silence.

I stared at the route on the screen before muttering

“Siri, dial Neato.”

The line rang twice. Three times. Four.

That idiot.

“Yo!” His voice came through like he’d been waiting for an audience.

“Where are you?” I didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“Did you call because you miss me,” he said, grin audible through the speaker, “or did you call to get information — you f*cker?”

I exhaled through my nose.

“What do you know about this address Dad gave me?”

Neato chuckled — that low, knowing laugh that meant he already knew something I didn’t. He always did.

“Been saying it for a while, Keside. You need to get laid. You’re pissed off by everything.”

“Spill.”

“From what I hear?” A deliberate pause. Theatrical. “Dad wants you to find out by yourself. I’m siding with him on this one.” Another chuckle. “But hey — have fun. Send me pictures. Remember whose son you are. Be well-behaved, don’t disgrace our ancestors—”

“Why do you sound like I’m being sold to some new family?”

“Not that that would be bad—”

“Well, f*ck off, Neato.”

“No one is selling you, relax. I’ve got to go — hot date. Unlike some people.”

The line went dead.

I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and pressed the accelerator into the Lagos night.

—

The mansion sat in the heart of Victoria Garden City like it had always belonged there — unhurried, unapologetic. The kind of home that doesn’t announce itself because it doesn’t need to.

The lawns were perfectly trimmed, edges sharp as a fresh cut, the grass a deep shade of green that looked almost staged beneath the outdoor lights. A white water fountain stood at the center of the circular driveway, catching the light and scattering it in thin, silver arcs. The house itself was white, modern, intelligent — the kind of architecture that made you feel like the building was watching you as much as you were watching it.

A chalet appeared before I had fully stepped out, reaching for my keys with practiced ease. I straightened my jacket and stepped inside.

The hallway was dimly lit — warm amber pressing against the walls, just enough to guide without revealing. A second attendant materialized beside me.

“Right this way, Mr. Umeh.”

He led me through the house and out toward the rear — an outdoor space that opened into something almost ceremonial. A long aisle stretched ahead of me, lined end to end with low-burning lamps that cast a honeyed, amber glow across the path. The kind of lighting that belonged at a proposal. At a beginning of something sacred.

I chuckled under my breath.

Low-key feels like I’m being proposed to.

Then I looked up — and my feet slowed.

A family of five sat gathered at the far end. Something about the way they held themselves — the angles of their faces, the tilt of one head, the particular way they occupied space — made the air leave my lungs in a slow, quiet exhale.

They looked familiar.

Too familiar.

My chest tightened without warning. I reached up and loosened my tie, pulling it free from my collar as I walked — as if removing it would relieve the pressure building beneath my sternum.

The one and only Mr. Wokoma.

The man who had never hidden his disdain for me. Who had made it impossible to stay close to this family after the inevitable happened — who looked at me like I was the wound that never closed, like my presence alone reopened something that had barely begun to scar.

I gathered myself and crossed the remaining distance.

“Good evening.”

Somebi and Somkele — the remaining triplets — rose to greet me, smiles careful but warm. My eyes moved across the group. The adopted children, the ones he had welcomed in the hollow aftermath of Sopuruchukwu — my Sophy — passing. Kainene sat slightly apart from her brother Kelechi, her hands folded in her lap, her expression composed and unreadable. She did not look at me the way someone looks at a stranger.

She looked at me the way someone looks at a wound they’ve been told to stop picking at.

Kamara moved before anyone else. She crossed the space between us before I could prepare and pulled me into a hug fierce enough to knock the breath from my chest. Her arms locked around me like she was afraid that letting go meant losing something again. Holding me was the closest she could get to holding what we’d all lost.

The twins followed.

And just behind them — Aunt Adora. Eyes already glistening. Hands pressed together at her chest like she was holding something too large for her body.

“Son,” she said.

Just that. One word. And I walked into her arms.

I had been looking — quietly, desperately, for two years — for anything that carried Sophy. Her scent. Her warmth. The specific weight of her presence in a room. I hadn’t found it. Not once. Not anywhere. But this — this family, this embrace — was the nearest thing the world had given me.

Aunt Adora clapped my back, slow and rhythmic, the way you comfort someone when words have already failed them.

—

We sat for dinner.

I took the seat at the edge of the table — deliberate, instinctive — positioning myself directly across from Mr. Wokoma. Old habits.

Every dish imaginable had been laid out across the table. Abundant. Intentional. Arranged like a celebration — or an apology. I went straight for the Nkwobi, moved through it quietly, and watched the table perform around me. Conversations light on the surface, dense underneath. Everyone doing the careful work of pretending this evening was ordinary.

Then the door opened.

My mother walked in. My father behind her. Then — of course — Neato, hands deep in his pockets, expression the picture of absolute, shameless innocence.

I raised both brows across the room.

Nice one.

He returned the look with a grin that said he was completely delighted with himself.

I hugged my father — brief, measured — and gave him space to settle beside Mr. Umeh. My mother got a longer hold. When Neato pulled me in, I kept my voice low —

“Nice one, brother.”

“Come on.” He pulled back, still grinning. “May the best man win.”

When the last plate was cleared, silence settled over the table like a guest no one had invited. I set my glass down slowly.

“Please.” My voice was even. Measured. “Would anyone like to tell me why this dinner is happening?”

The silence thickened. A knife could have cut it.

My father was the one who finally spoke.

“You’re getting married to Kainene.”

My cutlery hit the floor.

The sound cracked through the room like a sentence.

“Sorry —” I looked at him. “Dad.”

“I told you. I am not interested in any marriage. I haven’t finished mourning Sophy. How do you want me to honour her — by marrying into her own family? I doubt she would ever forgive me for that.” My voice was controlled. Barely. “So no, Dad. I am not getting married.”

I pushed back from the table.

“Manners, young man.”

My father’s voice didn’t rise. It never needed to. It landed — full, immovable, the voice of a man who had learned that authority doesn’t require volume. I stopped without deciding to.

“Sit down.”

I sat.

“This is an arranged marriage. And it is not for entertainment.” He folded his hands on the table. “In case it has escaped your attention — you were meant to take over from me exactly ten years ago. I held that position for as long as I could. Because my son was in mourning. Because I respected your grief too much to risk disrupting it. I stayed past my welcome, Keside. I sold shares — more than half — to buy us time. To buy you time.”

The table had gone completely still.

“The board is about to vote me out. Without you and Neato, they have the numbers to do it. They gave me an ultimatum. Either you assume your rightful seat — or we lose the company. Permanently.” He paused to let that land. “And to assume that seat, you must be married. For no less than ten years. A transactional arrangement. But a binding one.”

“Do the math. Lose everything — the drone security company that you, Sophy, and your friends built from the ground up, the software you poured yourselves into — or marry Kainene, reclaim your position, and protect what you’ve spent years building. You’ve trained enough. Now it is time to be practical.”

Mr. Wokoma leaned forward. “Your father and I agreed to present this together. We are facing a time deficit. I don’t need tantrums tonight. I need you to think like the man your father raised.”

I sat with it for exactly three seconds.

Then I stood, walked the length of the table, and crouched slightly until I was level with Kainene’s eyes.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. But her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly — the only sign that she felt any of this. That somewhere beneath that composure, something was bracing.

“Are you okay with this?” My voice came out quieter than I intended. “Do you genuinely want to marry a man who hasn’t moved on? Who wakes up every morning still looking for someone else?” I held her gaze. “You would live in her shadow. Every single day. For ten years. In a kind of quiet torture that neither of us chose.”

Kainene’s eyes stayed steady on mine. She said nothing. But something in them shifted — a flicker, brief and carefully controlled — like a door opening and closing in the same breath.

“Think carefully,” I said. “Because once you’re an Umeh, there’s no half-way. You’re mine — on paper and in practice. No open arrangement. I don’t share. And I cannot promise you a man who isn’t carrying the weight of a ghost.”

I looked at Mr. Wokoma.

“Do you really want to see your daughter’s life become that?”

“Enough, Keside.”

Kamara’s voice cut clean across the room.

“We all loved Sophie.” She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “In case you’ve forgotten — we are her family. We have been broken every single day since she left. We are still broken. All of us.” A beat of silence. “Think of this as a way to honour her.”

Something cracked behind my ribs.

“Honour her?” The words came out low. Glass-careful. “Don’t you understand — I lost my soulmate. How would I spend eternity transmitting pieces of myself to a woman who isn’t Sophy?” My jaw tightened. “A part of me died that day. I couldn’t function since — not properly, not really. Her room in Canada is still exactly as she left it. Her shoes arranged like she’ll come back to move them. No one sprays air freshener in there. I am terrified of losing even the trace of her.”

My voice didn’t break. I wouldn’t let it.

“And you stand here and tell me you’re all still hurting.”

I reached for my jacket.

“My soul feels empty without her. The world has been colorless since the day she left. I need a moment.” I buttoned the jacket slowly, each button deliberate. “If you don’t mind — email the rest of the itinerary. Because I already know this dinner will be on every blog by morning.”

I looked at the table once more — at Kamara’s tight jaw, at Aunt Adora’s wet eyes, at my father’s carefully blank expression, at Kainene —

She was watching me. Still composed. Still unreadable. But her hands, now unfolded in her lap — were clasped together just slightly too tight.

“Good night, everyone.”

—

The car door shut behind me with a sound like a full stop.

Heavy. Final.

I sat in the dark — just the low hum of the city outside, just the leather of the seat, just the weight of everything pressing down at once. Then I hit the steering wheel. Once. Twice.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

My elbow found the window. My forehead followed.

“Well.” Neato’s voice came from the passenger seat. I hadn’t heard him get in. “That was an Oscar-award-winning performance. I genuinely needed a handkerchief. I was moved to tears.”

“Neato. Not now.”

“I thought you needed someone to cheer you up. Clearly you don’t need me.” A shrug in his voice. “Alright. I’ll get out of your hair. But I’ll say this once — sleep on it. Tell me what you think in the morning.”

Silence.

“I need a drink.” I turned the key. “Coming?”

“Are there B-cup-sized girls?”

“I—”

“If not, no.”

I stared at him for a full second.

Then the corner of my mouth lifted — barely, involuntarily — and we threw on a rap Jam, bass filling the Audi the way it used to when things felt lighter, and drove into the throat of the Lagos night.

—

FOMO Lagos was loud and golden and full of people performing their happiness.

We found a booth, ordered the first round, and let the city do what cities do — swallow the hard things whole and wash them down with noise. The serving robot moved between tables on its quiet wheels, lights blinking softly, trays perfectly balanced. I watched it work and let myself drink further than I should have.

Further than I meant to.

Because tomorrow was going to arrive whether I was ready for it or not, and I’d rather meet it cracked open than spend another night carrying tonight alone.

Neato talked. I listened. Sometimes I responded. We existed the way brothers do when words aren’t quite enough but presence is. He ordered another round. I didn’t stop him.

Somewhere between the second drink and the third, the thought rose and sank before I could catch it:

Why couldn’t it have been Neato?

I signaled the robot for another round.

And in the morning I was going to have to give my father an answer.

But tonight, all I had was this — the bass, the city, my brother beside me, and the ghost of a girl whose shoes were still arranged in a room no one touched.

Tonight, that was enough.

—

🍿 Barbie as Narrator — Grabs Popcorn

Okay — okay — first of all, what is this?

Beneath is tomorrow, Again is still being assembled, and in the meantime I need someone to explain to me why I am already attached to this man and we are barely past the first chapter.

From what I can gather — arranged marriage incoming. Love that. Classic setup with dark edges, exactly my type of chaos.

But can I just say — he loves this woman. He loves her. And something about it felt almost too large? Too deliberate? Like grief being performed for an audience that wasn’t in the room?

Hmm.

And did anyone else notice the girl? Kainene? Standing there in that composed little silence of hers — hands clasped just slightly too tight, eyes that opened and closed in the same breath?

She is not just a plot device. Something is living behind those eyes. I can feel it.

This is giving mystery. This is giving murder. This is giving thriller wrapped in dark romance with a bow that looks suspiciously like a trap.

This novel is going to cause serious trust issues — for the characters and honestly? For us.

I am sattttt. Don’t play with me. 🖤🍿

BENEATH 

She was supposed to be dead.

Two years ago, someone she trusted drove a blade into her and left her to bleed out in the dark. She survived  but the girl she used to be didn’t.

Now she’s back. Quieter. Scarred. With gaps in her memory she can’t explain and a body that flinches at things she doesn’t remember. Her parents keep her sheltered, careful, close  afraid that the world will break her again.

When they arrange her marriage to the son of a powerful family, they think they’re giving her a future.

They don’t know they’ve handed her back to her past.

Hi, hi! Ella here ☺️

While Again is being wrapped up, I’ve started working on something new on another platform — and I wanted to get everything organized properly. Writing Again taught me so much, and I’m excited to bring those lessons into this new story.

I’ve also officially joined the Wattpad family! 📚

I’ll be updating here regularly, and I truly appreciate every single one of you taking the time to read my stories. Your support means the world, and that’s why I wanted to honor you all as part of this journey.

Thank you for coming along with me — I can’t wait to share what’s next.

— Ella ☺️