As time passed, pity turned to respect.
People began saying, “Toby is a good father.”
“Those girls are disciplined.”
“They work hard.”
And slowly, the family began to heal—not because the wound disappeared, but because they grew stronger around it.
Meanwhile, in Lagos, Bolanle stepped into the life she thought she had wanted.
At first, it felt like a dream.
Chief Balogun’s mansion stood behind tall iron gates in a wealthy neighborhood. The living room was larger than her old house. Servants brought breakfast. Drivers waited outside. Her wardrobe filled with elegant dresses and imported shoes.
The first time she saw herself in silk, standing before a full-length mirror, she barely recognized herself.
She told herself she had made the right choice.
This was the life she deserved.
And for a while, Chief Balogun treated her well. He took her to expensive restaurants. Introduced her to wealthy friends. Presented her proudly in rooms full of people who admired her beauty and style.
No one there knew she had once sold tomatoes in a dusty village market.
But beneath the luxury, cracks began to show.
Chief Balogun was not cruel, but he was used to control. He decided where she sat, how she dressed, and which circles she should enter. High society, she learned, had its own rules—and she would always be slightly outside them.
At dinner parties, she overheard whispers.
“That’s the woman he brought from some village.”
“I heard she already had children.”
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