Not our choice

Chapter One Matilda's POV My name is Matilda Brown. I am twenty-one years old. Born in a Lagos hospital room where my mother bled out bringing me into the world. The doctors said it was a rare complication, nothing anyone could have prevented. But my father saw it differently. He held me once—tiny, screaming, covered in blood—and then he walked away. Never looked back. Left me with my mom's sister, Aunt Clara, who opened her door out of duty, not love. From the moment I could understand words, she made sure I knew: I was the reason her sister was gone. The reason my father disappeared. The reason everything bad happened after I arrived. “You killed your mother the day you were born,” she’d say while scrubbing pots or folding clothes, her voice flat like she was stating the weather. “Your father couldn’t bear the sight of you. And look what you did to this house—brought nothing but misfortune.” But the real poison came later. Uncle Ray—her husband—started noticing me when I turned sixteen. At first it was comments: “You’re filling out nicely, Matilda.” Then touches that lingered too long on my shoulder, my waist. Then attempts. He’d corner me in the narrow hallway when Aunt Clara was at market, press me against the wall, breath hot and sour. I learned to fight quietly—elbow to the ribs, knee to the groin, slip away before he could finish what he started. I locked my door with a chair under the knob. Slept with one eye open. When I was eighteen I couldn’t take it anymore. I told Aunt Clara everything, voice shaking, hoping—just hoping—she’d wrap her arms around me and say, “I believe you. I’ll protect you.” Instead she slapped me so hard my ear rang. “Liar,” she hissed. “You think I don’t know you’re trouble? Your mother died giving birth to you.You killed your mother the day you were born. “Your father couldn’t bear the sight of you, he ran. And right after you came here, Ray lost his job—the only steady thing we had. You’re a curse, Matilda. Pack your things and get out.” I stood in the rain that night with a small duffel bag, watching the door close behind me. Convinced she was right. I carry bad luck like a second skin. People who get too close lose things—jobs, peace, lives. Veronica Sterling saved me. We met at Peterson Luxe Complex in Victoria Island, Lagos—a massive luxury destination with a high-end boutique, where I stock shelves and clean display cases, and she works the cash register with that effortless charm. She saw me sleeping on a bench in the staff room one morning after another all-night bus ride from a friend’s couch. Instead of judging, she said, “My place has a spare room. Move in tomorrow. No rent until you’re steady.” No questions. No pity. Just Veronica being Veronica. ************** That morning I was late again. The yellow bus from Agege had engine trouble, then gridlock on the Third Mainland Bridge. I burst through the staff door at 9:22, tying my apron as I ran. Veronica was already at her station, ringing up a customer. When the woman left, she turned, eyes narrowing but soft at the edges. “Tilda,” she said quietly, motioning me behind the counter. “You’re late. Again.” I winced. “I know. The bus died. Then traffic. I’m sorry.” She sighed, but not angrily. She glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then pulled me into the small stockroom where boxes of new arrivals waited to be unpacked. “I covered for you,” she said, voice low. “Told Mr. Okeke you were in the restroom with cramps. But babe… this can’t keep happening. If you’d just stay at my place like I keep begging, you wouldn’t be running across Lagos every morning.” I looked down at my scuffed shoes. “You know why I don’t.” She stepped closer, voice dropping even softer. “Because of the ‘curse’ thing? Tilda, listen to me—really listen. Your mother died giving birth. That happens. It’s tragic, but it wasn’t your fault. You were a newborn. Your father… he wasn't man enough to handle his grief. He ran instead of staying to hold his child. That’s on him, not you.” I swallowed hard. “Aunt Clara said—” “Aunt Clara is bitter and wrong,” Veronica cut in gently but firmly. “And Uncle Ray? That man was lazy long before you showed up. He lost his job because he showed up drunk half the time and argued with his boss—not because you ‘cursed’ him. You were a child. You didn’t make him a drunk or a failure. He already was one.”He's a monster, not some victim of your 'curse Tears pricked my eyes. I blinked them back. “I just… I don’t want to bring that energy to you. Your family’s been so kind. What if—” “What if nothing.” She took both my hands, squeezing. “You are not bad luck. You are my sister in every way that counts. Remember last year when my mum was sick? You gave me your entire paycheck—no hesitation. You stayed up all night with me when I cried. You cooked for my little brother when I was too tired. The only one who ever laughs at my dry, terrible jokes. I chuckled. “You noticed?” She shrugged with that small, knowing smile. “I try.” And just like that, we both cracked up—proper, unguarded laughter that filled the room and made everything feel lighter for a second. That’s not a curse, Tilda. That’s love. Real love.” My throat tightened. “V…” “No, let me finish.” She smiled, small and warm. “I’m not asking you to stay forever. I’m asking you to stop punishing yourself for things that were never your fault. Come home with me tonight. Sleep on a real bed. Eat real food. We'll watch your favourite movie. Let me take care of you for once. Please.” I looked into her eyes—steady, kind, unwavering—and something inside me cracked open just a little. “Okay,” I whispered. “Tonight. But if your microwave catches fire or your neighbor’s dog runs away, don’t blame me.” She laughed softly and pulled me into a hug. “If anything happens, we’ll blame the microwave. Not you. Never you.” We stayed like that for a long moment, the hum of the boutique outside fading away. For the first time in years, I let myself believe—maybe just a tiny bit—that I wasn’t doomed to ruin everything I touched. Alexander's POV Alexander Peterson. That's me—26, heir to the Peterson empire, and the biggest disappointment in my family's long, gilded history. My parents built a conglomerate from scratch: real estate, tech startups, luxury brands that span continents. They expect me to slide right into the CEO chair, schmooze investors, and keep the billions rolling in. But I can't. Won't. Music is my soul—the beats I produce in my hidden studio, the lyrics that pour out when the world's too loud. I've turned down board seats, ignored their lectures about "responsibility," and poured everything into proving I can make it as an artist on my own terms. They call it a phase, say it'll never pay off, that I'll end up useless and broke. "Alex, music is for hobbyists," Dad says. "Business is for legacies." Mom chimes in with her disappointed sighs: "We're just trying to secure your future." But I'm done proving myself to them. I'll blow up big, sign deals, tour—show them I was right all along. The penthouse overlooking the city skyline is my sanctuary, far from the family mansion's stuffy dinners. Jace Young, my ride-or-die since college, lounges on the leather couch, scrolling his phone while I tweak a track on my laptop. He's a business tycoon in his own right—built a fintech startup from nothing, the kind of success my parents wish I chased. But he's never judged me for choosing the mic over the boardroom. "Man, this beat is fire," Jace says, looking up. "You drop this, and the labels will come crawling." I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples. "Thanks. But Dad's on my case again—another email about 'stepping up.' Like my music's just a distraction." Jace sets his phone down, face serious. "They're scared, bro. Scared you'll crash and burn without the safety net. But you've got talent. Real talent. I've seen the streams on your underground drops—they're climbing." I smirk, but it's bitter. "Yeah, well, they think it's a waste. 'Waiting for a career that won't pay off,' quote unquote. I'm pouring everything into this album. If it flops, maybe they're right." He shakes his head, leaning forward. "Nah. Remember when we started that garage band in uni? You were the one keeping us going. Arrogant as hell about your skills, but damn if you weren't right. You're independent, man— that's your strength. Romanticize the hustle if you want, but don't let them dim that fire." I chuckle, appreciating the pep talk. "Arrogant? Me? Pot meets kettle. You're the one who turned a dorm idea into a million-dollar app." Jace grins. "Touché. But seriously, Alex—what's the plan? You're gonna keep dodging family meetings forever?" I sigh, closing the laptop. "For now? Yeah. Focus on the music. Prove them wrong my way. Thanks for the reality check, though. You're the only one who gets it without the lectures." He claps my shoulder. "Always, man. We're in this. Now play that track again—let's see if we can layer in some vocals." We dive back in, the conversation flowing easy like always. Jace is more than a friend; he's the ally keeping me grounded in this chaos.