HOW HARD IS IT TO LOVE

THE FORGIVENESS

*CHAPTER 11:

Martha did not touch her at first. She just stood in the doorway, her rosary wrapped tight around her wrist, watching the girl on the floor holding the old first-aid box like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

The mansion was silent. The beep of the gate was gone. The Range Rover was gone.

Elisa's shoulders shook. No sound. Just tears running down onto the cotton pressed to her cut lip.

"Elisa," Martha whispered, kneeling slowly. Her knees cracked. She had started working for the Smiths family at 24 until the issue that led to Edward's abandonment and her loss of job, then she came back when he built this house and called her. "Come. Stand up."

Elisa didn't move. Her fair skin was blotchy from crying, her eyes red. She stared at the spot on the tiles where his expensive trousers had knelt.

"He left this," she whispered, opening the dented box. The smell of iodine hit them.

Martha took the cotton gently. "Let me."

She cleaned the cut properly. Elisa winced. Martha's hands were steady.

"Anywhere else?"

Elisa touched her torn shoulder. The blue uniform hung open.

Martha saw the fingerprint bruises forming where Charles had grabbed her. Her jaw tightened.

"That animal," she muttered. "That cousin of his."

She clicked the box shut.

"Mr Edward said guest room upstairs," Martha said, pulling Elisa up. "You don't stay here again."

Elisa looked at her small white staff room - white tiles, plastic chair, small wardrobe with a key. For eight months this was safe because it was invisible.

Martha picked up Elisa's small bundle - two dresses and her Bible.

Twenty steps from the kitchen wing to the marble staircase.

The guest room was on the first floor, directly opposite Edward's master bedroom. Two heavy doors facing each other across the silent, wide corridor.

Martha opened it with a brass key.

Elisa froze at the threshold.

She had cleaned this room every Thursday, but never to sleep in it. The floor was polished Italian marble with a huge, thick royal blue silk rug that swallowed her bare feet completely. Dove grey walls with warm recessed lights. No mosquito nets - this house had sealed central cooling. A massive low platform king bed with a tall velvet headboard reaching the ceiling, crisp white sheets, six pillows, a duvet that looked like cloud. A crystal chandelier threw soft light. Through the bathroom door she saw a freestanding bathtub under a window, golden taps, a glass rainfall shower.

It was the most luxurious room in the mansion, even though the whole mansion itself was luxury - eight bedrooms, marble floors, chandeliers in every hall. Edward had money to host anyone, but he never allowed any family to stay in this house. Charles was the only family he ever allowed into his house, because he still remembered the boy he grew up with. He never knew Charles had changed a lot.

Elisa backed away slightly, clutching her torn uniform.

Martha placed the bundle on the velvet bench at the foot of the bed and showed Elisa the inner lock. "Lock it from inside. Nobody enters unless you open. Not even me. Not even Mr Edward. Hot food is coming."

When the door closed, Elisa was alone.

She stood in the middle of the rug, afraid to sit. Her torn uniform looked dirty against the white sheets. She went to the bathroom and stared at her reflection - swollen eyes, cut lip, torn shoulder against fair skin.

She turned the golden tap. Instant steaming hot water.

She slid down onto the rug and cried aloud because the room was so big it swallowed sound.

Later she opened her bundle. Inside was a nice knitted gown of her size, she got this the day her shoes had arrived. She had never worn it. She changed out of the torn uniform and put it on. It sat soft on her fair skin.

---

At 9:17 a.m., Edward's Range Rover was parked under a bridge in Wuse, engine running, windows black.

He was on the phone, cigarette between his fingers. Smoke curled out the cracked window. His voice was flat.

"Bring him. House 7, Asokoro. White Mercedes parked crooked. Warehouse behind my father's old site. Now."

He ended the call. He took a long drag.

Twenty minutes later, a black Hilux pulled up. Two men in black shirts. Big shoulders. Silent.

Back seat: Charles, hands tied with a cable tie, lip already bleeding, shirt torn, eyes wild.

"Edward? Are you mad? What is this? Do you know who my father is?" Charles stammered.

Edward got out slowly. Black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He looked at Charles once and nodded to his men.

The warehouse was empty, concrete floor, one bulb swinging. They threw Charles to his knees.

Edward walked around him once, hands in his pockets, cigarette in his mouth. He said nothing.

"You entered my house," Edward said finally, his voice low. "My house, Charles. You molested her. Under my roof."

Charles started shaking. "Please... I was drunk..."

Edward crouched in front of him. No shouting. He grabbed Charles's forearm and pressed the burning cigarette hard into his skin.

Charles screamed.

Edward held it there for three seconds, his face completely blank, his eyes cold. Then he dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his shoe.

He stood up and hit him. One fast hit to the jaw. Then one to the ribs. Methodical.

Charles fell sideways, spitting blood.

"Enough," Edward said quietly. His knuckles were red. "He needs to walk."

---

At 11:00 a.m., Martha was at the kitchen preparing what she would take to Elisa - jollof, plantain, chicken, malt - guest food, not staff food - when she heard the main gate open.

She left the tray on the counter and rushed to the parlour window.

The Range Rover entered. Then a black Hilux behind it.

Edward got out first. His black shirt had a small blood stain on the sleeve. He lit another cigarette. Then Charles was dragged out by the two men. Face swollen, shirt bloody, holding his arm where the burn was, limping badly.

At the same moment, Elisa had heard the gate from upstairs. She rushed down the marble stairs in her knitted gown, her fair skin pale, hair still damp, because she and Martha both didn't know what Edward was up to.

They both entered the parlour at the same time.

The men dragged Charles into the centre of the parlour and threw him to his knees on the expensive rug.

Martha gasped aloud. The rosary fell from her wrist.

Elisa froze by the staircase, hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

Charles. Bloody. Broken. Lip split, shirt torn, arm burnt.

"Jesus..." Martha whispered.

Elisa's knees weakened. She held the rail, her fair face full of real shock and terror.

Edward walked in behind them, smoke leaving his mouth, eyes dark. He didn't look at Charles. He walked straight to Elisa.

He stopped in front of her. So close she could smell his cologne mixed with smoke and blood.

He looked down at her in her knitted gown, at her swollen lip, at her shaking hands.

Then he asked gently, but his voice was cold.

"Should I let him live, do you forgive him?"

Elisa's eyes filled with tears. She looked at Charles on the floor whimpering, then back at Edward's dark, unreadable face. She was trembling.

"Please, Mr Edward, let him go," she whispered.

Edward stared at her, his jaw tight.

"Really, is that your final decision?" he asked.

"Yes, Mr Edward," she said, her voice breaking.

Edward held her gaze for a long second. Then he turned to the guys in black and gave them a sign.

The men grabbed Charles. One more hit to the ribs, one to the jaw - fast, hard - before letting him go. Charles cried out and fell flat on the rug, coughing blood.

Edward looked down at him, cold.

"Tell Elisa thank you," he said.

Charles, on his knees, bleeding, looked up at Elisa through swollen eyes, his voice hoarse.

"Thank you, Elisa... thank you..."

Elisa shrank back against the staircase, hand over her mouth, her fair skin cold with fear.

Martha stood in the middle of the parlour, tray forgotten, rosary on the floor at her feet, staring at Edward, unable to understand what had gotten into Edward, he has never behaved like this.