Before The Empire

ChapterThree : New York and Broken Dreams

The morning I left for New York, my mother stood with me at the international terminal of the airport, her fingers wrapped around mine so tightly it was as if she believed she could delay my departure through sheer will.

She wore one of her old lace blouses, the cream-colored one my father used to say made her look like a queen.

Time had faded the fabric, but it could not diminish the quiet dignity she carried. Her eyes were red-rimmed, though she kept forcing a smile. "Call me the moment you land," she said for what felt like the hundredth time.

I smiled through the knot in my throat. "I will, Mummy." "And don't trust people too quickly." I laughed softly. "You've said that at least ten times." "Then listen ten times." We both laughed, but the sound was fragile.

When the final boarding announcement echoed through the terminal, my chest tightened. I threw my arms around her.

For a moment, neither of us moved. I inhaled the familiar scent of her perfume and talcum powder and wished, just for a second, that I could remain in her embrace forever. "Make us proud," she whispered. Tears burned my eyes. "I'll make Daddy proud too." She cupped my face and kissed my forehead. "You already have."

I turned toward the departure gate before she could see me cry. But as I handed my boarding pass to the attendant, I glanced back. She was still standing there, waving, smiling through tears, looking smaller than she ever had.

That image stayed with me long after the plane took off. I wasn't just leaving, I was carrying my mother's sacrifices, my father's dreams, and the fragile hope that somewhere across the ocean, life would finally make room for me.

New York was exactly what people said it was. Fast, loud, Unforgiving.

The city moved as though everyone was racing toward a future they refused to miss. Yellow taxis blared their horns, steam curled from street grates, people brushed past me in heavy coats, coffee cups in hand, eyes fixed straight ahead. No one slowed down, no one noticed me. For the first time in my life, I understood what it felt like to be completely alone in a city of millions.

I stayed with Elira, in her tiny apartment in Queens. Calling it small was generous. The living room doubled as my bedroom, and the radiator hissed like an angry cat every night. But when Amaka hugged me at the airport, all the fear in my chest loosened. "You're here," she said, beaming. I laughed. "I'm here." She held me at arm's length and grinned. "New York has no idea what's coming." I rolled my eyes. "Please. Let me survive immigration first."

That night, we sat cross-legged on the floor eating Chinese takeout food straight from the cartons. For the first time in months, I felt something close to hope after a very long time.

The next morning, reality arrived.

I put on my best navy suit. The one Mummy had ironed with so much care before I left. I slipped my resume into a folder, stared at my reflection, and whispered, "You can do this."

New York, however, was unimpressed. At the first firm, the receptionist accepted my resume without looking it up. "We'll call you." They never did.

At the second, the interviewer smiled politely. "Your credentials are impressive, but we're looking for someone with U.S. Experience."

At the third week, they asked if I had work authorization, then ended the interview five minutes later. The rejections piled up. Days turned into weeks, Weeks turned into months. My savings dwindled, I tracked every dollar, skipped lunch, walked instead of taking the subway whenever possible.

One night, I whispered those fears aloud. "What if Mummy was wrong?" Elira turned toward me from her bed. "About what?" "About me." She propped herself on one elbow. "Oreva Eze, you graduated with First Class honors. You are one of the smartest women I know." I looked away. "Then why does it feel like no one else can see it?" She was quiet for a moment. "Because this city tests everyone before it rewards them." I swallowed hard. "And if I don't pass?" She smiled. "Then you keep trying until you do."

Three months after arriving in New York, I was checking my email in a crowded cafe when I saw a message from Hartwell Financial Consulting. My heart began to pound. I clicked it open. "We are pleased to offer you the position of Junior Financial Analyst." I stared at the screen. Once. Twice. Three times. Then I burst into tears. The barista rushed over. "Miss, are you okay?" I laughed through my tears. "Yes." I pressed a hand to my chest. "I'm more than okay." I called my mother immediately. She answered on the second ring. "Oreva?" "I got the job." For a second, she said nothing. Then I heard her crying. "God has remembered us." I cried too.

That evening, Elira and I celebrated with pizza and cheap sparkling juice, It wasn't extravagant, but to me, it felt like victory.

I loved my job. I loved the order of numbers, the logic of financial statements, the satisfaction of solving problems.

My supervisor, Mrs. Donovan, was demanding but fair. After my first month, she called me into her office. "You're exceptional, Oreva." The words hit me harder than I expected. For the first time since my father's death, I felt seen.

I moved into a small studio apartment in Brooklyn. It was barely larger than my old bedroom closet. But it was mine. I sent money to my mother. Paid my bills. Allowed myself to dream again. Maybe life was finally changing. Maybe the suffering had meant something. Maybe I should have known life was not finished testing me.

It happened on a Thursday afternoon. I was called into the managing director's office.

The head of HR sat beside him. Neither of them smiled. Fear crawled down my spine. "Sit down, Miss Eze." I obeyed. The managing director slid a report across the desk. "Funds were transferred from a client account using your login credentials." I stared at the document. My blood ran cold. "What?" "Can you explain this?" My eyes scanned the numbers. I shook my head. "No. I didn't do this." The HR director folded her hands. "The evidence suggests otherwise." Panic surged through me. "Someone used my credentials." The managing director's expression remained impassive. "The board has decided to terminate your employment effective immediately." The room tilted. "You have to believe me." "I'm sorry." But he didn't look sorry.

I packed my things under the watchful eyes of my coworkers. No one spoke. No one defended me. The elevator doors closed. And with them, the fragile future I had begun to build.

Outside, rain poured from the sky. Cold. Relentless. I stood on the sidewalk, my cardboard box in my arms, and let the storm drench me.

Cars splashed water onto the curb.

Pedestrians hurried past.

No one noticed the woman whose world had just collapsed.

Again.

That night, I sat alone in my apartment.

Rent was due in two weeks.

My bank balance was terrifyingly small.

I wanted to call my mother.

But I couldn’t bear to hear the hope in her voice and destroy it.

So instead, I cried.

The kind of crying that leaves your body shaking.

The kind that empties you.

When the tears finally subsided, I reached for my father’s journal.

The leather cover was worn smoothly from years of use.

I opened to a random page.

“There will be seasons when life strips you of everything except your faith in yourself. Let that be enough.”

A sob caught in my throat.

I traced his handwriting with trembling fingers.

“I’m trying, Daddy.” My voice broke.

“I’m trying so hard.”

The rain tapped against my window.

The city lights blurred beyond the glass.

I had lost my job.

My money was running out.

And for the second time in my life, I was standing at the edge of uncertainty.

But somewhere deep inside me, beneath the fear and exhaustion, a stubborn spark refused to die.

I didn’t know that the very next day, in the middle of another storm, I would crash into the man

who would change everything.

All I knew was this:

I was Oreva Eze.

And my story was not over.