The Orphan Bride Of The Town's Richest Man

EPISODE 1 Freya's pov The orphanage gates were going to close on me in 24 hours. I stood there with my only bag. Black. Faded. The zipper barely holding of shoes, and a photo of my mother. That was all I had in this world. 22 years of life, and it fit in one bag. "Mrs. Akinyi, please," I whispered. My voice was shaking. "Just one more month. I’ll get a job. I’ll pay you back. I promise." The head of the orphanage didn’t even look at me. She was counting money. "Freya Destiny, you are 22. The government money stops today. You are an adult now. You have to leave." Adult. Like I had anyone. Like I had anywhere to go. Murang'a sun was setting. Orange and cruel. It painted the orphanage walls the same color as the dust. The same dust that was now sticking to my dirty torn brown skirt as I walked out. Each step felt like my feet were made of stone. Where was I supposed to go? Nairobi was 2 hours away. I had 87 shillings in my pocket. That couldn’t even buy me a matatu. I sat under a tree outside the gate and opened my mother’s photo. She was smiling. Her hair was braided the way she used to do mine. I kept thinking about my life with my dead parents. Mum used to cook githeri on Sundays and sing to me. Dad used to carry me on his shoulders and say "Freya, one day you’ll be somebody. You’ll wear nice clothes and live in a big house." Now I was nobody. In a torn skirt. With an empty stomach. The sun went down. Mosquitoes started biting. I couldn’t cry anymore. I had no tears left. My phone buzzed in my bag. Unknown number. I almost didn’t answer. What was the point? "Freya Destiny" A cold man’s voice. "This is Damian Carter’s assistant. Mr. Carter wants to meet you. Today. 5pm. His office in Nairobi. The Carter Towers. Come alone." My heart stopped. Damian Carter. The town’s richest man. Cold. Ruthless. Billionaire. He had once came to a donation at our orphanage and donated 5 million Why would he want me? "I... I don’t have fare," I whispered. "A car will pick you at the Murang'a stage in 30 minutes. Don’t be late." The call ended. I looked at my dirty torn brown skirt. At my bare feet. At the 87 shillings in my hand. I stood up. I sold my shoes to the lady selling mandazi for 200 shillings. I used the money to buy a soda and wipe my face. If Damian Carter wanted to see me, then I was going. Even if I had to walk to Nairobi barefoot.