IRIS: Fallen for him

CHAPTER TWO

Iris had believed—foolishly, perhaps—that the birth of Imani would change something in Aziel.

After all, he had been the one to name her.

“Imani,” he had murmured—not with affection, but with a hollow sort of finality. “It means faith.”

It was the only time he looked directly into Iris’s eyes after the child was born. No warmth. No apology. No acceptance. Just quiet resignation. As if naming their daughter had been his final obligation. Then he turned away, retreating into silence.

Iris, naive in her hope, thought that moment meant something. That perhaps, with time, the sight of Imani—his own flesh and blood—would soften the wall he’d built. That maybe, holding his daughter, Aziel would see more than the sin of that night. That he might one day look at Iris not with disdain, but with recognition.

She was wrong.

If anything, Imani’s birth made him more distant.

He never held her. Never smiled. Never asked how she slept, whether she cried, if she’d started walking. He missed every birthday, every school presentation. Weeks would pass without a single word, even when he was in the house. He shut himself in his study, unreachable.

On her fifth birthday, Imani sobbed into her mother’s lap.

“Daddy hates me,” she cried. “He didn’t come for my birthday. He didn’t come to my school. My friends think I don’t have a daddy... that I’m just pretending.”

Iris stroked her daughter’s hair, heart aching. “Baby, Daddy doesn’t hate you. He just doesn’t know how to communicate. We have to teach him.”

Imani’s next words hit her like a blade.

“He doesn’t even talk to you. So how would he learn?”

Iris couldn’t believe her ears. Her daughter had seen through everything. And Iris—who had endured so much—felt her strength falter.

She hadn’t wanted this life for Imani.

---

Miralda arrived whenever she pleased, trailing cold perfume and cruel words. She criticized everything—from the way Iris folded sheets to how Imani’s socks matched her dresses.

One afternoon, Imani glared at her.

“Don’t talk to my mummy that way.”

Miralda scoffed. “What a spoiled brat.”

Then, with a sharp snap of her manicured fingers, she pinched Imani’s cheek.

“Ouch! Are you even my grandma, you witch?”

Iris quickly covered Imani’s mouth, whispering for her to stop.

Miralda’s eyes narrowed. “You taught your daughter to insult her elders? You need better training if she’s going to bear the Valen name. Because clearly, her mother is doing a poor job.”

Iris bit her tongue until it bled that day.

---

Imani, however, was a star born into shadows.

From the moment she was born, there was no mistaking who her parents were. Her skin glowed with warm olive and golden undertones. Her cheeks were round and flushed like a painting. Her lashes long, fluttering against wide, soulful brown eyes that mirrored Aziel’s so perfectly, it sometimes startled Iris when her daughter looked up at her.

Even as a child, Imani possessed a charm that drew people in. Iris dressed her beautifully—expensive dresses, polished shoes, delicate bows. Aziel hated fashion, but Iris insisted. Her daughter would never be invisible.

Whenever Iris took her out—whether to the market or to visit Samantha and Karen—people stopped to admire her. Strangers smiled. Old women cooed. Some whispered that the child looked like royalty. A few asked if Iris was a celebrity or a model.

Iris would smile—softly, politely—but never say more. She had learned to hide her reality behind jeans and fitted polo shirts. No rings. No jewelry. No mention of Aziel Valen, the most powerful man in the country.

Because what was the point?

Power meant nothing if it didn’t protect you.

Wealth meant nothing if it wasn’t shared.

Love meant nothing if it only left you in ruins.

---

At the heart of her silence was guilt. A crushing, endless debt she could never repay.

Since the wedding, Aziel had—without word or gesture—seen to her uncle’s treatment. Dorian’s condition stabilized. Specialists were called in. Medicine and therapy arrived monthly. Her cousins, too, benefited. Tuition paid. New clothes. School supplies. Even small luxuries.

But none of them knew the cost.

Marlene, in particular, had grown impossibly bold. Her entitlement ballooned with each passing month. She assumed Iris was living a dream: married to a billionaire, tucked away in opulence, sipping champagne.

“What’s a few thousand more?” Marlene said once over the phone. “Your husband won’t even notice.”

Another time: “Your cousin wants to study abroad this summer. Just talk to your husband. Surely he won’t say no.”

And when Iris gently suggested limits, she was met with venom.

“Don’t forget who raised you,” Marlene snapped. “You wouldn’t be anything without us. Don’t turn your back on family just because you got lucky.”

Lucky.

That word echoed in Iris’s mind whenever she scrubbed the marble floors late at night, rocking Imani to sleep with one hand and wiping tears with the other.

There were nights she opened the ledger she kept tucked in the kitchen drawer—each expense carefully tracked, every cent calculated—and stared at the bottom line, heart pounding. Sometimes she spent beyond the monthly allowance Aziel deposited. Not intentionally. But because Marlene’s demands wouldn’t stop. And because she feared saying no would mean cutting off her uncle’s treatment.

Aziel never said a word about it.

But that silence scared her more than shouting ever could.

Because one day, she feared, he might say nothing at all—and then take it all away.

The late afternoon sun spilled across the sitting room, painting the walls in soft gold. Iris sat on the edge of the couch, folding laundry with practiced grace. Her fingers moved automatically—tucking sleeves, smoothing hems—but her mind wandered far from the fabric in her hands.

Nearby, Imani sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchpad on her lap, tongue poking out in concentration. Her pencil moved quickly as she drew a lion with a crooked crown and fierce eyes.

“Mommy,” she said suddenly, still drawing. “Do you ever get tired of being strong?”

Iris stilled mid-fold. The question, so simple and direct, pierced her like a pin through silk.

“What makes you ask that, baby?” she asked gently.

Imani shrugged without looking up. “You always do everything. You smile even when you’re sad. You never cry in front of me. But…” Her voice softened. “I saw you once. In the kitchen. You were crying into the sink.”

Iris’s breath caught.

She hadn’t known anyone had seen. That moment—her silent breakdown, hidden behind clattering dishes and running water—had felt invisible.

“You saw that?” she whispered.

Imani nodded. “I didn’t say anything. I thought maybe grown-ups cry differently. Quietly.”

Iris set the shirt aside and moved to sit beside her daughter. Her voice was low and honest. “Sometimes I do cry quietly. Not because I want to hide it from you, but because I want you to feel safe. I want you to believe the world is kind… even when it isn’t.”

Imani leaned her small body into her mother’s side, resting her head on her shoulder. “But I want to know when you’re sad, Mama. I want to help you like you help me.”

Iris pulled her close. “You already do, sweetheart. Every time you laugh. Every time you draw wild stories. Every time you hug me without asking. You remind me why I keep going.”

For a moment, they just sat there, silent, surrounded by the warmth of a golden afternoon. The lion sketch lay forgotten between them.

Then Iris asked softly, “Do you want to hear a story? One I’ve never told you before?”

Imani’s eyes lit up. “Yes!”

Iris took a deep breath. “When I was your age, I lived in a house where love was quiet. My aunt—she didn’t like me much. Said I was too quiet, too needy… too much. I used to sew scraps of fabric together late at night and pretend they were dresses for queens. That was when I felt most alive—when I was dreaming.”

“Did anyone help you?” Imani asked, her voice hushed.

“My uncle tried. But he was tired. And I didn’t want to be a burden. So I helped myself. I studied. I worked hard. And I made a promise—if I ever had a daughter, she would never feel like she had to earn love.”

Imani looked up, eyes wide and soft. “You kept your promise.”

Iris smiled, tears glittering but unshed. “I try every single day.”

Imani suddenly sat up with a gasp. “Oh! I almost forgot!”

She dashed to her backpack, rummaged through books and folders, and returned with a folded paper.

“I wrote something for you!” she beamed. “Miss Adora saw me writing rhymes and was shocked. I told her you taught me to read and write well. She tested me, Mama—and she was amazed!”

Iris unfolded the paper, heart already swelling. The small rhymes danced off the page, innocent and full of promise. Imani began to recite it proudly, her voice filled with confidence. Iris’s hand trembled as she listened, her eyes misting.

“But I told Miss Adora it’s nothing,” Imani added with a grin. “Because we do this every weekend. It’s just our thing.”

They both laughed, their joy wrapping around them like a soft, invisible blanket.

Iris kissed the top of Imani’s head. “You’re going to change the world, baby. One word at a time.”

As they embraced, the warm glow around them was interrupted by a sharp, sudden ring.

The phone buzzed on the table.

Grandfather Vincent.

Iris straightened slightly, careful not to jostle Imani as she answered. “Hello?”

The old man’s voice, warm and deep, flowed through the speaker. “I hope you’re well, child,” he said gently. “Just wanted to hear your voice.”

They spoke briefly. He asked about Imani. Iris asked about his knees. There was comfort in the familiarity—until the line went dead.

Moments later, the doorbell rang.

Still in her house dress, Iris walked to the door, wiping her hands on her skirt, her brows furrowed in confusion.

She opened it—and froze.

Standing before her was Grandfather Vincent, dressed in his signature beige trench coat and holding a wide-brimmed hat. Beside him, elegant and icy, stood Miralda, dressed in a strapless sapphire gown that didn’t match the occasion or the welcome.

“G-Grandfather… Mother—” Iris stammered.

Imani rushed forward. “Great-grandpa! I missed you!”

The old man chuckled, embracing the child with affection.

“We’ve come to spend a week with you and your mother,” he said casually, stepping inside.

Iris barely whispered, “A week?”

“Hurray!” Imani squealed.

Miralda swept past Iris without a glance. Her eyes roamed the home with veiled disgust. She paused in front of Imani and asked coldly, “Did your mother not teach you how to greet your grandmother?”

Iris moved swiftly to shield her, but Imani looked her grandmother in the eyes and said clearly, “Hi, Grandma.”

“Welcome, Mother,” Iris said with quiet dignity, holding the door open for Grandfather Vincent.

Miralda’s reply was sharp. “Go and make us something to eat.”

---

In the kitchen, Iris moved fast. Rice steamed. Stew bubbled. Vegetables hissed in the pan. Her hands danced around the stove while her mind raced. Everything had to be perfect.

Meanwhile, in the sitting room, Imani chattered away, telling her great-grandfather stories from preschool. The old man chuckled, his eyes bright with delight.

By the time the table was set, the aroma of spices and warmth filled the air.

Then Vincent picked up the phone.

Iris froze as she heard him say, “Come home now.”

And then, softly, “Child, when was the last time your husband came home?”

Iris lowered her head.

Imani answered in her place.

“Three months ago,” she said innocently. “Daddy hasn’t come home for three months. He didn’t even call.”

Iris gave her a sharp look, trying to signal her to stop. She offered a weak smile.

Miralda scoffed. “It’s nothing like home. Why would he?”

Imani glanced up at her mother. Iris gently shook her head, wordlessly asking for silence.

Vincent only nodded, the weight of truth settling in his eyes.

---

The door clicked open.

Aziel had arrived.

Tall. Polished. Immaculate. A familiar storm in a tailored suit.

As if the air itself recognized his presence, the room shifted—held its breath.

Imani didn’t move. She stared down at her plate, silent, no longer the bubbly girl she’d been moments ago.

Aziel stepped in carefully, removing his suit jacket. His eyes scanned the room, unsure.

He greeted his grandfather. Then his mother. Then—finally—his eyes met Iris’s. She gave him a faint smile and began to serve him food.

He noticed Imani’s silence almost immediately.

Before he could speak, Grandfather Vincent asked gently, “Imani, what’s wrong with you?”

Imani looked at her father, then turned to the old man. “Great-grandpa… I suddenly have a stomach pain. I’ll go to my room now.”

Iris looked up, concern flashing across her face. “She does that every time she doesn’t want to eat,” she said softly, beginning to rise.

“I’ll go,” Aziel said quickly.

But as Iris paused, Miralda’s voice cut through the tension.

“My son has been working to fund your poor family,” she sneered. “He’s doing your job as a mother, and you still expect peace in his home? Now I see why he doesn’t come back.”

Iris didn’t respond. She simply followed Aziel out of the room.

Grandfather Vincent set down his spoon. “Let him handle his family,” he said firmly.

Then, unbothered, he resumed eating.