Beneath His Wings

Chapter 4 Chains of Expectation

The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white as the sleek black Bentley rolled past manicured estates and glass towers. Ethan Obi sat in the backseat, one arm resting on the leather, his sharp eyes unmoving. He had returned only weeks ago, and already, Lagos—or Gidem City, as the locals fondly called it—seemed like a puzzle of two worlds stitched together with uneven thread.

“Where to now, sir?” The driver asked cautiously, glancing at Ethan through the rear-view mirror.

“Take me deeper,” Ethan said, his voice calm but commanding. “Not Ikoyi. Not Lekki. Drive into the slums.”

The driver’s brows twitched. For a son of one of the wealthiest families in the country to ask that was unusual, dangerous even. But the man had worked for the Obis long enough to know when silence was safer than questions.

The Bentley purred forward, leaving behind glittering clubs, luxury stores, and champagne-soaked nightspots. Soon, the neon lights dimmed into harsh yellow bulbs swinging over cracked wooden stalls. The roads narrowed, rough and uneven, littered with potholes that jostled the car despite its luxury suspension. Children in tattered clothes darted between rusted taxis, their laughter tinged with hunger. Smoke from open fires choked the night air, mixing with the pungent stench of refuse piled on corners.

Ethan leaned against the window, his gaze steady. His friends would never step here; men like him weren’t supposed to. Yet he wanted to see it—not out of pity, but curiosity. To live in this land of contradictions and not witness its underbelly felt like ignorance.

At one intersection, a group of women waved at the car, their painted faces hopeful, their voices pitching names of drinks and rooms. Ethan didn’t flinch. His cold eyes met theirs for the briefest second, and they stepped back, unsettled as though a wall of ice had risen between them.

The driver swallowed. “Sir, it’s not safe to stay long here.”

“Keep driving.”

The car crawled through the labyrinth until, finally, Ethan raised a hand. “Enough. Turn back.”

They drove toward the city’s high-end district, where life glistened again with glass chandeliers and rooftop laughter. His friends were waiting at a private lounge—rich sons of richer fathers, loud with champagne confidence.

“Obi!” one of them boomed as Ethan entered, his tall frame drawing glances even in a room of privilege. His suit was sharp, his hair brushed neatly, his expression unreadable. “Finally! We thought you’d abandoned us for your father’s board meetings.”

Ethan only inclined his head slightly. “I’ve been… observing.”

Drinks flowed, cigars lit, and soon laughter rose. The air was heavy with perfume and money. Girls drifted in, drawn by the scent of wealth. One, with long legs and glossy hair, leaned toward Ethan, her fingers brushing his sleeve.

“You look too serious,” she purred. “Loosen up, handsome. Spend the night with me.”

Ethan’s gaze dropped to her hand. His stare was sharp, cold—not insulting, not cruel, but distant. She faltered, cheeks flushing as if his silence had unmasked something in her. She withdrew quickly, retreating to another man who was eager to pay for her time.

Another girl tried, coaxed by Ethan’s friends, but his response was the same: a wall of icy nobility that no charm could breach.

“Come on, Obi,” one friend laughed, slapping his back. “You’re back from America and still stiff as a board. Live a little!”

“I live enough,” Ethan replied, voice steady. He sipped water instead of whiskey, his restraint both irritating and awe-inspiring.

By midnight, he rose. “I’m leaving.”

“Always the killjoy,” his friends teased. But none dared stop him.

The Bentley hummed again, carrying him back through glittering highways until the family mansion loomed—an estate of white stone and sprawling gardens in Lekki’s heart. Light spilled from the grand windows. His parents were awake.

As he stepped inside, the air was thick with worry. His mother, elegant in a silk robe, rose from the couch. His father, stern in his tailored kaftan, sat rigidly, his jaw clenched.

“Where have you been?” his mother whispered, her eyes glistening.

“Out,” Ethan answered simply, shrugging off his jacket.

“Out?” His father’s voice thundered. “You disappear till midnight without word, and ‘out’ is all you can say?”

Before Ethan could reply, the driver bowed slightly and spoke. “Sir, Madam… Master Ethan asked to see the slums. We drove there. Later, he met his friends. He did not drink. He did not… indulge. He only observed.”

His mother gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. His father’s face darkened.

“Do you have any idea what danger you put yourself in?” his father roared. “The heir of Obi Industries parading through filth? Do you want kidnappers at our gate? Do you want scandal in the press?”

Ethan’s eyes, cool and sharp, met his father’s. “I am no longer a child to be locked indoors. I want to see my country—the real one, not just the marble halls and boardrooms.”

“You will see it from the seat of power, not from gutters!” his father snapped.

Silence stretched, crackling with unspoken defiance. Finally, Ethan spoke, voice quiet but firm. “Then perhaps we want different things.” He turned, walking away, leaving his father’s fury in the living room.

He changed into a crisp shirt and retreated to the study. Rows of books lined the shelves, the scent of old paper grounding him. He sat at the desk, fingers drumming against wood, thoughts unreadable.

Moments later, the door creaked. His mother entered softly, her face lined with worry. She crossed the room, her voice gentle, trembling.

“Ethan,” she whispered, “I understand your desire to see the world beyond these walls. But there are responsibilities you cannot escape. You are our only son. The legacy of the Obi name rests on you.”

He looked away, his jaw tightening.

“I am not asking you to give up your principles,” she continued, sitting beside him. “But you must give us an heir. A family cannot thrive without roots for the future. We are not getting younger. Your father worries, and so do I.”

Her hand brushed his arm, tender and pleading. “You don’t have to marry for love—not immediately. But you must marry, Ethan. It is the only way to secure what generations built before you.”

For a moment, Ethan’s eyes softened, the mask slipping. “Mother… I cannot give myself to someone just because it pleases the world.”

“I know,” she murmured, tears gathering. “But sometimes duty comes before choice.”

The silence stretched, heavy with emotion, until Ethan rose, his voice clipped. “Goodnight, Mother.”

She watched him walk to the window, his figure tall against the city lights. She wanted to say more but knew his heart was armored. She left quietly, her sigh echoing in the study.

---

The following morning, the mansion bustled with quiet efficiency. Sunlight streamed through the vast glass panes, gilding marble floors. Ethan descended the stairs, sharp in his tailored suit, ready for his first day at the family company.

His father waited at the breakfast table, newspaper folded beside a steaming cup of coffee. The air was stern, decisive.

“Ethan,” he said without preamble, “tonight we dine with Chief Adenuga, one of my oldest business partners.”

Ethan glanced up, expression neutral. “And?”

“And his daughter will be there.” His father’s eyes hardened, daring him to protest. “A woman of grace, education, and class. It is time you stopped wandering and started fulfilling your role. Tonight is not just dinner—it is the beginning of your future.”

The words lingered, heavy with command.

Ethan set his cup down slowly, his jaw tightening. He didn’t argue, not yet. But in his silence was defiance, and in his father’s order was a chain—one that would drag him closer to a destiny he wasn’t ready to accept.