Secreted Lies

Chapter 1

Bettina’s P.O.V

In front of the mirror, I stood, adjusting my blazer for what felt like the hundredth time. The navy fabric was slightly worn at the edges, but it was all I had. My dark hair was pulled back into a neat bun, my makeup subtle yet professional. I needed to look perfect—confident, capable.

This was my shot. My way out.

I practiced my responses under my breath, mentally running through every possible question. The company was one of the best in the city. If I got this job, it would change everything.

I exhaled, pressing a hand against my stomach to steady the nerves.

You’ve fought harder battles, Bettina.

Memories of Lagos flickered in my mind—hot afternoons spent studying by candlelight because electricity was unreliable, my mother stretching a single meal for the three of us, my father’s tired eyes when he came home late from work. I had clawed my way through school, earned top grades, secured scholarships when I could. But in Nigeria, scholarships only got you so far. Without connections, doors remained shut.

Yet here I was. A graduate—not because of privilege, but because of loans.

I squared my shoulders. You’ve come too far to stop now.

***

The company’s building loomed ahead, sleek glass reflecting the morning light. It felt worlds apart from the cramped apartment I shared with my father.

Inside, the air was crisp with the scent of polished wood and expensive cologne. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I approached the receptionist.

"Good morning," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I’m here for the interview."

She barely glanced up, typing something on her computer. "Name?"

"Bettina Adesuwa Kayode."

Her gaze flickered to her screen. "Right on time. Please take a seat."

I sat, back straight, hands clasped in my lap. Around me, employees moved with purpose—well-dressed, confident. I fought the tightening in my chest.

I belonged here.

Twenty minutes later, my name was called, and I was led into a cold, modern office. Behind the desk sat a man—late twenties, cold sharp features, suit tailored to perfection. He barely looked up as I entered.

"Good morning, Ms. Kayode," he said smoothly, flipping through my résumé. "Have a seat."

I sat. "Thank you. I appreciate this opportunity."

His eyes scanned the paper, unimpressed. "Your credentials are... interesting."

I resisted the urge to fidget. "I believe my skills and experience make me a strong candidate."

He leaned back, finally looking at me, his gaze assessing. "This won’t be an easy interview."

I met his stare. "I’m ready for it Sir."

The questions came like rapid-fire. Each one felt like a test, designed to trip me up. I answered them all—direct, professional, precise. But it didn’t matter. I could see it in his expression. He had made up his mind before I even walked in.

Finally, he sighed, closing my file. "Ms. Kayode, we don’t have time to invest in potential. We need perfection from day one."

Perfection?

"I understand," I said carefully. "But I assure you, I’m a fast learner. I adapt quickly—"

"We don’t need adaptability," he interrupted. "We need results. Now. Not promises of future growth."

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.

"Then may I ask," I said, keeping my voice even, "what specific qualities I lack?"

He shrugged. "It’s not about what you lack. It’s about what we need. And we need someone else."

I held his gaze for a second longer before nodding. "I appreciate your time."

I turned and walked out.

***

Outside, the sun felt too bright, the air too sharp. I inhaled deeply, blinking away the sting in my eyes.

Don’t cry.

I had known rejection before. It wasn’t new. But this one stung—not just because I needed the job, but because I had fought so hard to get here. And in the end, it wasn’t about my skills or my dedication. It was about something I couldn’t change.

I walked through the city streets, the buzz of Lagos fading into the background. My feet moved on autopilot, but my mind drifted back—back to a memory I could never erase.

A loud crash. Shouts. The front door bursting open.

The police storming in, knocking over furniture.

My father being dragged away in handcuffs.

My mother’s scream.

My jaw clenched.

That night had changed everything. It had marked the moment I realized the world wasn’t fair—that people like us, no matter how hard we worked, were always one step away from losing everything.

I shook the thought away.

Focus. Keep moving forward.

I turned the corner onto my street, but something was wrong.

A crowd had gathered. People whispered in hushed tones. And in the middle of it—

My father.

Lying on the ground, battered, his breathing shallow. Blood smeared across his cheek. His clothes torn. Around him, the remains of sticks and whips lay discarded.

My heart lurched. "Dad!"

I shoved through the crowd, dropping to my knees beside him. He flinched as I reached out.

"Who did this?" I demanded, my voice shaking.

He shook his head, gripping my wrist weakly. "Let it go, Bettina."

"Let it go?" My voice cracked. "They—Dad, they nearly—"

He struggled to sit up, his breaths ragged. "Not here."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and helped him to his feet. The crowd watched but said nothing. That was the way things worked—silence was safer.

We made it home, and he collapsed onto the couch. I grabbed a damp cloth, gently dabbing at the cuts on his face. He winced but didn’t pull away.

My hands trembled. I wanted to scream, to demand answers, to do something.

Instead, I said nothing.

His slow, steady breathing filled the silence.

I sat beside him, resting my head against the couch. The weight of the day pressed down on me—rejection, memories, my father’s injuries. But I was too tired to fight it.

His soft snores eventually filled the air, and for the first time in hours, I let my eyes close.

Just for a moment.