THE TRUTH ABOUT HIS FATHER
1698 Words
Chapter 8: The Truth About His Father
Damian left for Abuja again two days later. This time no note. No text. Just silence. The mansion felt too big without the sound of his footsteps. Amara told herself she didn’t care. She was lying.
Her mother was healing fast. Walking with the nurse in the garden. Laughing more. But her eyes kept watching Amara. Watching the way Amara checked her phone every hour. Watching the way she paused at Damian’s office door.
“Girl, you’re in trouble,” her mother said one afternoon.
“I’m fine, Mama.”
“Fine women don’t stare at doors like they’re waiting for ghosts,” her mother replied.
Amara didn’t answer. Because she was waiting. For Damian. For a text. For anything.
On the fourth night, Damian came home at midnight. Drunk. Not stumbling drunk. Quiet drunk. The kind that made his eyes darker and his words slower.
Amara heard him in the hall. She opened her door. He stopped when he saw her. Suit wrinkled. Tie gone. He looked younger without his armor.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“You’re drunk,” she replied.
Damian laughed, low and bitter. “Observant as always, Mrs. Cole.”
Amara crossed her arms. “Come inside before you fall down.”
He followed her to her room. Sat on the edge of her bed like a man who’d forgotten where he was. Amara handed him water. He drank it all.
“My father called again today,” Damian said suddenly. “He said the Okafor name should have died with your father.”
Amara’s chest tightened. “And what did you say?”
“I said my wife is an Okafor,” Damian said. He looked up at her. “He didn’t like that.”
Amara sat beside him, careful not to touch. “Why do you hate my father so much? Really hate him. Not the business story.”
Damian was quiet for a long time. Then he stood up and walked to the window. “My father and yours were best friends. Started Cole-Okafor Ltd together. Nothing. Two men with one desk and big dreams.”
Amara listened. She’d never heard this version.
“Then your father found out my father was stealing,” Damian continued. “Small amounts at first. Then more. To pay my mother’s hospital bills. Cancer. She died anyway.”
Amara’s breath caught. “I didn’t know.”
“Nobody did,” Damian said. “Your father exposed him. Publicly. Destroyed his name. My father lost everything. The company. His reputation. His son’s respect.” He turned. “Me.”
Amara stood up. “Damian…”
“So I grew up hating the Okafor name,” Damian finished. “Hating you before I ever met you. But you’re not him, Amara. You’re not a thief. You’re not a liar. You’re just… you.”
Amara crossed the room. She wanted to touch him. To comfort him. But the contract stood between them. Clause 1. No romantic involvement.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For your mother. For your father. For all of it.”
Damian looked at her like she’d slapped him. “Don’t be sorry. Sorry is weak.”
“I’m not sorry for being weak,” Amara said. “I’m sorry you had to carry that alone.”
Damian closed his eyes. For a second his mask cracked. Pain. Real, raw pain. Then it was gone.
“I don’t need pity,” he said, voice cold again. “I need you to sleep in your own bed and stop looking at me like I’m broken.”
Amara nodded. “Okay.”
Damian walked to the door. Stopped. “Your father wasn’t all bad, you know. He tried to help my father after the exposure. Gave him money. Quietly. My father refused it. Pride.” He smiled, but it was sad. “They were idiots. Both of them.”
Then he left. Closed the door softly behind him.
Amara sat on her bed for a long time, holding the glass he’d used. His fingerprints were still on it.
The next morning, Damian was gone before sunrise. Back to Lagos. Back to work. Back to being cold Damian Cole.
But Amara couldn’t unhear what he’d told her. Two fathers. One mistake. Two sons paying for it.
That afternoon, she went to the hospital to visit her mother. Her mother was reading when Amara arrived.
“You look like you have questions,” her mother said without looking up.
Amara sat down. “Did Dad try to help Mr. Cole after the fallout?”
Her mother closed the book. “Yes. He sent money. Every month. For years. Your father said, ‘We built that company together. I won’t let his family starve.’ Mr. Cole Senior tore up every check.”
Amara stared. “Damian didn’t know.”
“No,” her mother said. “And your father never told anyone. He said pride was the only thing that man had left. He wouldn’t take it.”
Amara’s heart hurt. For both fathers. For both sons. For a hate built on half-truths.
That night, she knocked on Damian’s office door. He didn’t answer. She went in anyway.
He sat behind his desk, head in his hands. Exhausted. When he saw her, he straightened up instantly. Mask back on.
“What?” he asked.
Amara walked to his desk and set a photo down. Old. Faded. Two young men, arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning in front of a small office. Cole-Okafor Ltd. Her father and his.
Damian stared at it. Didn’t touch it.
“Where did you get that?” he asked quietly.
“My mother gave it to me,” Amara said. “After Dad died. She said one day I’d need to remember they were friends before they were enemies.”
Damian picked up the photo. His thumb brushed his father’s face. “He looks happy there.”
“He was,” Amara said. “They both were. Before the money. Before the fear. Before the pride.”
Damian set the photo down. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Because hate is heavy, Damian,” Amara said softly. “And you’ve been carrying it for both of them. Maybe it’s time to set it down.”
Damian looked up at her. His eyes were wet. He blinked fast, hiding it. “I don’t do forgiveness, Amara.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive,” Amara said. “I’m asking you to stop letting dead men run your life.”
The room went silent. Damian stood up and walked around the desk until he was in front of her. Close. His hands clenched at his sides like he was fighting himself.
“You don’t get to come in here and fix me,” he said, voice rough.
“I’m not fixing you,” Amara said. “I’m just… seeing you. The man, not the monster.”
Damian’s jaw ticked. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why? Because they’re true?” Amara reached out and touched his chest, right over his heart. “I see you, Damian. Even when you hide.”
Damian grabbed her wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop her. His thumb pressed against her pulse. Fast. His pulse was fast too.
“For six months,” he whispered. “That’s all we have. Don’t make it harder.”
Amara nodded. “Okay.”
He let go of her wrist. Stepped back. “Go to bed, Amara.”
She went. But at her door, she turned back. “Damian?”
He looked up.
“My father would have liked you,” she said. “If he’d met you now. Not the boy who hated him. The man you are.”
Damian didn’t answer. But he picked up the photo again after she left. Stared at it for a long time.
The next day, he called a meeting. Cancelled all his appointments. Drove to the hospital himself. Brought flowers for Amara’s mother. Not roses. Sunflowers. Her mother’s favorite.
“Mr. Cole,” her mother said, surprised.
“Damian,” he corrected. “And I came to apologize. For my father. For what he did to your husband. For what I almost did to your daughter.”
Amara stood in the corner, tears in her eyes. Her mother took Damian’s hand. “Apology accepted. Now sit. Tell me about your mother. I heard she loved sunflowers too.”
Damian sat. And for the first time, he talked about her. Not business. Not contracts. Just a woman who loved sunflowers and died too young.
Amara watched him. Really watched him. Not the billionaire. Not the enemy’s son. Just Damian. A man carrying too much for too long.
After, in the car ride home, silence. Comfortable this time. Not heavy.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Amara said finally.
“Yes, I did,” Damian replied. “Because you were right. Hate is heavy. And I’m tired of carrying it.”
Amara touched the bracelet on her wrist. _Amara Cole._ It didn’t feel like a chain anymore. It felt like a bridge.
That night, Damian didn’t go to his office. He sat in the living room, photo on the table in front of him. Amara brought him tea. Set it down. Sat beside him. Not touching. Just there.
“My father kept your father’s letters,” Damian said suddenly. “All of them. In a box. He never read them after the fight. But he kept them.”
Amara leaned her head on his shoulder, just for a second. “Maybe it’s time you read them.”
Damian didn’t move away. “Maybe.”
They sat like that until midnight. Two people. Two histories. One roof. No contract between them. Just quiet.
Upstairs, Amara’s mother smiled in her sleep. Downstairs, Damian finally opened the box of letters.
And Amara finally let herself believe that six months might not be enough.
Because the truth was this: she wasn’t falling for the enemy anymore. She was falling for the man the enemy had raised.
- Writer
