The reluctant vow

The air in the living room felt colder than usual, though the afternoon sun poured through the tall windows. Zara stood frozen, her breath catching in her throat as her mother’s words rang out—sharp, immovable. “You know your father has made the decision. That’s final.” Zara blinked, trying to process what she’d just heard. Her heart pounded like fists against a locked door. “So nobody cares what I want? Not even you?” Her voice cracked. Mrs. Tunde didn’t flinch. Arms crossed over her powder-blue lace blouse, she stood stiff like a stone statue. Her lips were drawn into a line, and her gaze darted toward the window. Avoiding her daughter’s eyes. “I don’t love Regan,” Zara said, louder now, more desperate. “I don’t even know him!” She hadn’t even looked Regan Kareem in the eyes before, but from the little she’d heard—about the cold way he handled people, the rumors of how he crushed his competitors without blinking—she already knew he wasn’t her type. Footsteps approached. Heavy. Certain. The floor creaked slightly as her father entered the room. Chief Tunde. Powerful, precise, and unforgiving. He adjusted the cuff of his kaftan and looked at Zara with a face void of emotion. “You don’t need to know him,” he said. “And you certainly don’t need to love him.” Zara’s throat dried up. “You, Zara Tunde, will marry Regan Kareem. It has already been arranged.” A chill sliced through her. Her knees weakened, but she refused to fall. “You can’t do this,” she whispered. “We already have.” His voice was a wall—unscalable and cold. “This union isn’t about feelings. It’s about legacy. The Kareems have been our partners for twenty-two years. This marriage will secure the future of both families.” Her mother remained silent, still as glass. Not even a glance of sympathy. That silence stung worse than the words. “I’m not a pawn,” Zara snapped, the heat rising to her face. “You can’t trade me like some business deal!” Her father’s eyes narrowed. “But that’s exactly what you are, as long as you bear my name.” He took a step closer. “You are part of this legacy. This company. And your childish fantasies of catwalks and cameras will not destroy decades of trust.” The words hit her like bricks. Childish. That’s what he thought of her dream? She didn’t say another word. She couldn’t. Zara turned sharply and stormed out, her footsteps thundering up the staircase. Each step matched the storm brewing in her chest. She didn’t stop until she reached her room. The door slammed behind her with a satisfying bang. She collapsed onto her bed, chest heaving, and buried her face in her pillow. The sobs came hard and fast, the kind that emptied your lungs and cracked your heart. Minutes passed. The muffled ticking of the wall clock grated on her nerves. They had destroyed her. Again. She reached blindly for her phone on the nightstand, wiping her soaked cheeks with her sleeve. Her thumb swiped across the screen, ready to disappear into i********:—anything to numb the pain. And then— A notification. Subject: “Congratulations – Elite Global Runway Finalist!” Zara sat up. Her breath caught. She tapped the message. “You’ve been selected as one of our top finalists. The final show will take place in a few months. If successful, you will represent Nigeria in Paris for the Elite Global Runway program.” She stared. Read it again. And again. Then—she screamed. It was a raw, uncontrolled sound that tore from her throat as joy exploded in her chest. She clutched her phone with both hands, eyes wide with disbelief. This wasn’t a dream. It was real. They picked her. Her name—Zara Tunde—was one of the names chosen to compete. And Paris? Paris was everything. She laughed through the tears, her entire body trembling with disbelief. It was happening. The dream she’d nursed in secret. All the auditions she’d snuck off to. The castings. The rejections. The risks. It had all led to this. She gripped the phone to her chest, breathing fast, heart still galloping. And then— The door burst open. “What’s wrong with you?” Her father’s voice thundered into the room. Zara jumped. Her joy drained like a broken faucet. He stood in the doorway, frowning. His eyes went straight to the phone in her hand. “What are you smiling at?” She hesitated, swallowing the panic rising in her throat. “They picked me,” she said softly. His brows furrowed. “Who picked you?” She extended the phone, her fingers trembling. “The modeling agency. I made it to the finals. The last show is in a few months, and—if I win—I’ll be going to Paris. To walk internationally.” Silence. Cold. Thick. Then he spoke. “You’re not going anywhere.” “Daddy, please—” “I said you’re not going!” His voice cracked like a whip. “Are you insane? You think I’ll let you parade around in half-naked clothes before strangers? While still carrying my name?” Her heart caved in. “You’ve never even asked me what I want.” “You’re no longer a child, Zara. It’s time to grow up. Dreams don’t matter anymore. What matters is duty. And your duty is to marry Regan Kareem.” She stepped forward. “But this is my chance—” “One more word,” he said darkly, “and you can forget this family. Disobey me, and I will disown you. It’s that simple.” The silence that followed was deafening. He turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open. Zara remained still, staring after him. Her phone screen still glowed, the email open. Paris. Finalist. Dreams. But now, it all felt distant. Like a light just out of reach. She looked around her room—the trophies from local pageants, the vision board by her mirror, the modeling books stacked on her shelf. Years of quiet belief. And now, it was all at risk. Her fingers tightened around the phone. She couldn’t let them steal her future. Not without a fight. Not without trying.