Loving Ehma

CHAPTER FOUR: GILDED BEGINNINGS

The first few days after the wedding felt like stepping into a dream someone else had designed perfectly, deliberately, without a single thread out of place.

Bayo moved through our new life with the ease of a man who had studied the manual on how to make a woman happy. Every morning, he woke before me, making sure breakfast was ready by the time I wandered into the kitchen. It wasn’t just toast and tea, he made real meals. Yam and egg sauce one day, plantain and scrambled eggs the next, each one served on a tray with freshly squeezed orange juice.

When he left for work, he never failed to kiss my forehead and whisper, “Don’t miss me too much.” By midday, my phone would buzz with his calls.

“Have you eaten?” he’d ask.

If I said no, a delivery would appear within the hour, my favorite dishes, packed neatly, with a note that simply read: For my queen.

In public, he was protective without being possessive. At a small friends’ gathering, when one of his friends joked about how young I looked to be married, Bayo’s smile didn’t falter, but his hand slipped into mine under the table, holding it firmly a silent reassurance. Later, in the car, he murmured, “You’re perfect for me. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel otherwise.”

Sometimes, I caught myself smiling without reason. Realizing I was… happy. Or something dangerously close to it. And that was the problem. I was beginning to forget the truth I had carried into this marriage: I hadn’t married Bayo for love. And forgetting scared me.

One evening, I came down the stairs to find him in the living room, sleeves rolled up, assembling a bouquet in a glass vase.

“Who are these for?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“You,” he said simply, without looking up. “Just because.”

I stood there, watching him arrange flowers for me like it was the most natural thing in the world, and guilt crept in. This man had given me everything a woman could ask for… except the one thing I couldn’t force love.

Bayo straightened up, brushed his hands against his trousers, and there it was, the glint in his eyes that always came before one of his surprises.

“I have something special for you,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with excitement.

I tilted my head, half-smiling. “Special like dinner, or special like…?”

He chuckled, then pulled a slim white envelope from his blazer pocket.

“What’s this?” I asked, taking it.

“Open it.”

Inside were two glossy plane tickets. The destination printed in bold: Santorini, Greece.

I gasped, my fingers tightening on the paper. “Bayo… is this—?”

“Our honeymoon,” he grinned. “All expenses paid. Seven days, five-star suite, and nothing for you to do but let me spoil you.”

The thought of turquoise waters, whitewashed buildings, and golden sunsets felt like something from a postcard. beautiful, but belonging to someone else’s life.

“Bayo… this is unbelievable.”

“You deserve more than unbelievable,” he said, stepping closer. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive. Let me return the favor.”

He took my hand and pressed a kiss to my knuckles, lingering there as if he could pour his devotion into that single gesture.

Somewhere inside, the quiet voice that knew I didn’t love him tried to speak. But between the roses in the vase and the promise of a fairytale trip in my hands, it was easy to ignore.

He pulled me into his arms. “Pack light,” he whispered against my hair. “We leave in two days.”

Two days later, we were in business class, clouds rolling like endless cotton beneath us. Bayo fussed over me the entire flight, adjusting my blanket, handing me juice before I asked, leaning in to check if I was comfortable.

When we landed in Santorini, the air felt soft and salty, touched with the scent of the sea. Whitewashed villas clung to the cliffs, their blue domes glowing under the late afternoon sun.

Bayo didn’t take me to a hotel. He took me to a private villa, wide glass doors opening to a balcony over the Aegean, a pool shimmering in the sunlight, and a tray of fresh fruit and champagne waiting inside.

“Bayo… this is too much,” I whispered.

“No,” he said, hands in his pockets, smiling. “It’s not enough. You deserve the world.”

Every day, he proved it, breakfast on the balcony at sunrise, a private boat ride along the coast where the waves kissed the deck, candlelit dinners in quiet corners where the only music was the hum of the sea.

And slowly, dangerously, I began to forget that I had never really loved him.

But love, or the lack of it has a way of finding cracks.

On the third night, I noticed it.

We had just returned from dinner, the breeze carrying the scent of grilled seafood and wine. I slipped off my sandals and headed for the balcony… when I saw him by the pool, phone pressed tightly to his ear.

His voice was low, urgent the kind you use when you don’t want anyone to hear. He glanced over his shoulder, then turned away from me.

I couldn’t hear a single word, only the clipped rhythm of his speech and the way his free hand kept rubbing the back of his neck.

When he came back in, his smile was easy. Too easy. “Just work stuff,” he said, brushing a kiss against my temple.

I smiled back. But that night, while the waves whispered outside our window, I wondered why did it feel like the moment I stepped into his world, part of it had quietly stepped away from me?

The rest of the week played out like a dream painted in gold.

We wandered cobblestone streets heavy with the scent of fresh bread and spices. He bought me trinkets I hadn’t even mentioned wanting. He held my hand like it was his anchor.

One afternoon, he booked a private boat. We toasted with champagne under a sinking sun, his laughter mingling with the water’s rhythm. And for a moment, I almost believed this was love steady, warm, unshakable.

But then, the phone buzzed.

The glance at me before answering.

The same easy smile when he returned.

On our last night, Bayo booked a candlelit dinner on the beach. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, and waves licked the shore.

“To us,” he said, eyes locked on mine, “and to the life we’re going to build.”

I let myself believe it. just for a while.

Later that night, I woke to the sound of his voice outside the balcony. Urgent. Sharp. Desperate.

When he came back in, he slid into bed, pulled me close, and closed his eyes like nothing had happened.

I lay there, staring into the dark, listening to the waves break against the shore.

Whatever Bayo was hiding, it was only a matter of time before it reached me.

And when it did… I wasn’t sure if it would shatter my marriage, or me.

I woke up to the golden wash of sunlight spilling through the hotel’s white linen curtains. Bayo was already up, leaning over the balcony, shirtless, sipping his coffee like a man who had nothing to hide.

If I hadn’t heard those hushed midnight calls, I would have believed it too.

He turned when he saw me, his smile warm and disarming.

“Morning, my queen,” he said, crossing the room to plant a kiss on my forehead. “I ordered breakfast for us. I thought we could eat in bed today.”

I forced a smile, because that’s what good wives do.

The eggs were fluffy, the croissants warm, the strawberries fresh, but the taste in my mouth was bitter. Bayo laughed and talked like nothing was wrong, like nothing was different.

But something was.

And I was going to find out what.