The screen flickered to life, and there was Dami, sitting poised with a backdrop showcasing an impressive downtown skyline, her expression calm and collected.  Her father’s face filled the screen, beaming with pride as always, taking up nearly the entire frame.

 “My daughter, the entrepreneur!” her father, Chief Agbaje hailed, his tone both affectionate and proud. "How’s my superstar? Tell me, how’s business?”

 “Yes, sir, everything is fine” Dami responded, her smile warm, masking any trace of the exhaustion she felt.

 In the background, she could hear her mother’s faint voice, chatting with someone on the phone. Every now and then, the camera wobbled slightly as her mom’s legs stretched into view from the side of the screen, propped up on the couch.

It was always this way. Her father leaning in, brimming with questions, while her mother hovered at the edges, a shadow orbiting their calls but never quite joining them.

 It wasn’t that her mother was shy about being on camera—Dami had seen her in countless photos, glamorous and vibrant, holding court with her friends and family at events. But here, on calls like this, her presence was distant, as if she were orbiting the family rather than part of it.

 She tried not to let it bother her. After all, her mother had always been that way—hovering around the edges of her life, loving in her own detached way. Maybe she found comfort in knowing that her dad was the one who always asked the questions, the one who always leaned in a little closer.

 “It’s... coming along, Dad. We’re working hard.” Dami continued.

 Her father leaned in, his voice rich with pride. “That’s my girl. I knew you’d make something big.”

"Ah ah, Dami, this your new office is nice oh," her mother interjected, distant but admiring. She was standing behind her father now, her torso momentarily drifting closer down to the camera as if to take in every detail.

Thanks, Mom,” Dami replied, the corners of her mouth curving up just enough to seem convincing.

"Is it Bolaji that got you this one?" her mother’s voice drifted in again, casually curious.

“Yes, he got me a really good deal on the 21st floor here in downtown San Francisco,” Dami explained smoothly, keeping her tone light and smile steady.

Her mother’s laughter, tinged with nostalgia, echoed softly from above the screen, her face still hidden. "Ah, that’s so nice of him. If you had not broken up with him, shebi you would have had three grandchildren for us by now."

Dami’s smile faltered, her gaze lowering, a familiar pang in her chest. " Mom…” she chided softly.

 “Asake, please don’t bother her,” Chief Agbaje intervened, turning to his wife with a gentle yet firm expression while keeping his face squarely on screen. “She’s doing well in America, running her own business. Marriage is not the end all be all."

Then he turned back to Dami, switching to Yoruba. “Ma da mummy e loun. Don't mind her.  I am proud of all you have achieved, my daughter.”

 "Thanks, dad. I'm just trying to be like you now," Dami said, her smile returning with full force, brightening with sincerity.

 A sudden knock echoed from her end, jarring her from the moment. Dami glanced toward the door, a flicker of concern crossing her face.

 “Um, Dad, I have to go. My assistant is here for a meeting.” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

 "Okay, no problem. Don’t forget to let me know when you are planning to come back to Lagos, okay?"

 "Yes, daddy. I will. Love you, bye."

 "Ah ahn, emi nko, what about me?" her mother teased faintly in the background where she had returned to lay back on the couch.

 "Bye, mom," Dami replied quickly, ending the call.

As the screen went dark, the polished office background dissolved, revealing her true surroundings—a cramped, one-room apartment, its walls barely containing the few belongings she owned. The persistent knocking at the door grew louder and more urgent.

 She sighed, carefully removing the satin scarf draped over her shoulders and peeling off her sleek black bob wig, exposing neat cornrows that trailed down her back. With her heart pounding, she approached the door cautiously.

She opened the peephole. Three figures filled the hallway, shoulders squared, sunglasses blank as mirrors. Her stomach dropped. Tyrel’s men.

She'd known this was coming. Three missed payments. Three warnings ignored.

“What do you want?” she asked through the crack in the door, fighting to keep her voice steady.

A broad hand shoved the door wide, the impact rattling the frame. She stumbled back. One man stepped inside, his suit stretched tight across his chest.

“Boss needs to talk,” he said. The words were quiet, but final.

Another grabbed her arm, his fingers clamping hard enough to bruise. The third posted himself by the door, a silent wall of muscle.

“Please—” Her voice broke. She tried again. “Please, let me go.”

The tall man leaned close, his breath hot against her ear. “You’ll come quietly. Or you’ll come louder. But you’re coming.”

Her cry echoed down the hall as they dragged her out, swallowed by the indifferent hum of the city.