Keywords: Once Upon A Forever, Prologue, Free Web Novel, Nigerian Story, Reincarnation, Doomed Love, Fated Love, Lara, Tyrie.
OMOLARA
“To this effect, I leave my legacy to my son, Tyrie Oluwadare.”
The lawyer shut the file, then looked around as if daring everyone present to contest the will. Lara’s eyes were fixed on the file the whole time. She barely registered his face; she knew she’d forget it the moment she left the room. She would forget them all, every single person present today. Except Tyrie.
Her gaze flicked toward him, lingering on the sharp arch of his brows before slipping away. His father was dead. Now Tyrie was head of a crime empire and, most likely, the new owner of her debt.
She knew what that meant. In simple words, he was her new owner.
The room was filled with those who had come to stake their claims: old men pledging loyalty, women insisting they’d borne his children, and people like her — the soldiers, the indebted, the disposable. But only Tyrie had inherited anything. The lawyer had played Chief Badmus Oluwadare’s recorded message urging peace and warning against disloyalty before reading the will.
When Lara’s eyes strayed back to Tyrie, he caught her looking and winked. A cold shiver ran down her spine. She dropped her gaze.
Her new owner. The words curdled in her throat. She swallowed hard. She needed to get away.
One of the women stood to demand compensation for Chief Badmus’s “children.” Lara almost laughed. She was silly. Chief Badmus had never fathered children outside his marriage; after his wife died, the family business consumed him. Lara knew this because she had been there. These claimants were grasping at air. And Tyrie was not the type to share. A doctor with a DNA kit was already waiting in the next room to expose them.
She took the woman’s demand as the distraction she needed to get away. She quietly walked away with her head crouched and her body lowered, trying not to be noticed until she made it out of the living room.
Then she walked briskly to her room.
Lara pushed open her room door and paused at the entrance, letting her eyes trace the room one last time. Her gaze settled on the framed photograph of Chief Badmus, hand raised in victory, holding hers aloft along with her belt. She smiled faintly at the memory — her first fight. He had created the women’s ring because of her. He had been so proud that day. She was truly happy in the picture.
A woman’s scream tore through the living room, followed by pleas for mercy; Lara snapped out of her reverie. Tyrie was making an example of someone. Most likely the baby mama who had spoken up. By now, the doctor should have been revealed, and Tyrie would have demanded the DNA test. The other women would take the hint and disperse after witnessing the woman’s treatment.
She yanked open her wardrobe, dragged out a backpack, and scanned the room for anything she couldn’t leave behind. Her eyes caught the framed picture again, and she almost got lost in memory — until a new one interrupted her. She darted to a drawer, flung it open, and found what she was looking for: the bottle labelled cyanide. She had secured it the day Chief Badmus died.
Beside the bottle was an old photo album, and beneath the bottle was a note.
Her bag hit the table with a thud. She shoved the album inside, buckled the flap, then picked up the bottle and unfolded the note quickly:
Babe! I agree with you. Only death can deliver you from Tyrie. But for my sake, call me first. — Kira
Her throat tightened. She slipped the bottle and note into her pocket, then slung the bag over her shoulders.
She had to leave now. God forbid she let Tyrie touch her again. She remembered the last time — her wrists chained to the ceiling, his whip slicing across her back. He had teased her then, saying his father was hanging on by a wisp of air and that she should pray he didn’t die, because once he did, he would plunge her into the depths of hell. “I will unleash twenty-nine years of suppressed anger on you,” he had said.
She shuddered and hurried out. She needed to escape.
Escape to where? The thought clawed at her as she crept into the hall. Would Tyrie even let her go?
She peeked into the sitting room. The commotion was still ongoing. Keeping her feet light, she slipped through the kitchen and pushed out the back door.
Air hit her face. She was outside. Now she just had to go around the house and out the gate. What next? The question pounded in her head.
“You’re not thinking of running away.”
She froze.
Tyrie stood ahead, leaning on the railing, a cigarette between his fingers.
“That would be really stupid.” He crushed the cigarette against the metal and let the remains fall to the ground, eyes never leaving her.
Her hand tightened on the strap of her bag. To where? The question echoed again.
Tyrie stepped closer, towering over her as his shadow stretched. “My father is dead, Lara. You owed him twenty-five million naira. Now you owe me.”
She looked away as she stepped back, trying to create enough distance between them.
Her backpack hit the back door; she was trapped. She forced herself not to look up at Tyrie, afraid that she might look into his eyes and truly give up on escaping.
The truth was, she knew she could not escape. She was simply running to make it seem like she’d given living a chance — so Kira would not hate her.
“You were his bodyguard,” Tyrie said, contempt in his voice. “A woman as a bodyguard. I don’t hold my father’s sentiment. You’ll pay off your debt in my bed, on the floor, right here if I choose.”
His right hand snaked around her waist and yanked her in. His left hand clamped around her neck. She gasped for air but refused to meet his eyes.
The closeness made her flinch; his breath, thick with smoke, coated her throat. She pushed against his chest, but he was stronger.
“You belong to me,” he said. From the side of her eyes, she caught his smile — a canine tooth sharp as a dog’s.
Her stomach lurched. For a split second, she was a child again, pinned, unable to breathe.
She was a fighter, but part of being a fighter was recognising a stronger opponent — and Tyrie was not just stronger; he was psychotic, with men who obeyed his every word. Still, she was a fighter. She inhaled sharply and forced her chin up, trying to look braver than she felt.
“I owed your father, not you, Tyrie,” she spat. Her voice came out choked. “You can’t make me pay for something I never took. I only agreed to pay my father’s debt because Uncle Badmus took care of me.”
At the sound of his father’s name, Tyrie’s expression darkened; his grip tightened.
She shoved at him again, felt his hand leave her neck, then slide over her belt buckle, creeping lower. Heat and nausea surged. Reflex took over.
Her fist cracked against his jaw; her knee drove into his groin.
She did not know how, but the second she felt his touch through the fabric of her combat shorts, her body moved on its own.
She ran, not daring to glance back to see if he was chasing her — only looking over her shoulder when she had cleared the gate and stood in the safety of nowhere.
How she would escape remained a mystery.
She slid a hand into her pocket and brought out the bottle of cyanide. “At least death is still an option,” she murmured.
Her fingers trembled as she fumbled for her phone and dialed Kira.
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