(Night. Outside the mansion. A car pulls up. The gate is already open. A guard stands waiting. Another, broader one, steps forward as she comes out.)
BOUNCER: This way, ma.
(Hannah steps out slowly. She looks drained, like the day has taken everything from her. She follows without a word.)
(They walk into the mansion. The lights are on, but the place feels too quiet.)
MAID: Welcome, ma.
SERVANT: Good evening, ma.
(Hannah nods faintly and keeps walking. She doesn’t stop.)
(Upstairs. Outside her room.)
BODYGUARD: Have a good night, madam.
Hannah: Thank you.
(She enters her room and locks the door immediately. The sound echoes.)
(She leans her back against the door, eyes closed for a moment. Breathing uneven.)
(Her room is simple. White walls. A small bed. A study table in the corner. Curtains drawn. It feels more like a teenager’s room than a mansion bedroom.)
(Hannah slips off her shoes and lets them fall carelessly.)
(She drops onto the bed, exhausted.)
Hannah: (murmuring) What kind of day was that…
(She stares ahead, lost in thought.)
Hannah: It doesn’t stop…
(She presses her fingers to her temple.)
Hannah: Same thing… over and over again…
(A pause. Her expression slowly changes—less tired, more determined.)
Hannah: (whispering) I’m not staying there.
(A beat.)
Hannah: I’ll fix it… somehow.
(Her jaw tightens.)
Hannah: (low) I’ll take back what’s mine.
(A knock on the door.)
(Hannah freezes.)
(Another knock.)
Hannah: (sharp) Who is it?
CHIEF MAID: Madam Hannah, your meal is ready. The family is waiting for you at the dining table.
(Hannah exhales, already overwhelmed.)
Hannah: (sighs) Leave me alone.
(A short pause.)
CHIEF MAID: Alright, ma.
(Footsteps fade away.)
I lay on my bed, staring at nothing in particular, yet it feels like everything is staring back at me.
This room is too quiet.
Too perfect.
Too empty.
Sometimes I wonder if this is what it feels like to exist without actually living. Everything around me is expensive, carefully chosen, arranged to impress anyone who walks in. But none of it has ever held me. None of it has ever comforted me.
I press my face deeper into the pillow, holding onto it like it might understand me better than anyone in this house ever has.
Why is it always me?
The thought doesn’t even feel like a question anymore. It feels like something that has followed me all my life, sitting quietly in my chest, waiting for moments like this to remind me that nothing has really changed.
I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling. My eyes burn, but I don’t stop the tears this time. There’s no point pretending when I’m alone.
I’ve always been alone.
Even as a child.
Especially as a child.
Mrs. Charles never needed to say much. The way she looked at me was always enough. Like I didn’t belong. Like I was something she had to tolerate rather than someone she could love.
Not once did she try.
Not once.
I let out a quiet breath, but it trembles halfway through. I hate that it still affects me. I hate that after all these years, I still feel like that little girl standing there, waiting for something that never came.
A loud bang suddenly cuts through the silence.
I don’t move.
Another bang follows, louder this time, and then his voice comes through the door, sharp and angry.
Of course.
He knows.
I close my eyes for a second, already tired of whatever is about to come. I don’t need to hear everything to understand it. I already know the tone, the accusations, the disappointment wrapped in control.
I roll my eyes, slowly, even though he can’t see me.
Nothing new.
Nothing ever is.
His voice gets louder, demanding, furious, like the door is the problem and not everything behind it. But I stay where I am, quiet, unmoving.
Then I sit up.
I wipe my tears, not gently, not carefully, just enough to get rid of the evidence. My chest still feels heavy, but something else is settling in.
Something calmer.
Something clearer.
I listen to him shouting, and for the first time, it doesn’t sink into me the way it used to. It just… stays outside.
Maybe this is what it feels like to stop expecting anything.
Maybe this is what it feels like to finally understand that I’m on my own.
A small, dry laugh almost escapes me.
They don’t even realize it.
They keep giving me reasons.
Reasons to leave.
Reasons to choose something else.
My gaze shifts to the mirror across the room, and I find myself standing without even realizing when I decided to move.
I walk toward it slowly.
The girl staring back at me looks different.
Not stronger.
Just… done.
Maybe this marriage isn’t as crazy as they think.
Maybe it’s exactly what I need.
An escape.
I tilt my head slightly, studying my own reflection like I’m trying to meet someone new.
This is just the beginning.
And this time…
I won’t be the one left behind.
(Curtain)
----------------------'
Abuja, Nigeria — That Same Night
THE LIVING ROOM
(The grand doors open. Servants step aside immediately. MR. and MRS. BADMUS are seated, but the moment RIDWAN enters, MRS. BADMUS rises quickly.)
Mrs. Badmus: (moving toward him) My son…
(She reaches out to embrace him, but RIDWAN steps back, his face calm but distant.)
Mrs. Badmus: I know you are upset… and you have every right to be.
(RIDWAN’s eyes move to his father.)
Ridwan: Dad.
(A pause. Thick with tension.)
Ridwan: Why?
Mr. Badmus: (leaning forward) Son, I understand your anger. But we can sort this out. There are reasons....
Ridwan: (cuts in, firmer) Why?
(MR. BADMUS exhales, choosing his words carefully.)
Mr. Badmus: The Charles company… do you understand what that means? Their reach, their influence and power? … this is not a small alliance. This secures everything. This lifetime luxury.
(RIDWAN watches him, expression unreadable.)
Ridwan: we are already rich mum? We are leading in this country already? .
Mrs. Badmus: well... guess what? Money can never be enough for we humans, even the richest man in the world is still chasing after more money. So that's how life works.
Mr. Badmus: This marriage strengthens our position. It protects our legacy.
Mrs. Badmus: (calmly) And it doesn’t have to be emotional. It’s a contract marriage.
(RIDWAN’s brows tighten slightly.)
Mrs. Badmus: In time, you can still have your own life. The woman you truly want… no one is stopping you.
Ridwan: (cold) That’s your solution?
Mrs. Badmus: It’s reality.
Ridwan: (shakes his head slightly) No… it’s a lie.
Mr. Badmus: (firm) It’s how the world works.
Ridwan: Not mine!.. this is a ridiculous plan over my life! Dad. This is my life we are talking about!.
Mrs. Badmus: Ridwan, please....
Ridwan: I understand perfectly.
(He walks further in and sits, leaning forward slightly.)
Ridwan: You want me to marry a woman I don’t love… live with her… pretend…
(His voice hardens.)
Ridwan: …all for a company.
Mr. Badmus: (quickly) It’s more than a company.
Ridwan: well...I don’t love her.
Mr. Badmus: Love isn’t everything.
(A brief silence. MR. BADMUS glances at her.)
Mrs. Badmus: Really? Love doesn’t count?
Mr. Badmus: (slightly frustrated) In this situation, are we really doing this now?
(She turns back to RIDWAN, softer.)
Mrs. Badmus: Ridwan, listen to me. That girl will adjust. She will change. No woman stays the same forever, especially not with a man like you.
Ridwan: (low, disbelieving) You don’t even hear yourself.
Mr. Badmus: (voice tightening) Ever since you became… this version of yourself, this extreme approach to religion, you’ve changed. You’ve become difficult.
(RIDWAN’s gaze sharpens, but he stays composed.)
Mr. Badmus: You can still have everything you want. Just not at the cost of everything we’ve built.
Ridwan: (firm) I am not getting into a fake marriage.
Mrs. Badmus: It’s not fake. It’s responsibility.
Ridwan: Living with a woman like that? Someone arrogant, rude… spoiled..
Mrs. Badmus: (interrupting gently) She will learn. She will come around.
Ridwan: (shakes head) I don’t want this. And that's final..
Mrs. Badmus: well... do you have someone already?.
Ridwan: (hesitate and keep mute)
(Silence falls.)
(Time passes. The conversation stretches.... pleading, reasoning, pressure building. The calm in the room begins to crack under desperation.)
Mr. Badmus: (voice lower now) The company is at risk, Ridwan.
Mrs. Badmus: We wouldn’t be here like this if it wasn’t serious.
(RIDWAN looks at them both, something conflicted flickering in his eyes.)
(He exhales slowly, looking away.)
RIDWAN’S POV
I don’t love her. She isn't my choice of woman? Her lifestyle, she isn't religious, she run with alot of red flags.
That’s the only thing that makes sense in all of this.
They keep talking about legacy, power, survival… but all I hear is noise around one simple truth.
This isn’t right.
A marriage without meaning.
Without intention.
Without truth.
I run my hand over my face slowly.
They look desperate.
More desperate than I’ve ever seen them.
And that’s what makes this harder than it should be.
Because now it’s not just about me anymore.
It’s about what happens if I walk away.
I close my eyes briefly.
This isn’t working.
It’s really not working.
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