Mr. Darlington's Ex Wife

Chapter 4

AMARA'S POV:

Mom entered my room, looking radiant in her long white nightdress. She smelled fresh like a rose, and she came in with Agnes, who greeted me warmly. “Good morning, Amara. I brought your tea and bread.”

“Thank you,” I told Agnes, accepting the teacup from her. I walked to my chair in my room and sat down, drinking my tea and eating the bread with it.

Mom walked to the window to look outside, then came back to me and said, “Hurry up. The driver is already here, and why haven’t you done your face? You know you’ll see your husband in the city, so you should look nice when you eventually meet him.”

I pouted my pink lips as I finished drinking my tea. I had no intention of pleasing the man I might be married to, so I kept mute.

“Agnes, get me my makeup box from my room,” Mom said.

“No, Mom. There is no need for that. I don’t have to pretend in front of my husband. I am perfectly fine like this, just the way I am. If I pretend with him, what if I can’t continue pretending to live the fake life I presented to him at first sight?”

Mom looked at my face, speechless at first. She finally said, “Okay. Be quick, then.”

“I’m through, Mom. I hope Darlington is good. Otherwise, I will come back here, because I didn’t plan for all this,” I said.

My mother sighed and walked to my side. “You complain a lot. Just hush, and everything will be fine. Let us go downstairs,” she said.

“Hm.” I bit my lower lip and followed my mother downstairs while Agnes took my used tray and teacup to the kitchen.

My mother and I walked downstairs into the living room, where we found my father standing in the center. He was still in his white robe, speaking to a tall man I was unfamiliar with.

I watched the middle-aged man greet my father. “Good morning, sir.”

“Morning, Mr. Timothy. You should drive safely and make sure you return on time,” my father said to the man in black trousers and a white shirt, paired with black shoes.

“Okay, sir. I will,” the driver replied, and my father turned to face me.

“Amara...”

“Father, good morning,” I greeted him. I felt tears well up in my eyes again. Even when I went to the university and studied accounting in the city, I did not cry when leaving my parents.

But now I felt like I was going to my husband’s house. I might not be able to return home again to live with my parents like I used to. The farms we visited, the harvested produce, and my father’s factory all came to mind. I felt like I would never see any of it again.

I did not want to leave home, but I had no other option. There comes a time in a person’s life when they must shoulder the responsibility of building their own family and a place to call home.

“Your mother and I will miss you. But, like I told you last night, we are not selling you off. You can always return home if you still don’t like the city, but I won’t expect you to come back quickly or alone. Maybe with my grandkids—at least two or three of them.”

“Dad...” My face flushed red. I could not believe my father was talking about bringing my future children home and that I would go there to become a mother too.

I was very emotional about all this, but I knew I had to do it to continue my family line and to have someone to look up to in the years ahead. I had to carry on what my parents would eventually leave behind.

“It’s okay. Stop crying. Come, let me escort you outside,” my father said, and I walked beside him. He patted me gently and reassured me that my husband’s family was friendly and would welcome me wholeheartedly.

I finally got into the sleek black car, a black Mercedes-Benz. I waved goodbye to my parents, uncles, and aunties, who had gathered in front of my father’s mansion to say goodbye to me too.

My aunt, Mrs. Juliet, was sobbing after hearing that I had been married off as if I had been sold. My parents looked sad, but I knew this would not be the end of me.

I wasn’t leaving them forever; I was only going to the city to start a family and become a mother, as my father had said.

I took out my white handkerchief and wiped my tear-stained face. I blew my nose, knowing my face had become a mess. I watched the car start, and the driver reminded me to fasten my seatbelt.

I obeyed and buckled it. Soon, the black car finally drove out of my parents’ home. Stealing a final glance backward, I saw my mother crying and my father hugging her closely, assuring her that I would be okay while he waved goodbye to me.

The driver then sped up, and we headed to the city. I knew the drive to town would take hours, as the city was far from the countryside where my parents and I lived and where I had spent 24 years of my life.

I decided to search for my husband's profile online, at least to distract my mind and see the face of the man I was about to marry.

I logged into the social media network we used in my country. We use Facebòok to browse, chat, and upload some of our photos online.

I had uploaded mine, but after getting plenty of likes and reactions and fearing fake accounts that impersonated me, I decided to take a break.

Now I searched for my husband’s name: Darlington Briggs. I saw many people with the same name, and finding the real Darlington Briggs was not hard, since he had my father as a mutual friend.

I knew some people did not use their real names online. That was their choice. I used mine alongside my parents’ names. It made it easy to connect with old family friends, especially those we had lost contact with. But if I was using a fake name. I doubted the search would be easy.

And just like the Darlington Briggs profile I opened, I gasped as I saw the familiar face of the man I was married to.