A screeching sound from car tires. Car doors fling open even before the engine’s dying groan fades. A tall, slender elderly man with an almost statuesque presence frantically disembarks, his urgency betrayed only by age. Dressed in a rich suede brown fedora with a matching ribbon, a crisp cream linen shirt tailored to perfection, well-polished brown loafers, and well-fitted jeans, he strides toward the entrance, leaving his entourage behind.
He flings the door open without invitation and steps into the living room. “Where is he?!” the man bellows at the top of his voice. Guests, who just a moment ago were engrossed in lively chatter, abruptly fall silent. Whoever this man is, I don’t envy the poor soul he’s searching for.
He quietly surveys the well-lit room like a sniper on a hunt, with the impatience of a predator on his last desperate hunt. Oblivious to the startled guests staring at him, he spots his prey—William—out of the corner of his eye at the far end of the room. He moves toward him.
“What is wrong with you?” he roars at William, clearly enraged. A long pause follows, stretching into what feels like an eternity.
Some guests recognize the man and quietly make their way to the terrace where the children are playing. “Who is this man?” I whisper, turning to James, who appears equally baffled.
“How could you do that and…” the man stops mid-sentence, catching his breath. I step back and sink into the soft leather couch, wondering, *What in the world could William have done?*
“Wait a minute, Dad!” Tony suddenly jumps between William and the elderly man. “Hold on, Dad. Calm down.”
“Dad, whatever he has done, we can deal with it,” Tony, Briana’s brother, adds, wrapping a firm arm around him. “Please, calm down.”
“I didn’t do anything, Dad,” William mutters weakly.
“Shut up, William!” Tony snaps, clearly agitated. His voice is drowned out by the music now blasting from the terrace.
I remember Mr. Gunnar—Tony’s father—a wealthy and successful technocrat working for the government. He ensured his five beautiful daughters received the best education. He repeatedly reminded them of his grand plan, as Briana would comically recount to all her suitors: “You get a degree, you get a good job, you get permission to leave my house.”
You see, Briana was the campus queen, the girl every boy would do anything to date. She had an almost mythical presence, and we spent our pocket money buying her lunch at the staff cafeteria just to win points around campus.
Then William happened.
Cupid struck early for Briana. William melted her heart with a romance she had never imagined. Who could blame her? Romantic dates in posh hotels, expensive gifts, exotic travels—smitten Briana forgot her father’s dreams.
“She spent the night at her dad’s,” Hildah whispers in my ear. Seated beside me on the couch, she is keenly following the unfolding drama. Unable to hold in such juicy gossip any longer, she continues, “Briana arrived alone at 2 a.m. at her dad’s house, terrified and sobbing, her makeup all smeared.”
“Who?” I ask, feigning indifference.
“William arrived home at 1 a.m., drunk. He told Briana that “the man of the house does not answer a woman on where he has been,” she adds, her voice dripping with disdain. “Phew!” Briana was told to do what she always did when the kitchen got hot—leave. And this time, she didn’t hesitate. Heartbreak clung to her like a heavy cloak, suffocating and absolute.
“Marriage is a scam,” Hildah declares, her expression matter-of-fact.
“It’s not,” I counter firmly. Hildah is my last bet for a family—more like the surest bet. She has given me a run for my money pursuing her. She is the full package: smart, pretty, and sociable—a senior executive at a marketing firm. I can already picture my mother’s impressed face when they meet.
“It’s a scam. How can perfect love be so imperfect?” she asks. “All a woman needs is to be loved, cared for, spoiled, held, listened to, and trusted,” she adds, though I’m not sure whether she’s speaking generally or subtly vetting my performance. She pulls my hand and leads me away from the room. This is why I like her—she takes charge, and in most cases, there’s always something good at the end.
“I’m leaving him! I swear I’m leaving him!” Briana shouts as we enter her bedroom.
*Aaagh, Hildah.* I can’t believe I was marched away from the men to Briana’s bedroom. She is almost unrecognizable—puffy eyes from crying, stress evident in every inch of her face. She looks like she has gained weight overnight. The room is dead silent, save for the muffled music from the terrace.
Just before Briana begins her next sentence, the door flings open as Mr. Gunnar walks in. He exhales sharply, his fury momentarily replaced by something else. Disappointment?
Mr. Gunnar adjusts his fedora, straightens his back, and turns to Briana. His voice, now dangerously low, cuts through the room. “Pack your things. You’re coming home.”
Briana looks at him, then at all of us, her face unreadable.
And then she does something none of us expect—she laughs. A hollow, bitter laugh that carries no joy, only exhaustion. “You don’t have to tell me twice, Dad.”
Hildah nudges me, smirking. “I told you. Marriage is a scam.”
As I watch Briana disappear down the hallway, Mr. Gunnar and his entourage silently following her, her once-glamorous world now in ruins, and for the first time, I wonder if Hildah is right. Maybe love isn’t the fairytale we all imagined. Maybe, just maybe, we’re all just fooling ourselves.
And then, I realize something.
This wasn’t just about Briana or William.
It was about the stories we tell ourselves about love—and the moment we stop believing in them.