The Milan air slapped them in the face like a warning.
Cold. Sharp. Foreign.
Adesuwa stepped off the plane into a different world. The airport buzzed with expensive coats, foreign languages, and people who walked like they had somewhere important to be.
Beside her, her mother's silence was heavy. She scanned the terminal like she was bracing for war.
Then they saw it.
A man in black holding a tablet. On the screen—Adesuwa Akande. Mrs. Olufunke Akande.
The driver didn't speak. Just nodded and opened the door of a sleek black SUV with tinted windows.
The inside smelled of leather and cold calculation.
Moments after the door shut, a screen in the car flickered to life.
Her father's face appeared.
Older. Greyer. Still sharp-edged.
No greeting. No warmth.
Just:
"Welcome to Milan. There are rules. Follow them."
Then static. Silence. Screen off.
Adesuwa felt like she'd been slapped. Her hand trembled.
Her mother didn't blink.
"He's always been dramatic," she muttered, voice ice.
The driver broke the silence: "You'll be taken to the guest wing. Mrs. Clara and Drey will meet you there."
Adesuwa's mother's lips tightened. Her jaw clenched.
Mrs. Clara.
The woman who had taken everything.
Adesuwa leaned back against the seat, trying to calm the storm inside her. But Milan didn't offer calm. It offered shadows.
Through the window, the city blurred by: elegant and cold, like a woman in heels who wouldn't look back if you fell.
They passed narrow alleys, old buildings with secrets carved into their walls, designer stores with glassy fronts like masks.
Then the car turned off the main road and into a long driveway.
A mansion stood ahead, lit like a stage.
Gates opened.
Adesuwa had imagined this house a thousand times as a child. She used to dream of it when she couldn't sleep—what it would be like to walk into a real home. To belong somewhere.
Now, it looked like a grave dressed in gold.
As they stepped out, the door opened.
Two people stood at the top of the stairs.
One, a woman in a long, silk robe. Light-skinned. Pretty. Dangerous.
The other—a young man. Caramel-toned, tall, with unreadable eyes. Drey.
Adesuwa's heart stuttered. That was her brother. Her *blood*.
But he looked at her like she was a stranger.
Clara smiled. Not kindly.
"Welcome home," she said. "We've been waiting."
Behind them, the lights inside flickered. Just once.Adesuwa's mother's lips tightened. Her jaw clenched.
Mrs. Clara.
The woman who had taken everything.
Adesuwa leaned back against the seat, trying to calm the storm inside her. But Milan didn't offer calm. It offered shadows.
Through the window, the city blurred by: elegant and cold, like a woman in heels who wouldn't look back if you fell.
They passed narrow alleys, old buildings with secrets carved into their walls, designer stores with glassy fronts like masks.
Then the car turned off the main road and into a long driveway.
A mansion stood ahead, lit like a stage.
Gates opened.
Adesuwa had imagined this house a thousand times as a child. She used to dream of it when she couldn't sleep—what it would be like to walk into a real home. To belong somewhere.
Now, it looked like a grave dressed in gold.
As they stepped out, the door opened.
Two people stood at the top of the stairs.
One, a woman in a long, silk robe. Light-skinned. Pretty. Dangerous.
The other—a young man. Caramel-toned, tall, with unreadable eyes. Drey.
Adesuwa's heart stuttered. That was her brother. Her *blood*.
But he looked at her like she was a stranger.
Clara smiled. Not kindly.
"Welcome home," she said. "We've been waiting."
Behind them, the lights inside flickered. Just once.
Enough to make Adesuwa wonder if the house itself knew they had returned.
And that it wasn't ready to forgive.
---
The grand hallway swallowed them whole.
Marble floors. Tall mirrors. A chandelier above, shimmering like a frozen storm.
It was beautiful. Coldly beautiful.
And silent—too silent for a house this large. Like it had stopped breathing just for their arrival.
Adesuwa's footsteps echoed as they followed the driver inside. Her mother's heels clicked beside her, confident, precise. Every sound they made felt like a challenge.
Clara descended the staircase slowly, like she was making an entrance for a camera.
She wore a smirk that didn't reach her eyes. "How long has it been, Funke?"
Adesuwa's mother didn't flinch. "Long enough to bury the past. Shame it didn't stay dead."
Clara's eyes sparkled—amused, not shaken. "Oh, it's very much alive."
Drey stood behind her, arms folded, unreadable. He hadn't said a word yet, but his eyes kept flicking to Adesuwa. Not cold, not warm—just… curious. Calculating.
"You'll be staying in the guest wing," Clara continued, voice smooth. "We've prepared your rooms."
Adesuwa spoke for the first time. "What exactly are we here for?"
The air in Milan wasn't just cold.
It was watching.
As Adesuwa and her mother stepped off the plane, it felt less like a new beginning and more like stepping into a carefully laid trap.
Everything looked beautiful—but it was the kind of beauty that had claws.
Her mother walked stiffly beside her, shoulders tense, lips tight. Adesuwa hadn't seen her blink since they landed.
The man with the tablet appeared like a shadow from the marble. Black coat. Blank face. No words. Just a nod.
They followed him through a quiet VIP exit.
A black car—sleek, long, and humming softly like it had a heartbeat—waited outside.
They entered.
The doors locked with a low click that sounded like a verdict.
A screen lit up between the front seats.
Then his face appeared.
Her father.
Time hadn't softened him. His face was lined, but not from age—from sharp living. He had the eyes of a man who buried his secrets beside the people who held them.
"Welcome to Milan," he said flatly. "There are rules in this house. Obey them, or leave."
No "hello."
No "I missed you."
Not even her name.The air in Milan wasn't just cold.
It was watching.
As Adesuwa and her mother stepped off the plane, it felt less like a new beginning and more like stepping into a carefully laid trap.
Everything looked beautiful—but it was the kind of beauty that had claws.
Her mother walked stiffly beside her, shoulders tense, lips tight. Adesuwa hadn't seen her blink since they landed.
The man with the tablet appeared like a shadow from the marble. Black coat. Blank face. No words. Just a nod.
They followed him through a quiet VIP exit.
A black car—sleek, long, and humming softly like it had a heartbeat—waited outside.
They entered.
The doors locked with a low click that sounded like a verdict.
A screen lit up between the front seats.
Then his face appeared.
Her father.
Time hadn't softened him. His face was lined, but not from age—from sharp living. He had the eyes of a man who buried his secrets beside the people who held them.
"Welcome to Milan," he said flatly. "There are rules in this house. Obey them, or leave."
No "hello."
No "I missed you."
Not even her name.
Clara tilted her head. "Ask your father. He didn't exactly consult me when he invited ghosts into our home."
The tension thickened.
Then Drey finally spoke. "You should rest. Tomorrow's not going to be gentle."
He turned and walked away without another word.
Adesuwa looked at her mother. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes—her eyes were fire.
They were escorted through a long corridor that smelled of polished wood and old perfume. Family portraits lined the walls, but Adesuwa noticed something odd: *her mother wasn't in any of them.*
Not a single trace. As though she'd never existed.
"I was erased," her mother whispered. "Completely."
Their rooms were luxurious but separate. Two bedrooms, across a shared parlor, with velvet drapes and thick carpets.
But the windows were locked from the inside.
Adesuwa sat on the bed, hands clasped in her lap. "What if this is all a trap?"
Her mother ran a hand over the windowsill. "Then we find a way out. But first, we uncover the reason he called you here."
That night, sleep didn't come easy.
Voices echoed in the hallway—soft, heated. Clara. The father. Drey.
Someone cried. Then silence.
At midnight, Adesuwa woke to a knock on her door.
She opened it slowly.
Drey stood there. Alone. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes tired.
"You're not safe here," he said. "Neither of you."
She stared. "Then why did you bring me?"
He hesitated. "Because you deserve to know the truth. And they won't tell you."
Adesuwa's voice was barely a whisper. "Then tell me."
But he only shook his head.
"Not tonight," he said. "Someone's always listening."
Then he walked away, disappearing into the shadows like he was born in them.
Adesuwa shut the door and locked it. Twice.
She lay awake until dawn, heart racing.
Because the house was quiet again.
Too quiet.
Just silence as the screen went black again.
Adesuwa swallowed. Her mother said nothing.
Only the driver's voice broke through.
"You will stay in the guest wing. Mrs. Clara has prepared your rooms. Drey will be waiting."
Mrs. Clara.
Her mother's hands curled into fists on her lap.
The tension in the car turned to smoke. No one breathed.
Outside, Milan passed them like a ghost. Fog rolled low on the roads. Lights glowed like warning signs. The buildings leaned in close, like they were whispering about them.
Adesuwa stared out the window. She wanted to feel wonder.
All she felt was dread.
Then came the gates—tall, black, spiked like they were meant to keep people *in*.
The mansion beyond was silent and glowing. Every light was on, but the windows were too dark to see through.
The car slowed.
Adesuwa's heart did the opposite.
The door opened and a sudden hush fell over everything.
Clara stood at the top of the stairs.
Tall. Pale. Too polished to be human.
Next to her—Drey.
His caramel skin, neat hair, and unreadable expression made Adesuwa feel like she'd been summoned to a masquerade and forgot her mask.
Clara smiled like someone who had just heard good gossip.
"Finally," she purred. "Welcome back to the house of silence."
Adesuwa's mother didn't flinch.
But Adesuwa did.
Because behind Clara, in the doorway, was something she couldn't unsee.
A shadow.
Flickering.
Watching.
The house was alive.
And it remembered.
---