PROMISED TO HIM
CHAPTER 08
MAYIBUYE SMITH
It had only been two days since the wedding, and already this marriage felt like a cage. A golden, suffocating cage.
Roy hadn’t come home last night. Did I care? No. Or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself. The truth was murkier. A part of me burned with curiosity, another with anger, but the biggest part was relief. His absence meant peace.
A knock interrupted my thoughts. I dragged myself to the door and opened it.
It was Jayden.
“Hey,” I greeted, managing a smile.
He leaned against the doorframe, smirking.
“Mayi, you up to something?”
“No, why?” I asked.
“Since you’re new here, maybe I can show you around. Help you breathe a little.”
I hesitated, but the thought of staying locked up in this mansion was unbearable. So, I smiled. “Okay.”
*
*
*
*
*
*
The mall was alive, buzzing with laughter, chatter, music, and the smell of food. I had never really been to a mall before. Everything was so… big. Bright. Beautiful.
Jayden bought us food, teasing me whenever I got excited over the simplest things. Later, we watched a movie. Popcorn in hand, soda fizzing, we sat in the dark theater laughing nonstop at the ridiculous plot.
It felt good. Too good. For once, I felt like a normal girl, not a prisoner with a diamond necklace around her throat.
On the drive home, Jayden glanced at me, his voice playful but knowing.
“So… how’s married life with my dearest brother?”
I forced a smile. “Great.”
He shook his head, smirking. “Lying doesn’t suit you. I know Roy. He’s a dickhead.”
I laughed, finally letting go. “I second you on that.”
We laughed until tears pricked my eyes. For a moment, it felt like freedom.
When Jayden dropped me off, I thanked him softly.
“Anytime, sis-in-law,” he said with a wink before driving off.
I walked into the mansion, heels clicking against the marble. Everything was too quiet. I climbed the stairs and opened the bedroom door.
Darkness.
I flicked on the light.
Roy sat there—tieless, shirt unbuttoned, whiskey glass in hand, eyes sharp.
“Where were you?” His tone was low, calm, dangerous.
“Out,” I replied.
In a flash, he was on his feet. He came close, his breath heavy with whiskey. His hand wrapped around my throat, his lips brushing my ear.
“Don’t fuck with me, Bayi. Whatever game you’re playing… stop it.”
My chest tightened. My anger rose. I shoved him back.
“I’m not your wife, Roy and it Mayibuye. I hate you, and you hate me. Let’s not confuse this.”
He chuckled darkly.
Then he slammed me against the wall. His hands explored my body with reckless urgency, his touch igniting every nerve in me. I gasped, my knees trembling. Just as I was about to close my eyes and surrender to the fire he lit inside me, he pulled away.
Cold. Distant. He left me burning and confused.
Taking a sip of whiskey, he muttered something under his breath and walked out, leaving me there trembling.
I slid to the floor, clutching my chest.
Why do I care? Why does my body betray me when I hate him with everything in me?
I decided to bathe. The warm water filled the tub, steam rising around me. I sank into it, letting the bubbles cover my skin. It was the first moment of calm I had all day.
But when I came out in my nightdress, towel wrapped around my damp hair, Roy was already in bed. He had tossed his whiskey aside and lay shirtless, one arm behind his head, eyes closed as if he owned not just the bed but the air I breathed.
I ignored him.
I switched on the TV at the far end of the room and curled up on the sofa, scrolling through channels. A romantic comedy was on, and soon I was laughing, giggling like a schoolgirl.
Roy’s eyes snapped open. His jaw clenched.
“Can you not?” he growled.
I ignored him, popping a grape from the fruit bowl into my mouth. Another funny scene played, and I burst out laughing again.
Roy sat up, irritation flashing across his face. “Bayi, I’m trying to sleep.”
I glanced over my shoulder with a smirk. “Then sleep. No one’s stopping you.”
He stared at me, his chest rising and falling slowly, dangerously.
“You enjoy testing me, don’t you?” he muttered, voice low, sharp as a knife.
I just smiled and turned back to the screen, letting my laughter echo through the room.
And in that moment, I knew something: Roy Smith wasn’t used to being ignored. He wasn’t used to being challenged. And me? I was becoming very good at both.