PROMISED TO HIM
CHAPTER 27
MAYIBUYE SMITH
It’s been a week now. A long, suffocating week of living under the kind of protection that feels more like imprisonment than safety.
Roy calls it “security.” I call it surveillance.
From the moment I wake up, I feel eyes on me — not malicious, but watchful, professional, and unrelenting. His guards are everywhere. At the gate. In the hallways. Following my car. They never speak unless necessary, and when they do, their voices are calm and clipped, like machines built for discipline.
If I want to go to the mall, there’s one black car in front of me, one behind. When I enter a store, one waits at the door, another shadows my every move, and a third pretends to browse the men’s section while discreetly keeping an eye on me.
When I reach for my own shopping bags, one of them steps forward instantly.
“We’ve got it, ma’am.”
They even open doors for me before I can touch the handle. They smile politely, but never enough to make it human.
At first, I thought it was just Roy being Roy — paranoid and protective.
Every movement I make, every step I take, every call I answer — someone is watching.
Sometimes I see women staring when I pass by, whispering. Some look at me with envy, others with pity.
“That’s Mrs. Smith,” they murmur. “The wife of the Roy Smith.”
If only they knew.
If only they understood how heavy it is to live as the wife of a man who owns too much power, too much danger, too much darkness.
I sigh, setting down my bags as I enter the mansion. The house is quiet. Too quiet.
He’s not home yet.
Again.
Roy’s been coming home late every night — long meetings, business calls, and “unfinished business.” Whatever that means. I’ve stopped asking because every time I do, he looks at me like I’m walking too close to a fire.
I change into a silk robe and sit in balcony. The view is beautiful — city lights blinking across the distance, stars trying to peek through the haze. Yet somehow, even beauty feels empty when you have no one to share it with.
At around nine, I hear footsteps. The sound of the front door opening, then closing softly.
He’s home.
I glance at the clock, and my pulse quickens before I can stop it. Why do I still react like this? Like a girl waiting for the boy she likes, instead of a wife waiting for her husband?
I smooth my robe and head to our room
When I open the sliding door, the lights are dimmed, and the smell of his cologne hits me first — strong, sharp, expensive, and devastatingly familiar.
Roy is lying on the bed, shirtless, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting lazily on his chest. He looks… tired, but still impossibly composed. His dark hair is slightly messy, and his jaw is shadowed with stubble.
For a moment, I just… stand there. Watching him.
He looks like a painting — all sharp edges and quiet power. My heart betrays me with a slow, heavy beat.
Then, without even opening both eyes, his voice cuts through the silence — smooth, teasing, and low.
“Take a picture, it lasts longer, madam.”
I freeze. Heat rushes to my cheeks.
“You’re awake?”
He cracks one eye open, smirking. “Was trying to be, until I felt your eyes undressing me.”
My mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
He chuckles quietly, his gaze lazy but intense.
“You heard me. Don’t look so shocked. I can feel it when someone stares. Especially you.”
I cross my arms, pretending to be annoyed — though my heart is thundering. “You’re full of yourself, you know that?”
“Confidence, not arrogance,” he says, turning on his side, eyes glinting with amusement. “There’s a difference.”
I roll my eyes and turn toward the vanity, trying to ignore him. “Whatever helps you sleep, Mr. Smith.”
His voice softens. “You mean helps us sleep, Mrs. Smith.”
The way he says it — so casual yet intimate — sends a shiver down my spine.
I grab my night cream and start applying it, refusing to meet his gaze. “I see your ego’s still alive and well.”
He hums a low sound of amusement. “It’s what keeps me sane in this house.”
I glance at him through the mirror. “This house you hardly stay in?”
He lifts a brow, clearly catching the edge in my tone. “You sound like you miss me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say quickly.
He sits up now, leaning on one elbow, and that teasing smirk fades into something heavier — quieter. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous of my time.”
I meet his gaze in the mirror, my voice dropping. “Maybe I’m tired of feeling like I’m married to a ghost.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence stretches between us, tense, alive, dangerous.
Then, suddenly, as I turn to leave for the closet, my foot catches on the corner of the rug.
“Ah!” I gasp as I stumble forward.
Before I can hit the ground, strong arms wrap around me. Firm, steady, warm.
Roy.
It happens so fast that I barely process it — one second, I’m falling; the next, I’m pressed against his bare chest, his scent flooding my senses, his grip protective and unyielding.
“Got you,” he murmurs, his breath brushing my ear.
My fingers clutch his arm instinctively. My heart races. His hand rests at the small of my back, holding me upright, too close, too much.
We just stand there. Breathing.
Looking into his eyes — deep, dark, unreadable — I forget every argument, every rule, every wall between us. I see something there. Something soft. Something that scares him.
His eyes flicker down to my lips, and my breath hitches.
The air is thick enough to drown in.
Neither of us moves, but everything in me wants to.
Then, slowly, he clears his throat and releases me. “Be careful next time.”
“Right,” I whisper, stepping back, pretending to fix my robe. “Thanks for… catching me.”
His lips twitch faintly. “I always will.”
That makes me pause. He says it so quietly I almost think I imagined it. But I don’t ask him to repeat it.
I walk into the bathroom, my legs trembling, my face burning.
When I close the door and face the mirror, my reflection looks different — flushed, breathless, alive.
I let out a shaky laugh. “Get a grip, Mayi,” I whisper.
But the smile won’t leave my face.
Because no matter how much I try to deny it… I’m falling for him.
The same man who built walls around his heart — and mine.
The same man who swore he’d never love.
I splash cold water on my face, but it doesn’t cool the heat under my skin.
When I return to the bedroom, he’s under the covers, facing away. I slip into bed beside him, keeping my distance.
But just as I’m about to turn off the lamp, his hand moves under the blanket — slow, hesitant — until it finds mine.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.
He just intertwines our fingers.
And suddenly, all the noise in my head disappears.
That one touch — soft, secret, deliberate — says everything his mouth won’t.
It says I see you.
It says You’re safe with me.
It says I’m trying, even if I don’t know how.
I close my eyes, holding onto that hand.
And for the first time in a long time, I fall asleep not as Roy Smith’s possession — but as his wife.