Ariella stood still for a moment after the knock faded, ensuring the coast was clear before slowly opening the door.
The corridor was empty.
On the floor lay a small envelope with her name scrawled on it.
Her stomach twisted.
Jordan.
She snatched up the envelope, quickly shut the door, and locked it twice. Inside was a folded note and ₦5,000 cash.
Her lips pressed together.
Money.
He always did this. Each time he messed up, lied, cheated, or vanished, he returned with a small offering—not out of care, but because it was easy, and she used to accept anything he gave.
Not anymore.
She tossed the envelope onto the table, ignoring the cash.
Her phone vibrated.
A message from Jordan:
"We need to talk. I'm around. Come downstairs."
She didn't respond.
Another message followed:
"I want to know about your school. Are you still making plans to go back? What have you been doing with your life? Let's talk
Her throat tightened.
He knew exactly what had happened—how his influence had ruined her first year, how she had stopped attending classes due to his late-night drama, fights, clubbing, and lies.
He knew.
He just didn't care.
Another message arrived:
"Don't pretend you don't miss me. Come outside."
She hissed under her breath and tossed her phone aside.
He didn't know one thing, though—one thing she had known for months:
He had a serious girlfriend, one he had been with while claiming she was the only one.
She had found out by accident, through a mutual friend's status—pictures of Jordan and the girl, matching outfits, kisses, trips, captions like "My heartbeat" and "My favorite person."
Ariella had stared at her phone screen for almost an hour, feeling something inside her break so quietly that she didn't even cry.
She simply shut down.
Wiping her cheeks, she took a deep breath.
She wasn't that girl anymore—the one who accepted half-love, pain, or waited for him to treat her right.
She had plans now.
Real plans.
Opening her laptop, she clicked on the online course she had started two weeks ago, teaching her a digital skill she could use to earn money.
A skill that didn't require tuition, one she could begin with just time and effort.
She wasn't rich—far from it—but she was determined.
Her phone buzzed again. More messages.
She ignored them until one caught her attention.
"I left because I made real money. You should be happy for me. Why are you acting like you're too good now?"
Her breath caught.
Then another:
"I want you back. Don't be stubborn. You're not even with anyone else."
Her jaw clenched.
Typing slowly, she responded with a calm she didn't feel:
"Jordan, I forgave you. But I will never go back to you."
She pressed send.
One second. Two. Three.
Her phone rang immediately.
His name flashed on the screen.
She declined. He called again. She declined again. The third ring made her angry.
She picked up, not to engage, but to end it.
"What do you want from me?" she asked quietly.
His smooth, familiar voice irritated her.
"You," he said. "Just you. Don't act like you don't know I always come back."
"And you always leave," she replied coldly.
He laughed, as if it were a joke.
"Ari, stop pretending. That small online work won't feed you. Be smart. I'm still the one who used to take care of you."
The insult stung.
"Exactly," she shot back. "And that's why I'm done."
A pause. His voice hardened.
"You think you can survive without me?"
The old Ariella would have believed she couldn't. But the Ariella standing in her tiny room, weary of dependence, heartache, and lies…
She smiled faintly.
"I'm already surviving. I'm going back to school, with or without anyone's help."
He fell silent.
Then he said the line that confirmed everything:
"You'll come back. You always do."
She ended the call.
No tears. No shaking. Just peace.
For the first time since his return, she felt she had taken her life back.
Looking at the envelope on her table—the cash he used to trap her—she opened her window and let the wind carry it away.
She didn't need his money. She didn't need his approval.