Chapter 1
SAVANNAH
The first time I realized I was unwanted, I was five.
I stood in the hallway, barefoot on the cold tiles, clutching the hem of my dress as I watched my father hold another woman’s hand. My mother had been gone for barely three months. They smiled at each other as if she had never existed, as if she had been nothing more than a shadow passing through our lives.
I remember thinking, maybe if I were quieter, smaller, and more obedient—maybe, just maybe then my father would look at me the way he looked at her. But he never did.
By the time I was ten, I learned that silence was survival. My stepmother didn’t like me, and my father didn’t care. I was the stain in their perfect picture, the ghost of a woman they wanted to forget. I ate in the kitchen, away from them. My birthdays came and went unnoticed. My clothes were my mother’s old ones, altered and fraying at the seams.
By fifteen, I stopped hoping.
Hope was cruel. It made you believe in love, in kindness, in the possibility that someone, anyone, would choose you. But no one ever did.
So I became invisible.
I lived in the walls of a house that was never mine, among people who wished I wasn’t there. I cleaned up after them. I listened to my stepmother call me a burden, a charity case, a mistake. And I pretended it didn’t hurt. Because when no one fights for you, you learn to stop fighting for yourself.
She had always been moody, always looking at me like I was something vile stuck to the bottom of her shoe. But there was a time when her anger seemed endless, when every misplaced cup, every wrinkle in her dress, every moment of my existence set her off. I didn’t know why until I grew up.
They say pregnant women develop mood swings. I was at her disposal, a target for her continuous eruption of emotions.
And then, one day, I was told they were leaving.
“We’re going on a trip,” my father said over dinner, barely looking at me. “You’ll be home by yourself for a few days.”
Alone.
The word was like a breath of fresh air.
For the first time, I would have silence. No stepmother barking orders. No father avoiding my presence. No punishments, no insults, no cold stares that made me feel like I was something less than human. I could exist, even for a little while, without feeling like a mistake.
I counted the days until they left. And when they finally did, I let out a shaky breath, standing in the middle of the empty house, feeling something unfamiliar—peace.
But it didn’t last.
Before the week was even over, they returned. But they weren’t alone.
Wrapped in a soft pink blanket, with barely-there wisps of dark hair and a face that already carried the same sour expression as her mother, was my stepmother’s daughter.
My step-sister.
She was small and fragile, and yet, somehow, trouble was written all over her.
Yeah, trouble. And when I say trouble, I literally mean the next kind of trouble.
Because from the moment she was born, she became their world. And I became nothing.
I wasn’t a typical older sister, more like a maid.
I washed her clothes, changed her diapers, rocked her to sleep when my stepmother was too tired, and fed her when she refused to eat. If she cried, I was blamed. If she fell, I was at fault. If she so much as whimpered, I was expected to fix it.
And my father?
He never cared.
If anything, it was easier for him this way. With my stepmother doting on their daughter, he could pretend I didn’t exist at all.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
I did as I was told. I endured every slap, every scolding, every long night spent doing chores until my hands were raw. But then something changed.
They sent me to boarding school.
Not the prestigious one my step-sister went to, of course. No, she was enrolled in a school meant for daughters of the elite, with grand gates and fancy uniforms. I was sent to a lesser one, with peeling walls and second-hand textbooks.
And yet, I was happy.
Because for the first time in my life, I was like other children. I went to class. I made friends. I laughed. And even though my clothes were old and my shoes were too tight, I felt something I had never felt before.
Freedom.
But freedom came with a price.
Because while most students counted down the days until school closed, I dreaded it.
Every term break meant going back to a house that didn’t want me. It meant slipping back into a life where I was nothing more than an unwanted burden.
I survived twenty difficult years under them.
Twenty years of being the mistake. The outcast. The forgotten one.
And when I thought there was nothing worse they could do to me, they proved me wrong.
It happened on the evening of my twenty-second birthday.
No grand celebration. No presents. Just a simple dinner, the same as any other night.
I should have known something was wrong.
My stepmother’s smile was too forced. My father actually acknowledged my presence.
I still remember that night perfectly. The night I realized that the freedom I had yearned for was nothing more than an impossible dream. A cruel illusion never meant for someone like me.
It had been a year since I completed high school. I had actually managed a B-, something I was secretly proud of, though I never dared to show it. Not that it mattered in the end. My stepmother had a way of bending my father’s decisions to her will, and after her persistent suggestions and endless complaints, my fate had been sealed.
I was done with school.
No university life. No further education. No chance to escape through books and lectures like I had always dreamed.
I hated it, but I never argued.
I wouldn’t dare go against my father. If you had asked me why, I wouldn’t have been able to give you an answer. There was no logical reason for the paralyzing fear that gripped me in his presence, no specific moment that made me this obedient, this frightened. But looking back, I realize now—I did everything my father said for one reason.
Survival.
So I stayed.
I became nothing more than an extra pair of hands at home, working in their small restaurant—the one that had once belonged to my mother but was now fully under my stepmother’s control. A simple homemade cooking restaurant, nothing fancy, nothing grand, but it kept customers coming.
And then, that night arrived.
The night that changed everything.
I knew my father was after something big. A deal that would be a game-changer for him. He had been talking about it for weeks, how this opportunity would take our struggling little restaurant and transform it into a five-star establishment. He had meetings, late-night calls, and a desperation in his voice that was new, unfamiliar.
I didn’t know the details, not exactly. But I knew one thing—this was my stepmother’s doing.
It was always her.
She had a way of pushing my father toward greed, toward things that were never his to take, toward choices that benefited her and destroyed everything in their path.
And that night, the thing they sacrificed was me.
I was told to wear something nice, something presentable—not that I had much to choose from. So, I settled for a pair of simple brown pants and a loose white pristine shirt that looked somewhat formal. My hair, as always, was tied back in a simple ponytail.
When I joined them, forcing a small, hesitant smile, my gaze immediately landed on the three men seated at the table.
At the far end sat a tall, dark-skinned man with neatly cropped hair. His expression was calm, almost soft, and he carried an air of quiet authority.
In the middle was an older man, probably in his late forties, dressed in a classic blue suit. The streaks of grey in his hair did little to soften his no-nonsense demeanor. His presence was sharp, and commanding. There was something familiar about him, though I couldn’t place it immediately.
Beside him sat another older man in a brown suit, his posture just as rigid, his presence just as intimidating.
“Come, sit down,” my father called.
Obediently, I took a seat, though inside, a storm was raging. A war I didn’t understand. It felt like a gun was pressed against my temple, the cold menace of its muzzle digging into my skin, ready to explode.
I was at gunpoint, but I didn’t know why.
“Savannah, this is Mr. Lucas O. Odhiambo, the owner of Odhiambo’s Foundations,” my father said, and suddenly, everything clicked.
Recognition dawned like a slap across my face. I had heard the name before. He was a tycoon, one of the wealthiest men in Kenya, owning an empire of rental properties and businesses. But that wasn’t what made him a trending topic. No—his fame was overshadowed by his son.
I had never paid much attention to his name, but I had heard about him. An athlete, an inline hockey player, if I remember correctly. His face had appeared in a few commercials, but that wasn’t why people talked about him.
No.
It was the scandals.
The endless headlines.
A week wouldn’t pass without an article about him. His name, his affairs, his reckless lifestyle—he was trouble, the kind of trouble I should stay far, far away from.
“So, you’re the daughter he won’t stop talking about?” Mr. Odhiambo finally spoke, his voice smooth yet heavy, his smile carrying a weight I couldn’t quite decipher.
Something about it was dangerous.
I stiffened, caught off guard.
My father… talked about me?
I almost turned to him in disbelief, but he was already signaling something with his eyes. A silent instruction. A warning. I wasn’t sure.
I swallowed the lump forming in my throat and forced out a response, my voice betraying my nerves.
“It’s… nice to mee—meet you,” I stammered, my pulse hammering, my fingers clutching the fabric of my pants beneath the table.
I was trying not to embarrass myself.
Trying not to embarrass him.
But something told me I was already failing.
“No need to be so formal. After all, we’re going to be family.”
Family?
The word clashed against my thoughts like shattered glass, jagged and cutting deep.
What was he talking about?
My father’s rough chuckle filled the air, but it carried no warmth—just something forced, something empty. His fingers twitched slightly, still signaling, still urging me to do something I didn’t understand.
“Pou… pour them a drink,” he whispered, this time loud enough for me to hear.
A mistake. I had hesitated too long.
Snapping out of my daze, I scrambled to my feet, reaching for the flask to serve them, my hands trembling slightly as I poured. But my mind was still tangled in confusion, lost in the weight of the moment.
“So, what do you think about this coming Sunday?” Mr. Odhiambo asked, his gaze cutting straight through me.
Sunday?
I blinked, my fingers tightening around the handle of the flask. “This Sunday?” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.
“The wedding.”
The word slammed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. My grip faltered, and before I could steady myself, the steaming coffee spilled onto the man sitting beside him.
A strangled gasp tore from my throat. “I’m… so… sorry!!” I cried out, reaching for a napkin, hands shaking as I tried to clean the mess.
“It’s fine,” a soft, charming voice reassured me. But the warmth in his tone did little to calm the storm rising inside me.
“Mr. Kabarange?” Mr. Odhiambo’s voice turned sharp, edged with irritation. “What’s going on?”
I turned to my father, my pulse roaring in my ears.
He smiled. A forced, practiced expression. But beneath it, I saw the flicker of anger, the tension in his jaw.
“It’s nothing, Mr. Odhiambo,” my father said smoothly. “It’s just… when you first proposed the marriage, we thought there would be more time to discuss things properly. We hadn’t expected it to be this soon. Please excuse my daughter’s… strange behavior.”
His voice was controlled, but I could feel the warning in it. A silent command. A silent threat.
“Still, Mr. Odhiambo,” he hesitated, forcing out the words, “this Sunday is just—”
“It’s either this Sunday, or we call the deal off.”
The finality in his voice sent a suffocating chill through the air.
Silence.
A silence so thick it felt like the walls of the restaurant were closing in, crushing me.
“Relax, Mr. Odhiambo.” My stepmother finally stepped in, a practiced smile curving her lips, masking the desperation behind her words. “If you say it’s this Sunday, then it is. Please forgive my husband and daughter’s response, we—”
“Be there at the venue on Sunday.”
He didn’t let her finish. His voice darkened, his face tightening with barely restrained anger.
“And don’t even think about doing anything to displease me.”
Then, without another word, they rose from their seats, turned their backs on us, and walked out—leaving only the weight of their command hanging in the empty restaurant.
I stood there, frozen, still clutching the flask in my hands, the faint burn of spilled coffee on my skin the only thing grounding me to reality.
Then suddenly—pain.
A sharp, merciless yank to my hair. My stepmother’s nails dug into my scalp as she shoved me down, her voice slicing through the silence like a blade.
“You stupid girl! Does anything go into that thick, useless head of yours?” she screeched, her fury twisting her features. “Do you even realize what you almost did?”
I didn’t.
I had no idea.
I wanted to scream, to demand answers, to ask why my life was being ripped from me without my knowledge. But my throat had gone dry, my body rigid. The hot sting on my hand barely registered.
“Enough, Hannah. It’s our fault we didn’t tell her.” My father’s voice was softer now, but empty.
“Our fault?” My stepmother’s laughter was sharp, mocking, filled with venom. “You think this is our fault? No. This is her stupidity. As always.”
“I said that’s enough!” my father’s voice thundered, silencing her.
She clicked her tongue in irritation, scoffing as she pushed away from me.
“Tch! Fine. Have it your way,” she spat before turning her glare back on me. “But don’t forget—our future depends on that marriage. And you will not ruin this for us.”
Then she was gone.
I remained on the cold floor, my fingers numb, my mind empty.
Father never looked at me.
And I never said a word.
Maybe I should have.
Maybe I should have fought, protested, begged for an answer. But I was too afraid. Too lost.
And in the end, I was to be married.
To a man I barely knew.
To someone who would have ignored me for the rest of my life.
What I just hoped for, was a life away from this cold homeless so-called home hoping that even for a bit I would find what I seek.riting here…
