Claimed By His Touch

Tiaraoluwa's POV

I'm getting married in a few months after college. And I just found out five minutes ago. My mouth is agape as I stare at my parents.

Forty-eight hours ago, I had just closed an extremely important chapter in my life. I had just written my last college paper, completing four years of training and transformation into the adult I am supposed to be. And now they're laying this mind-blowing news on me?

"Wait, hold up. Just pause for a second," I say, inhaling deeply before exhaling again. "Daddy, I'm not quite sure I understand what you're trying to say. Who is getting married?"

The lines on my father's face are much more pronounced as he stares at me. Or, more accurately, he stares at the wall above my head. He hasn't looked me in the eye once since he and Mom called me into his office and sat me down for a conversation.

This isn't a serious conversation, this is fucking crazy. This is life-changing. "Sweetheart," my dad starts, "you have no idea how sorry I am. This match has been years in the making, from the moment you were in high school."

My jaw tightens. "Then why haven't you told me? Why didn't you prepare me for it from the moment it was formed? Or better yet, why didn't you stow me far the hell away from a man whose name I don't even know and I'm supposed to fucking marry?" My voice goes up in an octave tone and I don't even need to look at my mom's face to see the disapproving frown, either because of my swearing or my yelling.

You see, we are Nigerians who currently live in New York City but even as a New Yorker, I was raised as a proper Nigerian Yoruba girl, which means to be respectful towards elders, polite, prim, and proper. Her lessons never really stuck, but when I'm around them, I try to pretend they did. Not today, though.

Today, it would seem my parents have fucked up astronomically. Which means I don't owe them a proper attitude or nice words.

"I didn't think the agreement still stood, Ade mi (my crown)" My dad said, completing his statement in Yoruba dialect.

I scoff. "This is ridiculous," I tell them, getting to my feet.

"Sit your bum down, Tiaraoluwa Regina Oba," orders, my mom said looking at me under her dark eyelashes. Like I said, strict Nigerian Yoruba woman to the core.

My mum is not the one to be messed with even though my father knows that. Her lips are slightly pursed and there's a don't fuck with me because I-am-hurting-more-than-you expression on her face. Like I'm not the one who should be upset here.

My father, Mr Ronald Oba might be the head of the family, but he has always treated me like his little girl and spoiled me, even. My mom, however, is the parent you don't cross.

I hesitate for just one second before falling back into my chair across from them. Even now, my dad is seated while my mom stands behind him. But despite her position on her feet, my dad doesn't have all the power. I would say it's evenly shared, they're equal partners. I've always admired that, always admired their relationship. That isn't to say there aren't any flaws. The most glaring one is promising their fifteen-year-old daughter to marry some man she doesn't know.

"You haven't even heard who the man you will marry is," my mom says. Her voice is soft, and light. Her hand brushes over her pearl necklace. I know she is trying to diffuse the tension in the air. My mother, Mrs Ife, Aya Oba (the king's wife) as my father likes to call her. She's like every other wife of the ton.

The ton is the elite members of the city of New York. They are mostly wives from the Upper East Side who carry around expensive bags, wearing tweed suits and blouses, and long sophisticated dresses. Their every move is scrutinized by the others, so they all go a long way to ensure their reputation isn't damaged. In a way, the wives protect the families even more than the husbands. And my mom is no different. In fact, she's one of the strongest. But right now her actions are putting one thing into perspective.

She's just as nervous and a tad scared as my dad. Which means I should definitely be freaking out more about this situation. "I'm sure you will tell me, Mom," I say. "I'm simply buzzing with anticipation."

"Tiaraoluwa, I want you to know that I regret my actions," my dad begins. "You were only fifteen and about to finish high school when the family business was in a terrible state and dire need of help. It was about to go bankrupt..."

I tune him out as my stomach churns. He's not answering the question. Why won't they just tell me who it is? With every second they withhold the information, I grow more nervous. Is he ugly? I shake my head at the thought. I have much bigger things to be worried about.

Forget ugliness or looks, the man could be in his sixties or worse. I don't even want to think about it. I'm only twenty years old, for fuck's sake, I shouldn't have to deal with something like this.

Just days ago, I was just struggling to read for an exam. And a few hours ago I was out to celebrate with my friends. I thought as my mind replayed what happened five hours earlier.

"GIRLS, YOU WON'T BELIEVE IT BUT ONE TIME, THERE WAS THIS PATIENT THAT HAD A DILDI LODGED IN HIS ASS AT MY DAD's HOSPITAL," Anya, my college dormmate, yells at us, her heavily accented voice, tinged with excitement. She's twisting her upper body to the catchy tune playing in the club, her butt still stuck to a chair.

"What?! No way!" My second dorm mate and least favorite person in the entire world right now, Abishola, exclaims, her kohl-rimmed eyes widened in surprise.

"Yes, way!" Tucking her silky, long, hair behind her ear, Anya sips on a glass of wine.

"When the nurse asked him how that happened, he claimed he slipped and fell on it. Yeah, like anyone is going to believe that." She snickers, rolling her eyes and we all hoot loudly in laughter.

How did I end up here? Well, the second I dropped my pen for our final year art exams at The Juilliard School, Abishola and Anya had suggested we celebrate being graduates and success on our final exam. And I couldn't say no, even though I was deadbeat tired, not after I had promised to treat them after I bailed on them last time to do a professional shoot for a company I am affiliated with so here l was, fulfilling my promise.

Anya gulps down the rest of her Sex On The Beach before standing from the table we three sit on. "Damn, I have to refill my glass."

A frown etches itself between my brows and I ask, slightly concerned, "Girl, relax. You just finished your third glass. Aren't you tipsy already?"

"No, I'm not, Mother. I'm gonna go get a drink and of course, search for some handsome guy to bang me hard. I deserve it after all that school stress."

A flirtatious wink is sent my way, coupled with a thrusting motion that she mimics with her fingers. There's no doubt that my friend is already drunk, with that stagger and a glazed shimmer in her eyes, try as she might want to deny it.

"Now lose that face and drink up. Come on, we need to get wasted and laid."

Anya being a lightweight, always insists on downing about 10 shots of hard liquor whenever she's out partying. And while she has never revealed it to us, I believe it's her subtle way of rebellion. Like she's telling her strict Indian parents fuck you for shipping me abroad to study medicine and take over your fucking family business. Her words, not mine.

"But nothing. See," Three henna-decorated fingers are held up to my view, each studded with flashy, silver rings. "I can count up to three so that means I'm not drunk."

Not fully drunk yet. Reluctant, I nod just as Abishola butts in, "Ti, let the thirsty breathe. My girl truly deserves those drinks and Angelfish, if you find any yummy guys, steer them my way for a taste of black pussy!" "Oh shut up! Not Angelfish!"

At that nickname, Anya flips Tiwa the middle finger before heading to the bar. Shaking my head at their antics, I watch her go, noticing how men stop and stare at her curvy body-encased in an extremely short gown.

"But..." It's me again, the voice of reason, anxious that someone will take advantage of her. Abishola reaches forward to interlace her fingers in mine.

"No buts, try and relax. You have been working so much." Warmth rushes through me at her kind words and I squeeze back. "Thanks, babe."

"You're not welcome!" she pipes up suddenly, our sarcastic code for you're totally welcome, honey, and retrieves her fingers to bump my shoulder hard. She's right, the get-wasted part, not the get-laid so I decided to channel all my worries into a black hole and enjoy the night.

Lost in thoughts again, I drink, until Abishola nudges me softly in the arm. "Hottie o'clock. A guy at the left is intensely staring at you."

"Huh?" Her voice is frantic at my slow reaction.

"To your left, Ti! Now!" Curious, I quickly crane my head opposite but no one is staring, everyone's caught up in the club's world of humping, gyrating, and twerking.

Scowling, I take another sip of my drink and say dryly, "I think your delusions are becoming wilder every minute, Abby."

"What?!" My friend's vivid red braids swirl as she swerves her eyes around, a nonplussed look on her dyed blonde brows.

"How did he disappear? Ti, I swear I saw this gorgeous gorgeous man staring at you. You know, the Mazimo kind with black suits and all?" Strange.

Just as I was ordering my second shot of vodka, my parents' special ringtone pierced the air. I checked my phone to see my dad's urgent message: "You need to come home immediately." It felt like an emergency, so I bid my friends a hasty goodbye and left the club.