Amaka's first real taste of soft life did not come loudly.
It arrived quietly, wrapped in ease.
It was the way her phone buzzed with a message asking what she wanted to eat, not what was affordable. The way doors opened before she reached them. The way plans were made without stress, without negotiation, without explanation.
She realized it one Friday evening, standing in front of her mirror, adjusting a dress she would never have bought a year ago. Not because it was too expensive—but because she would have felt undeserving.
Now, she felt… entitled.
"Soft life fits you," her friend Sola said when she arrived, eyes sweeping over Amaka approvingly. "See how you're glowing."
Amaka smiled, chin lifting slightly. "I told you I needed an upgrade."
Dinner was at a quiet restaurant in Maitama—no noise, no rush, no unnecessary conversations. The man across from her, Maduako Okorie, moved with controlled confidence. Not flashy. Not eager. Just certain.
He ordered without asking the price. Paid without announcing it. Spoke without filling the space unnecessarily.
"This place suits you," he said calmly.
Amaka laughed softly. "You barely know me."
"I know enough," he replied. "You're not trying to be seen. You're trying to arrive."
The words settled warmly in her chest.
With Ikenna, arriving had always felt like a process—steps, lessons, corrections. With Maduako, it felt assumed.
She didn't have to explain herself.
That alone felt luxurious.
---
The weeks that followed slipped into a rhythm she quickly grew accustomed to.
Brunches that turned into long afternoons. Late-night drives through Abuja with the windows down and music low. Conversations that felt intelligent, adult, and unburdened.
He never asked her to prove herself.
When she spoke about her job, he listened. When she complained about work stress, he nodded and offered solutions, not lectures. When she mentioned her past vaguely, he didn't pry.
"You've done well for yourself," he said once, handing her a glass of wine. "Not everyone survives their becoming."
She felt seen.
Validated.
Chosen.
Her phone buzzed less now—not because people stopped calling, but because she stopped checking. Soft life had a way of quieting noise.
One evening, while lying beside him on his couch, she caught herself thinking of Ikenna.
Not with longing.
With comparison.
Ikenna would have corrected her grammar during the conversation earlier. He would have suggested a book. Offered advice she hadn't asked for. Reminded her where she started.
Maduako didn't remind her of anything.
He let her exist as she was now.
That, to her, felt like respect.
---
When she told Zainab she was seeing someone new, the response was cautious.
"Are you sure you're not rushing into something again?" Zainab asked.
Amaka scoffed. "This is different."
"That's what you said last time."
"This man doesn't try to fix me," Amaka replied. "He doesn't look at me like a project."
Zainab paused. "And does he ask about you?"
"Yes."
"Or does he just accept you?"
Amaka frowned. "What's wrong with that?"
Nothing, she told herself.
Nothing at all.
---
The soft life moments piled up.
A surprise weekend getaway.
A dress bought casually, like it was nothing.
Being introduced—not loudly, but confidently—to people who mattered.
"You belong here," Maduako said once, guiding her through a room full of quiet power.
Amaka believed him.
She had worked for this. She had grown for this. She had left for this.
And for the first time since she walked away from Ikenna, she felt sure.
Sure that she had chosen right.
Sure that her standards had saved her.
Sure that soft life was the reward for endurance.
She did not notice the small unease creeping in.
Not yet.