Content Notice:
This story contains mature themes including psychological manipulation, coercion, and exploitation. Reader discretion is advised.
The House That Sold White Dreams
Chapter One
Adesuwa stopped in front of the building and read the sign again.
HONEYWHITE BRIDAL HOUSE.
The letters gleamed in polished gold—too perfect, too untouched by dust or time. The glass doors reflected her image back at her: a slim girl in a simple dress, leather bag slung over her shoulder, eyes bright with cautious hope.
This was not how she imagined the beginning of her dream.
She had pictured noise. Laughter. The frantic rhythm of sewing machines. Women arguing over fabrics and fittings.
Not this silence.
Not this calm.
Still, she inhaled deeply and pushed the door open.
The scent hit her immediately—fabric starch, expensive perfume, and something colder. Sharper. Something that made her chest tighten without reason.
Behind a wide mahogany desk sat a woman stirring tea slowly, as though time itself obeyed her. Every movement was deliberate. Graceful. The kind of grace that came from knowing you would always win.
The woman looked up.
"So," she said calmly, "you're the one from Benin."
"Yes, ma," Adesuwa replied, straightening her back.
The woman studied her without speaking. From her hair to her shoes. From her posture to the way she folded her hands to keep them from shaking.
"You're quiet," the woman finally said. "I like that."
She pressed a button on the desk.
"Efe."
The name lingered in the air before the door opened.
Efe walked in.
She was beautiful—but not gently so. Her clothes were sharp, intentional. Her makeup flawless. Her eyes distant, like someone who had learned to look without seeing too much.
"Take her to the workshop," the woman said. "She'll observe today."
"Yes, ma," Efe replied.
She turned to Adesuwa. "Come."
---
The workshop was wide and bright, sunlight pouring in through tall windows. Rows of sewing machines filled the space. About twenty girls worked quietly—some laughing under their breath, some focused, some whispering secrets.
But they weren't sewing wedding gowns.
They were sewing bridal nightwear.
Lace so thin it barely concealed the mannequins. Corsets sculpted like hands gripping flesh. Robes designed to fall open with the slightest movement.
Adesuwa slowed her steps.
This wasn't what she expected.
Efe noticed immediately.
"No worry," she said softly. "You go understand."
She guided Adesuwa past a mannequin dressed in red lace, its slit dangerously high.
"Na here una go dey learn," Efe continued. "No be just sewing. Na elegance. Confidence. Control."
Control.
The word stayed with Adesuwa.
"I thought this was about wedding gowns," she said carefully.
Efe paused—just for a heartbeat.
"You go still learn am," she replied. "But first, foundation."
She pointed to a small stool near the corner.
"Sit. Watch. Tomorrow, you go touch machine."
Adesuwa obeyed.
And watched.
The girls worked with practiced ease—measuring, cutting, stitching. The fabrics shimmered beneath the lights: white, cream, champagne, red.
Beautiful.
And unsettling.
Adesuwa opened her sketchbook, pretending to draw while studying the room. There were no mirrors. No clocks. Only lace, machines, and laughter that felt slightly forced.
This is opportunity, she told herself.
She hadn't come here to escape Nigeria.
She came to learn.
Her dream was simple—master advanced bridal tailoring, understand structure and finishing, and return home to build a fashion house Nigerian brides would be proud of.
That was all.
---
That evening, the girls gathered in the reception area. Some braided hair on the floor. Others chatted excitedly.
"This place fine die," one girl said.
"I hear say people dey travel from here," another whispered.
Adesuwa didn't join them. Her eyes followed Efe instead.
Efe stood near the door, arms folded, watching everyone—and nothing at all.
As the girls dispersed, Efe met Adesuwa's gaze.
"Wait," she said quietly.
She led her down a narrow hallway into a storage room lined with fabric bolts. The door clicked shut.
Efe's calm cracked.
Just a little.
"Listen to me," she whispered. "Everything you see here—no be everything."
Adesuwa frowned. "I don't understand."
Efe reached into her pocket and brought out a phone.
Old. Small. Scratched. A Nokia touch phone.
"Take."
Adesuwa hesitated. "Why?"
"Because questions go soon start," Efe said. "And when dem start, silence fit kill person."
She pressed the phone into Adesuwa's palm.
"No WhatsApp. No pictures. Only call and SMS. Hide am well."
Adesuwa's heart raced. "Aunty Efe… wetin dey happen?"
Efe swallowed hard.
"I no fit talk everything. Walls get ear. But hear this—if anybody promise you travel without paper, without clear contract, without time frame… ask again."
Adesuwa stared at the phone.
"But I came to learn tailoring," she whispered. "I want to go back home."
Efe's eyes softened.
"I know," she said. "Na why I dey warn you."
Footsteps passed outside the door.
Efe's face hardened instantly.
"Hide am," she murmured. "And pray say you never need am."
She opened the door.
The moment vanished.
---
That night, Adesuwa lay awake in the dormitory, staring at the ceiling as soft snores filled the room.
"Tomorrow go sweet," someone murmured in her sleep.
Adesuwa slipped her hand beneath her pillow and touched the phone.
Cold. Solid. Real.
Her dream had brought her here.
But something else had followed her in.
And for the first time since she stepped into HoneyWhite Bridal House, Adesuwa wondered—
What exactly was she being prepared for?