C2

Lucy stood in front of the mirror, wrapped in a satin robe she hadn’t washed in weeks. Her reflection was still beautiful, but the light in her eyes had dimmed. The woman who once strutted through Greenland’s elite parties like a queen now watched herself as if she were someone else’s ruin.

Outside, the city moved on without her. Cars honked. Billboards flashed new faces. Her name was no longer whispered at luncheons or painted across glossy Instagram feeds. She had become invisible.

The house was quiet—hauntingly so. Without the soft hum of Florence’s morning humming, or the clang of dishes, or the pitter-patter of freshly polished shoes, the house echoed like an abandoned cathedral. Lucy was now its lone worshipper.

For weeks, she told no one about the divorce. She posted old photos to keep up appearances—meals she didn’t cook, outfits she didn’t wear, smiles she didn’t mean. But even social media tired of her charade. Engagement dropped. Her DMs dried up. The girls who once envied her were now offering pity disguised as inspiration quotes:

“You’re strong, girl. Everything happens for a reason.”

“God is preparing something better for you.”

Lucy wanted to scream. Not because they were wrong, but because she didn’t know if she had the strength to believe them.

One morning, she forced herself out of the house. She slipped on dark sunglasses, pulled her curls into a bun, and walked through Greenland’s busy streets with trembling resolve. Her destination was simple: the market. For the first time in her life, she wanted to buy her own food.

Not from a supermarket. From the real market—the one with shouting traders, the smell of fish, the heat of human bodies packed tight.

She got lost. More than once. A woman in a yellow headscarf laughed gently at her when she asked where to buy “the freshest semolina.”

“You mean semo?” the woman chuckled. “This one na JJC o.” (A slang used popularly in West Africa meaning "fool")

Lucy blushed. She was a stranger in her own city.

But she bought the semolina. And vegetables. And a piece of smoked fish that made her cough from the smell. She carried her plastic bags like they were trophies. For the first time in her life, her arms ached from effort, not shopping sprees.

Back home, she attempted cooking again. This time, she watched a YouTube video with full concentration, pausing and rewinding like it was a final exam. The semolina turned out lumpy. The soup was watery. But she ate it all—every spoon. Not because it was delicious, but because it was hers.

She was starting again. Even if it tasted like failure.

Then came the letter.

It was slid under the front door. No envelope. Just a folded sheet of white paper with her name written in thick, jagged ink.

She hesitated before opening it. Something about the handwriting felt off. Raw. Angry.

You think you’re better than everyone, Lucy. But everyone sees you now. You’re alone. And someone’s watching.

No name. No return address. Just those words.

Her hands trembled. For a moment, she thought of Francis. Was this his way of taunting her? But the tone wasn’t his. It wasn’t cold and business-like. It was personal. Spiteful. Almost… jealous.

She locked the doors and double-checked the windows that night. Even in the safety of her mansion, she felt watched. Her phone rang three times, but the caller hung up each time. When she stepped outside to take out the trash, she felt eyes crawl over her skin.

But no one was there.

Just silence. And shadows.

The next morning, another letter came.

Still pretending to be a queen? You don’t even know how to boil water. Soon, everyone will know the truth. You’re nothing without your daddy’s money. Or your husband’s name.

She crumpled it and threw it away. But it found her again—slipped into her mailbox the next day, neatly unfolded.

You can’t bury pride. It grows back like weeds. And I’m coming for your crown.

This time, she went to the police. They listened politely, took her statement, and promised to “keep an eye.” But she could tell they didn’t take her seriously.

“Do you have any enemies, ma’am?” the officer asked, looking more interested in her curves than her fear.

Lucy almost laughed. Did she have enemies? She didn’t know if she had friends.

That night, Lucy couldn’t sleep. Memories clawed at her.

She remembered the house parties where she mocked girls with secondhand shoes. The gossip she spread about a girl who got pregnant in church choir. The way she snapped at waiters and belittled salesgirls. The way she once told Florence, the maid who raised her, “You’re lucky we even let you stay here.”

Regret tasted worse than burnt semolina.

She had spent years thinking herself a goddess, and now she was paying for the altars she burned.

In the mirror, she no longer saw a queen. She saw a woman who had everything—and wasted it.

She curled up on the living room couch, blanket wrapped around her like a shield, phone clutched in hand. Just before dawn, she received one final message. This time, not a letter. A photo. Sent from an unknown number.

It was a picture of her—taken through her kitchen window.

She was cooking.

She dropped the phone.

Someone was watching.