A Wife for the Billionaire
Chapter 66: RICHARD

Chapter 66: RICHARD

The night passed in a blur of floating on ecstasy and drinking myself to sleep.

It was exactly how I figured it would go, especially after the day I had.

Perhaps it’s practice, which consistency breeds perfection, but in my case I would say ’balance’. I woke up by 6am on the dot, in spite of the planes and fantasies the weed I smoked took me to.

I was used to it by now, no matter how high I got or how drunk, I still woke up at the sound of my alarm.

Maybe it had nothing to do with practice or the consistency of my indulgences, and everything to do with responsibility.

Or can it be pressure?

I mean, being the CEO of the Wellington Empire and the youngest in history I might add, overseeing all the branches and the various brands, the immediate problem of the venue for the launch of the new collection, and most of all, having 15 ladies to examine in hopes of picking a wife, it has to be pressure.

Prayer or praying rather was for those who believed in something or someone. I found it absurd that people considered praying as a daily routine. How brainwashed are they really? Offering words of reverence to someone or something they have never seen or even had concrete proof of its existence, if that isn’t cockeyed, I don’t know what else is.

Having only belief in myself, I took a copy of "You & I", the powerful, sensational masterpiece by Terres Michael and headed to the bathroom. A collection of poems in form of daily affirmations, divided into two categories, the ’You’ affirmations and the ’I’ affirmations.

Standing before the oval mirror, peering into the dark pools of my own reflection, just as the poet recommended in his outline. I opened to the 101 page and affirmed,

I’m firmly rooted

I stand strong and unwavering

I stand ready and unyielding

When the winds of life

Come at me

When all looks like sinking sands

I’m a rock

I’m the force

Refusing to be moved

Refusing to yield.

The poet called those lines, I’m The Force, and those lines were exactly what I needed to remind myself then. That no matter what I was facing, the selection process, the launch venue problem, my health challenges and everything I was roped into, I refused to yield, to be moved and to cower.

That poem remains one of my personal favorites and the poet, Terres Michael, well he’s not really my favorite poet. The guy would have been if only he would tone down on the emotional and heartbreak stuff.

You would think that after how many collections and how many heartbreaks that he would have had his full of the topic and depression, but it seems the guy keeps sinking deeper into the blues.

Perhaps I shouldn’t blame him, heartbreak is a serious stuff, Chad experiences offers enough proof. And I guess he’s just trying to provide an outlet for his emotions, and in so doing, help others who are experiencing depression or the throes of heartbreak.

Which reminds me, I will have to introduce his recent collection, ’Echoes of Heartbreak’ to Chad, hopefully it would be of help in healing his broken heart.

This ’You & I ’ is the only collection I have from the poet, others center on niches that relate to love and my feelings on the subject have always been clear.

Just as the poet said in his outline, we rarely compliment ourselves, we seldom say beautiful and good shit to ourselves. That is why when we hear it from another, we clung to it like a tether of life, whereas if we were used to the ritual like me who do it every morning, compliments and what others think won’t matter as much.

So, if you’re a baller like me, a ritual like this should be how you start your morning, not muttering shit to some made up being living somewhere beneath the clouds.

There would really be more success stories if men made themselves their god.

Having not called Mrs Helen like angry Aaron had suggested, last night. I dialed the number as soon as I stepped out of the shower.

"Hello, Mrs Helen"

"Boy, you be testing me. Haven’t I told your fine ass to call me ’Helen’? Had you not been my favorite, boy! I would have whooped that ass and you know for sure that I would" Mrs Helen yelled in that squeaky voice of hers.

Usually when she yells, I often feel sorry for her. She had a surgery some years back to remove a lump or was it a tumor that had formed somewhere in her

throat.

Her pitch has changed after that and in spite of all the warnings from the doctor, Mrs Helen still yelled, which was nothing more than a squeak.

The sound depicts that it hurts, but Mrs Helen insists that it doesn’t and I have gotten enough nagging from her to keep my mouth shut.

And yes, she had told me to stop addressing her by ’Mrs’, according to her, ’her young ass wasn’t old enough for a Mrs title’. I’ve tried telling her that it has little to do with age and more to do with being married, but she insists the title makes her sound old.

I keep calling her by the title not because I’m testing her as she said, but because it’s unfair for her to tell me to stop addressing her by ’Mrs’ on the basis of favoritism while insisting Aaron and her

own son, Chad, addressed her by it.

"No one doubts what you can do, Mrs Helen, but once you agree for my friends to call you ’Helen’ as well, then this our debate would cease. Speaking of my friends, how is Chad doing?"

"I know what you did there, but don’t worry I will sort your ass when you come for dinner, and don’t even make me look for your ass. Chadwick is fine, he’s still pretty shaken up, Zara really did him one, but he will be fine. I know you... boys will um, make sure of it" she finished, her voice breaking.

I could tell she was trying hard not to cry. Mrs Helen was a strong ass woman and I knew she would pull through.

"We will try our best, Mrs Helen. I promise." I consoled, picking out my tie.

"Your ass better will. I would’ve called him to say hello, but his ass has been sleeping since yesterday and hell, he deserves such rest. So, I will see your fine ass tomorrow night?"

"Yeah, most definitely. Though I know you would practically drag my ass to your house if I don’t show up" I teased, sorting out a brown socks from the drawer in my closet.

"Boy, you know I will. And before I forget, tell your wacko mom to call me. You know what, scratch that shit, I will be coming for her ass this afternoon, you better not tell her or it will be your ass I will be coming for. I guess that will be all for now."

"Take care, Mrs Helen"

"Boy, fuck that shit. Talking to me like I’m your old ass grandma, you better not make me whoop_" I ended the call.

Damn! She’s a lot.

But a chat with her always left me in a good mood. In spite of her feistiness, Mrs Helen was funny and she had a way of saying things that alleviates the soul, even if it’s shrouded by ass and them words.

I tried calling Aaron, but twice it was sent to voicemail. I guess he was still pissed, surely by evening he would have cooled down.

I headed to my gym and had my morning workout before showering again and dressing for work.

I had on a gray Wellington suit, black shirt, striped white and black tie, brown belt, an Armani watch, and brown oxfords.

I didn’t even bother to stare too long in the mirror, I knew exactly how I looked. Dashing and lethal.

"Good morning, Sir" Folake greeted in that same weird accent as Lanke.

She was Lanke’s wife and my only indoor staff. Her job was to cook and clean, exempting my room. I loved my personal space and I cleaned by myself.

Lanke had begged me to employ her and together they lived on the flat at the back with their three children. The children, Kunle, Tolu and Jide worked as my outdoors staff. They cleaned the pool, trimmed the shrubs and kept the compound clean.

I had fired my entire staff for them and they’ve never given me a reason to regret that action.

"Good morning, Folake, how are the kids?"

"Already left for school, Sir. Here’s your breakfast"

I sat as she poured my black coffee, added a spoon of honey and placed a plate of fried eggs before me. It had taken her a week to learn how I liked my eggs, lightly fried only on one side with butter and a squeeze of onion water.

Two yellow yolks fixed at me like eyes as I cut and forked the circle.

By 8:34am, Lanke was driving me to the office.