❝Money is the root of all evil. It can turn the closest friends to the worst of enemies.❞
Well, not according to Isadora Saidu who has one of the best of friends in the world anyone could ask for : Bryan Medvedev.
The two have always been inseparabl...
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03
I S A D O R A
As I stand before the ENT headquarters, I debate on whether or not I made the right decision to come.
As soon as I viewed the email sent by the executive producers of Opportunist, my mind has been running a thousand miles per second.
It's not too late to back out.
Just the thought of competing again in the show is enough to summon many unwanted memories I've fought so hard to push at the back of my head.
Humiliation. Agony. Trauma. Regret. Bitterness.
These prevalent emotions seek to devour the cold shield I've worked so hard to build over the years.
I vowed never to compete again.
But the thought of my mom has compelled me to reconsider their once-in-a-lifetime offer.
For I'd give anything to see her smile again.
And if going back to the bottomless pit that triggered my suffering is the sacrifice I have to make, so be it.
With no time to waste, I pass through the revolving door of the humongous building only to arrive at the facial recognition system.
The system identifies my face in less than ten seconds before I ask a receptionist for directions.
Tuning out the constant tittle tattles dominating the background noise of the lobby, I register the information given by the male staff before sauntering towards the nearest elevator.
"Remember you're doing this for mom," I whisper as I do my best to minimize my ragged breathing but to no avail, "you're her only hope."
Once on the 7th floor, I halt by the desk of a female receptionist who's engaged in a phone call.
Seconds turn to minutes as I wait for the call to end.
"Yes miss, how can I help you?" the bubbly voice is enough to jolt me to reality.
"I'm here to see one of the executive producers of Opportunist." I request.
Disbelief clouds her face, "Oh. . . then what's your name?"
"Isadora Saidu."
She ends up typing rapidly on her keyboard as her gaze is robotically fixated on the desktop screen before her.
Bewilderment instantly transforms her face.
"Right, this way please," she says in an energetic voice.
She bypasses me to lead the way.
A minute passes before we arrive next to a wooden door with a door nameplate displaying,
