Love And Revenge✔️

One

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"If I were you, I'd stop reading all those negative comments," I told Sarah, short for Saratu, trying to keep my tone gentle.

She shot me a glare. "Sorry, I'm not like you. You're so used to insults that they don't even bother you anymore," she snapped, frustration clear in her voice.

I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms. "That's exactly the problem. If you keep letting every comment get under your skin, it'll wear you down. You need to toughen up, or it will eat at you. When you're someone like us on Instagram, dealing with criticism isn't optional—it's inevitable."

Sarah let out a long sigh, scrolling through her comments. "Sometimes, I really don't want to be you," she muttered.

I laughed softly. "Well, maybe you don't. But most of the people hating on you are just jealous. Money, influence, followers... it rubs them the wrong way. Don't take it personally."

She shook her head, a small smile breaking through her frustration. "Don't call me stupid. That's harsh."

"Not harsh," I said lightly. "Just honest."

At that moment, Raziqah, my assistant, walked in. "Everything's ready. Time to start your shoot."

I nodded. "Thanks, Raziqah. Go get my phone from the main parlor. I'll be there in a minute—I just need to finish my makeup."

Raziqah smiled and left. I turned back to Sarah, who was still absorbed in her comments. "Go ahead, solve your problems," I said, laughing.

She looked at me, clearly irritated, but said nothing. I shook my head and left her to it.

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"Today, we're making a club sandwich," I began, speaking to the camera. "It's a snack that satisfies those mid-day cravings. Make sure you've gathered all your ingredients. I went over this in my last video, so you should already have everything ready."

I continued, guiding viewers through every step with calm precision. "Place lettuce on the toast, then add a slice of cheese, some cooked chicken..."

"And now for the drink: fruit cocktail," I said. "Hopefully, you have your mangoes, oranges, cucumber, and the other ingredients ready."

I carefully explained how to make the syrup: sugar, water, lime juice, basil, all stirred until the sugar dissolved. Step by step, I walked the audience through the process, making sure nothing was rushed.

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Hours later, the shoot was over. I collapsed onto my bed, phone in hand, scrolling through my comments. Seeing Sarah reading hers earlier had sparked curiosity, but I hadn't wanted her to notice me doing the same. I prided myself on being mentally strong, but the truth was that reading the comments now made my chest tighten. The rumors, the lies—they had started two years ago, when I first launched the blog, and they never seemed to stop. Every person saw me as the arrogant, spoiled, self-centered girl.

I lived with my elder brother, Mutassim, his wife Madina, and their four children in one of my father's estates. Mutassim was thirty-three, Madina twenty-eight, and their children ranged from three-year-old twins Abdulrazaq and Abdulwahab to ten-year-old Aziza, and seven-year-old Nabila, named after our mother. My second sister, Saffiya, lived in Abuja with her own family.

Lagos had grown tiresome. My parents—especially my mother—kept pressuring me to marry, insisting I shouldn't be the last of the children to settle down. But I was determined to take my time.

I posted the picture of the club sandwich with my caption, then tossed my phone aside and leaned back, letting the exhaustion wash over me.

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