The Price of Perfection
I stepped out of my room, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet of the hallway. The house was too quiet—too still. Something felt off. As I walked further, my nose wrinkled at the faint smell of dust lingering in the air.
Then I saw it.
The living room was a mess. Crumbs littered the marble floor, a thin layer of dust coated the glass coffee table, and a single, forgotten teacup sat on the edge of the sofa, its contents long dried up. My jaw tightened.
This is unacceptable.
With a sharp clap of my hands, I summoned the maids. The sound echoed through the house like a gunshot. Within seconds, they appeared before me, their uniforms neat, their hands clasped in front of them. Their eyes flickered with nervousness—they knew better than to keep me waiting.
"Clean this place properly," I commanded, my voice cold and sharp. "I mean spotless. Not a single speck of dust. Not a single smudge on the glass. Understood?"
They nodded quickly, but I wasn't finished.
"First of all," I continued, crossing my arms, "I'm rich." The words rolled off my tongue like a warning. "And secondly, I refuse to let my home look like some rundown shack. Unless, of course, you want me to be the next target of those spoiled brats at school?"
The maids exchanged glances. They knew exactly what I meant.
My school—St. Augustine's Elite Academy—was a battlefield. The kids there weren't just wealthy; they were ruthless. They lived for gossip, for scandal, for any tiny flaw they could exploit. A single photo of a messy house, posted online with a mocking caption, could ruin a reputation for months.
I wasn't about to let that happen.
Satisfied that my orders would be followed, I turned and walked back to my room, my designer shoes clicking against the polished floor. I had more important things to focus on.
The Party of a Lifetime
My bedroom was my kingdom—a sanctuary of luxury. The plush carpet, the king-sized bed with silk sheets, the walk-in closet filled with designer clothes. But none of that mattered right now.
I grabbed my tablet and sank into the velvet armchair by the window. My fingers flew across the screen as I calculated the costs.
Catering. Decorations. Security. Performers.
The numbers added up quickly.
Thirty million naira.
I exhaled sharply.that was a lot of money. But this wasn't just any party. This was my party. And it had to be perfect.
A statement. A spectacle. A declaration to the world that I wasn't just another rich kid—I was the rich kid.
No time to waste.
A Mother's Chaos
The hallway to my mother's room felt longer than usual. My footsteps were heavy with purpose. When I reached her door, I knocked sharply.
"Come in," her voice called from inside—muffled, tired.
I pushed the door open—and froze.
The room was a disaster.
Clothes were thrown everywhere—dresses, blouses, scarves draped over chairs like ghosts. Wigs lay tangled on the floor, their synthetic strands sprawled in every direction. Shoes were scattered like fallen soldiers, heels broken, straps torn.
And the makeup—oh, the makeup.
Shattered palettes littered the floor, their bright powders smeared into the carpet like spilled paint. Broken mirrors reflected fragments of the chaos, and the air smelled like alcohol and cigarettes.
And there, in the middle of it all, was my mother.
She lay sprawled across her bed, her usually perfect hair a tangled mess. Her eyeliner was smudged, her lips stained with half-faded lipstick. She looked like a broken doll.
"Jesus, Mom," I blurted, unable to hide my disgust. "What's going on? Please put yourself in order."
She turned her head slowly, her eyes meeting mine. For a moment, she just stared—empty, lost. Then, a faint, ghostly smile tugged at her lips.
"I will, son," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat.
I knew why she was like this.
The reason hung between us, unspoken but suffocating.
The Request
So instead of lecturing her, I cut straight to the point.
"Hmmm, Mom," I began, my tone businesslike. "I'll need a total of thirty million naira for my party."
The effect was immediate.
She pushed herself up, her movements sluggish, and sat on the edge of the bed. Her eyes sharpened, locking onto mine with disbelief.
"You can't possibly be serious," she said, her voice gaining strength. "What kind of party do you want to throw that requires that much money?"
I didn't flinch.
"Mom, please," I said, reaching for her hands, gripping them tightly. "I want my party to be unforgettable. A night people will talk about for years."
Her expression darkened. Anger flickered in her eyes, followed by something deeper—disappointment.
"David," she said, her voice low and strained, "it's too much money, for God's sake. Do you even know how money is made? Just because we're rich doesn't mean you get to waste it like this."
Her words entered one ear and exited the other.
I wasn't here for a lecture.
I wasn't here for wisdom or life lessons.
I was here for the money.
And I would get it.
To Be Continued...