CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE “CONVINCED”

©Opeyemi Akintunde
Inspired by the Greatest Storyteller

Beauty’s POV

“Thank you, Beauty,” Teju said quietly.

There was no raised tone, If anything, he sounded exhausted, like a man who had been carrying a weight for too long and had suddenly decided to set it down, not because the burden had become lighter, but because his strength had finally run out.

In that moment, it became clear that he did not need answers anymore. He only needed distance. He needed space to breathe, to think, to hear himself again without the noise of pain and betrayal echoing in his ears. Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked toward the main building of the retreat center, his shoulders slightly slumped, his steps steady but heavy, like someone who was determined not to collapse in public.

I watched him go, and something inside me twisted painfully. It was not fear, not pride, not even self-pity. It was something far more uncomfortable.

It was the realization that I had destroyed a good man.

Targeting Teju had not been random. Nothing about it had been accidental, and certainly nothing about my presence in his life had been innocent. I did not become what I became because I loved darkness or because I woke up one day craving evil. I became it because I was tired…tired of being unwanted, tired of being overlooked, tired of being the girl everyone pitied but no one chose.

I was tired of being Ugly Beauty.

From childhood, I had learned that beauty opened doors long before personality even had a chance to knock. I had watched other girls walk into rooms and receive admiration effortlessly, while I had to manufacture relevance by being useful, generous, entertaining, or available. Boys did not compete for my attention; they negotiated how to avoid it. My name became a joke, a cruel irony people repeated with laughter, as though whoever named me had been playing a cosmic prank on reality.

Over time, desperation became my silent companion. I began to offer whatever I could in exchange for affection…money, favors, emotional labor, physical closeness, anything that might make a man stay a little longer than he intended. Sometimes it worked temporarily. A few weeks of attention, a few months of pretending, but the ending was always predictable. Once they had taken what they wanted, they withdrew without announcement, leaving me with the humiliating awareness that I had not been loved, only tolerated.

People often assume rejection is loud and dramatic, but the most painful rejection is quiet. It is the kind that sits across from you, smiling politely while their eyes betray the truth they are too kind…or too guilty…to speak aloud. It is being present but not chosen, included but not valued, touched but not desired.

One afternoon, while shopping for fabrics, I saw her.

She did not enter the shop the way most people do, hesitating at the doorway or scanning the room to see who was watching. She walked in with the calm assurance of someone who had never doubted her right to exist in any space. Her beauty was undeniable, but it was not only her physical appearance that captivated me. It was the way she carried herself, as though the world had always responded favorably to her presence.

Her skin glowed with an almost surreal smoothness, her features were perfectly balanced, and her posture suggested confidence that had never been shaken by ridicule. For a moment, I forgot why I was there and simply stared, mesmerized by the effortless elegance she embodied.

Without thinking, I found myself speaking.

“You are so beautiful,” I said, my voice carrying both admiration and an ache I could not hide.

She turned toward me and smiled warmly, as though compliments were not rare occurrences in her life.

“Thank you,” she replied.

Something bitter rose in my chest before I could stop it.

“How come God is partial?” I asked with a dry laugh. “He made some people look like goddesses and some of us like monsters.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I felt embarrassed, but she did not recoil or correct me. Instead, she studied me thoughtfully, as though she understood exactly what I meant.

Then she said something that changed everything.

“This look is not on God,” she said calmly. “I helped myself.”

Self-help.

At that time, those words sounded empowering, like a secret pathway to becoming the version of myself I had always dreamed of. I did not realize that the desire to “help oneself” outside of divine guidance can easily become the doorway through which destruction enters quietly.

I asked her how she had done it, expecting tips about skincare routines, fitness regimens, or cosmetic procedures. She did not answer immediately. Instead, she invited me to her home, explaining that it was not something she could discuss casually in a public place.

That night, sleep avoided me completely. My mind replayed our encounter again and again, filling in imagined details of what my life could become if I could somehow transform the way she had. By dawn, I was no longer debating whether to go; I was only deciding how early would be too early to arrive.

I reached her house shortly after seven in the morning, nervous and hopeful in equal measure. She opened the door without surprise, as though she had expected me to come, and welcomed me inside with an understanding smile that felt both comforting and unsettling.

Her home was breathtaking in a way that went beyond decoration. It did not merely display wealth; it radiated ease. Everything looked curated, intentional, untouched by struggle. The space felt expansive and quiet, and it quickly became apparent that she lived alone.

She served breakfast herself, moving gracefully through the kitchen as though domestic tasks were not obligations but choices. After we ate, she returned with a large photo album and placed it on the table between us.

“Feed your eyes,” she said.

I opened it eagerly, flipping through page after page of photographs. None of the faces looked familiar, and none resembled the woman sitting in front of me. Then I noticed one particular face that appeared repeatedly…a woman who looked older, perhaps maternal.

“Your mum?” I asked.

She laughed softly.

“No,” she said. “That was the old me.”

I stared at the photograph again, comparing it to her current appearance. The difference was staggering. It was not a glow-up; it was a complete reinvention, as though one person had died and another had taken her place.

Something inside me broke open. I laughed, then cried, then laughed again, overwhelmed by the possibility that transformation on that scale might also be available to me.

I stood up impulsively and hugged her, clinging to her as though she were the answer to years of silent prayers.

“Help me,” I whispered.

She pulled back slightly and looked into my eyes with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

“Can you be helped?” she asked.

I did not understand why she would question my willingness. Of course I wanted help. I had come too far emotionally to retreat now.

She leaned closer, her voice low and deliberate.

“The kind of help you are asking for will demand things from you. Are you willing to go to any length to get the life you want?”

Without pausing to consider the implications, I nodded.

“Any length,” I said.

If only I had known what those words would cost me.

If only I had understood that when a desperate person says “any length,” they are unknowingly surrendering the very boundaries that protect them from irreversible consequences.

Because once you abandon your limits, you no longer control how far the journey goes.

Something else does.

To be continued…

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