CHAPTER 4: A POWERFUL DAMSEL
AUTHOR'S POV
Ella Uzo stood before her ornate bedroom mirror, her eyes narrowed as she examined her reflection with a calculating gaze.
The morning sun filtered through the cream drapes, casting golden light across the marble floor and catching flecks of dust in the air.
She barely noticed. Her mind wasn't on the beauty of her surroundings, nor the expensive chiffon dress she was deciding between and the emerald-green cocktail dress that lay on her bed.
It was on the man she was supposed to meet today, Henry.
An arranged date. The words alone made her want to scream.
This was the fourth attempt her father, the formidable Mr. Uzo, had made to set her up with someone "respectable."
A man of substance. Integrity. Stability. Ella scoffed internally.
All the things she
never cared for. She had always lived on her own terms, as wild and impulsive as a flame, with a personality too sharp for most to handle.
Spoiled, some called her. Others weren't as polite.
But it wasn't her fault she grew up in wealth and excess.
Her father's empire, Uzo Holdings, controlled a third of the shipping business along the West African coast. And Ella, his only daughter, was the apple of his eye, at least
in public.
At home, their relationship was more like a chess match. Every conversation was a maneuver, every gesture a statement.
The man had built his name on dominance and negotiation, and he expected Ella to fall in line just like his board members.
She never did.
Still, even she was surprised when her father gave her a 24-hour notice about today's meeting.
"He's decent, well-raised. A gentleman. Not one of those petty influencers you surround yourself with," he had said over breakfast, sipping his black coffee with clinical calm.
"You're meeting him. Today. 6 p.m. sharp. I've made the reservation," said Mr. Uzo.
Ella had simply rolled her eyes and stabbed her croissant harder than necessary. That was yesterday.
Now, with a few hours left to go, she stood amidst the chaos of a room filled with designer outfits, half open makeup kits, and high-heeled shoes tossed like weapons of war.
She turned toward her assistant, Nadia, who had been quietly steaming a blouse in the corner, pretending not to notice Ella's sour mood.
"What do you think, Nadia?" Ella asked, holding up both dresses.
"Powerful and sleek or mysterious and reckless?" she express.
Nadia blinked, startled. She knew better than to offer opinions, not unless directly asked. Even then, it was a gamble.
"I think the green one makes a strong impression," she said carefully.
Ella snorted. "Strong impression? Like poison in a martini glass?" She paused, then grinned. "Perfect," said Ella.
She stripped off her robe, unbothered by Nadia's presence, and slipped into the emerald dress.
It fit like it was sewn onto her body, hugging every curve with deliberate elegance.
She checked herself in the mirror again, turning sideways.
The slit up the thigh was subtle but dangerous, just like her.
"Hair up or down?" She asked aloud.
"Up, I think," Nadia said, then quickly added, "It shows off your neckline."
Ella smirked. "You're learning." She replied.
She let Nadia sweep her thick black hair into a high ponytail, slick and sharp.
Then came the makeup. Bold lashes, matte red lips, and a dusting of golden shimmer that caught the light just right.
She looked like power. The kind of power men couldn't decide whether to worship or run from.
Which was exactly what she intended.
Henry. The name alone sounded too neat for her taste. Probably a straight-laced banker or something equally boring.
Her father always picked men who could "tame" her, men with ambition and a clean past. Men with "wife" plans.
She hated plans. And she definitely wasn't wife material.
As she got dressed, her mind wandered to the last disaster of a date her father set up. A lawyer.
He had shown up with a checklist of traits he expected in a partner, and Ella had deliberately failed every one of them before the appetizer arrived.
He never called back. Her father hadn't spoken to her for three days after that.
Maybe today would go differently. Maybe Henry wouldn't be such a disappointment.
Or maybe she'd chew him up just like the rest.
"Your ride will be ready in twenty minutes," Nadia informed her.
Ella nodded. "Good.
I'll need a shot of tequila first," she said.
"You don't like tequila," Nadia reminded her, raising an eyebrow.
"No, but it'll make me feel like I'm about to do something illegal. Which is the only way I can get
through this," replied Ella.
Downstairs, the house was a modernist masterpiece, glass, steel, and concrete, softened by expensive art and minimalist furniture.
Her heels echoed across the floor as she walked toward the kitchen bar. One of the housekeepers glanced up in surprise as she poured herself a shot of top-shelf tequila and downed it in a single gulp. Ella grimaced.
"That's disgusting," she muttered, wiping her mouth.
"Perfect." She said to herself.
By the time she stepped outside, a sleek black Mercedes was waiting for her in the driveway.
Her father had clearly spared no expense. She half-expected him to be looking somewhere, watching from a window like a hawk.
Probably imagining this meeting as some strategic business alliance.
She rolled her eyes and slid into the backseat.
As the car pulled away, Ella turned to the tinted window and watched the city flash by.
Manchester was alive, buzzing with chaotic energy. Markets, traffic, the occasional police checkpoint.
She thrived in it, chaos. There was something honest about disorder, unlike the pristine, well-packaged life her father wanted for her.
She took out her phone and scrolled through her messages, ignoring the dozen unread texts from her latest ex, some of her friends asking where the party was tonight, and one unexpected message from her mother.
"Be nice today, darling. Just this once. For your father." She said
Ella stared at it for a few seconds.
Then laughed. Her mother always knew how to say the exact thing that made her want to do the opposite.
She put the phone away and leaned back in the seat, exhaling slowly.
Her mind drifted to Henry again.
"What did he look like? Was he going to be polite? Overly charming?" She Nervously asked herself.
The worst were the men who tried to act confident and ended up sweating through their collars.
She didn't want politeness or nerves. She wanted realness.
Someone with a spine. Someone who didn't cower when she raised an eyebrow.
But this wasn't about what she wanted, not really.
This was about the game. The power play. Her father's quiet challenge:
"Prove to me you can be serious about something". He said.
She smirked. "Watch me be serious, for five whole minutes. Said Ella.
Traffic slowed as the car approached the upscale neighborhood where the restaurant was located.
Ella checked her compact mirror one last time, adjusted her lipstick, and studied herself with critical satisfaction.
She looked like trouble in heels.
Exactly the vibe she was going for.
The car turned into the entrance of "Maison du Lys," a luxury French-European fusion restaurant that catered to the elite.
The valet was already standing at attention. The moment the car stopped, he opened the door.
Ella stepped out, a breeze catching the slit of her dress as she adjusted her clutch and took in the building's grandeur.
Glass walls. Gold accents. Soft classical music drifting from within.
It all screamed sophistication. And expectation.
She gave the valet a nod and walked up the steps, her heels clicking rhythmically, each step
deliberate.
She had arrived.
Now the real game could begin.