The hum of the house was different now. The minimalist silence that usually accompanied Monalisa's designer skirts and heavy workload had been replaced by the crinkle of cardboard and the glow of a MacBook screen. Cherry sat in the living room, the weight of the laptop on her lap a constant reminder of the "strings" Monalisa had pulled. It was a clean, expensive peace offering, one that made Cherry feel a complicated mix of gratitude and the lingering sting of her father's abandonment.
But the peace had been interrupted earlier by a ghost from the "outside" world. Amole.
Seeing him in that Jumia tee shirt, sweating under a baseball cap while delivering her mountain of boxes, had been a jolt. He was everywhere—the gym, the car depot, and now her front door. He was a reminder of the life she was trying to outrun, the "bad boy" who knew too much about her past with Green. When he'd smirked, mentioning her old house and her "abandoned" father, the air had turned thick.
"I rather die," she had told him, a sharp defense against his "nice guy" act. She knew Amole was a devil in sheep's clothing, and his presence was a stain on the sanctuary Monalisa had provided. Watching him drive away in the Jumia bus, she felt a sense of healing—not because the pain was gone, but because she finally had the words to fight back.
Now, it was 10:00 AM on Christmas Eve, and the house was transforming.
Monalisa descended the stairs, and for a moment, Cherry just stared. The "Madam Detective" who usually looked like she was carved from ice was wearing red-and-white Santa pajamas and white fur Louis Vuitton flip-flops. Her blonde hair was down, framing an oval face that looked softer, younger.
"Morning! Wow, those pajamas are beautiful," Cherry said, sipping her energy booster through a paper straw.
"Since you talked about Christmas, everything I pass reminds me of it," Monalisa admitted, peeling her top slightly to show off the design. "I never even noticed things like that until now."
As they began unboxing the decorations—the giant green tree, the Grinch designs, the bells, and the red socks—the conversation drifted into the shadows they both usually avoided. Cherry, surprised by the 50% discounts she'd found while being "too afraid" to spend Monalisa's money, finally pushed the button she'd been hovering over.
"So, what about your family?"
The answer wasn't a fairy tale. Monalisa spoke sharply at first, then softened. She laid it out: a father with a "real" family, a mother who was a waitress met in a bar, and a childhood spent as an outsider.
"My mom's husband didn't like me," Monalisa said, her voice steady but the words heavy. "I was sent to my grandma. I know they like me at my dad's big house, but I keep my distance. I remind his wife of the affair."
Cherry felt a lump in her throat. She had imagined Monalisa as a billionaire's secret, but the reality was more human and much lonelier. When Monalisa pulled her into a hug instead of a handshake, the transition from "detective and ward" to "friends" was sealed.
By the time the handy man left and the dry, cold air of the harmattan settled outside, the living room was a forest of green and gold. They sat together, the silence now comfortable.
"My mom was sad, too," Cherry whispered, the memory of the cancer and the hair loss resurfacing. "I haven't seen anyone as sad as her."
Monalisa stroked Cherry's hair. "You can make a difference. Nature makes humans miserable, but you don't have to follow the menu."
They cleaned the mess in silence—Cherry picking up the trash, Monalisa wielding the broom. The "Marilyn Monroe" Christmas was no longer just about the decor; it was about two women, both rejected by the people who should have loved them most, deciding that a "workaholic" and a "girl with no service" were enough of a family to celebrate.