Chapter 13: Scott Dawns
📅 February 2000 |
---
Scott's POV
They say when you truly love someone, the world rearranges itself around them. That was true for me. For six years, Bunmi Dawns—my wife—had been my universe. She wasn't just my spouse. She was the light that broke through every dark part of me. A Nigerian by birth, different in race, culture, and language—but when it came to love, none of that ever mattered.
Bunmi didn't just love me. She healed me. She saw every wreckage inside me and chose to stay. And to truly understand that—to understand what kind of woman could reach into someone's past and still choose him—you'd have to first understand where I came from.
So let's go back—to the beginning.
---
The Dawn Legacy and My Dark Beginning
I was born May 10, 1965, into the richest bloodline of banking America had to offer. My father, Charles Dawns, was the fourth patriarch of the Dawn Dynasty, a family that helped build the financial empire behind American Express. The legacy dated back over a century. Power. Prestige. And pressure.
Here's what the dynasty looked like:
---
The Dawn Dynasty – 5 Generations of Financial Power
1st Generation: Victor Dawn (1850–1890)
Founded Dawn Financial Trust in 1850.
Partnered with early American Express investors.
Passed on the torch before dying in 1890.
2nd Generation: Edgar Dawn (1890–1930)
Introduced traveler's cheques in 1891.
Expanded Amex into Europe and Asia.
Led during WWI.
3rd Generation: Reginald Dawn (1930–1955)
Survived the Great Depression.
Developed corporate banking and credit systems.
Strengthened Wall Street influence.
4th Generation: Charles Dawn (1955–1989)
Introduced charge cards.
Elevated Amex as a global symbol of wealth.
Took the brand international.
5th Generation: Me, Scott Dawn.
The heir. The rebel. The disappointment.
---
Crushed by Expectations
My father had waited three years to have a son. When I was born, he didn't see a child—he saw succession.
"You are the future of this family, Scott. No Dawn has ever broken tradition—and you will not be the first."
But I was already breaking—on the inside.
I never wanted banks. I wanted music. Art. Basketball.
At 14, I started numbing myself with painkillers. Then it spiraled—weed, coke, molly—everything that could silence the voice telling me I wasn't enough.
---
My Mother's Quiet Mercy
My mom—God rest her soul—never challenged my father, but she saw my pain. In silence, she gave me gifts that spoke louder than words: a guitar, a sketchpad, a basketball.
Each one said: "I see who you really are."
She was the reason I survived my youth.
---
The Toxic Bargain
At 17, my father relented. Not out of kindness—out of strategy.
"You want to chase your childish dreams? Fine. Study music, basketball—whatever. But when you're done, you'll marry the daughter of a fellow conglomerate. That's the deal."
I agreed. I was desperate for air.
And then I got my ticket.
University of Arizona. Full ride.
Basketball. Music. A second chance.
---
Freedom and Downfall
Freedom felt like oxygen. But it also made me reckless. I partied hard. Played harder. Lost control.
By 21, I was spiraling again.
And that's when I saw her.
---
The Meet
It was during a campus fellowship event for West African students. My friend Femi, a Nigerian, dragged me there. I didn't want to go—but something told me to show up.
That's when she walked in.
Wearing a flowing green and white dress—the Nigerian colors—she lit up the entire room. Her smile was warm. Her presence, magnetic.
She joined our circle, and I could barely find the courage to look at her.
Femi handled it for me.
"Lola," he said, nodding at her. "What's your take on the Nigerian 1993 elections? MKO Abiola or Bashir Tofa?"
Her voice had an accent that was music.
"To be honest," she said, "the candidate should be someone who serves the people—not their own power. And for me, MKO's track record speaks louder."
It sparked a fiery debate. Someone in the group, Kabiru, disagreed.
"It's because he's a Southerner," Kabiru snapped.
"No," she replied. "It's because he leads with vision, not vengeance. It's not about region—it's about result."
The tension flared. Femi tried to step in, but the meeting bell rang.
Later, as the meeting ended, I waited outside. So did she. Thunder rumbled. The sky darkened.
I pulled up beside her.
"Miss... need a ride?"
She hesitated.
Then the heavens opened. Rain poured.
She climbed in.
—
Author's Note
This is a contemporary historical fiction novel. While real events, places, and figures are referenced—like the 1993 Nigerian election, MKO Abiola, or the American Express Dynasty—this story is a fictional portrayal of the emotional truths behind real human experiences. Inspired by love. Loss. And survival.