Read previous chapters of Barrett & Barrett

Chapter 12: King

The liquid catches the fading afternoon light as I pour two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler. The office is quiet. The usual hum of keyboards, ringing phones and chatty employees is replaced by the sound of the cleaning crew as they start their rounds. 

6 PM. 

Don sits in the leather armchair in the corner of my office, his white cane leaning against its side. He’s been back from his “prayer retreat” for two days, and this is the first time he’s sought me out.

“How was Mambilla?” I ask as I hand him the glass. I take the seat opposite him. “Find the clarity you were looking for?”

He accepts the drink and swirls it gently under his nose before taking a slow sip. “It was cold. And quiet. Too quiet. It gives a man too much room to think.”

“And what did you think about?”

“The future.” He takes another sip. “This business. My family.” He pauses. “You.”

Here it comes.

“I heard about the Ms. Banke event,” he says. His voice is carefully neutral. “It was a success.”

“It was.”

“I was told that her team was efficient, so much that you were here with them past midnight a couple of days before the event, overturning plans that had been carefully put together by our people and hers. I also heard that you overruled three of our standard vendors because they had better plugs.”

I watch the way he holds his glass and the set of his shoulders. He’s not here to fight. He’s here to advise me as a big brother. And he’s getting his information from someone with intimate knowledge of our operations. Someone like Marian. 

“You’re a strategist, King. One of the best I know. You don’t make moves like this without running every scenario. Which means this isn’t just a business decision.” He tilts his head. “It’s personal. And I don’t approve.”

“Your disapproval is noted.” My voice is flat. 

“King, aligning our brand so publicly with her is a risk. Why would you want to do that?”

“Say her name, Don. If we’re going to have this conversation, say her name.”

He hesitates for a beat, then concedes. “Adaeze Nnadi. Whatever it is you think you’re doing, it’s a gamble, King.”

I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, the glass cool between my palms. “She is the best strategic acquisition I’ll be making for this company.”

He frowns. “Meaning?”

I down my drink and stand. “I’m buying Daze Events.” Walking to my desk, I add, “And don’t act like you care, since you’re leaving.”

I turn, just in time to see the shock of my breaking news morph into the shock of being caught. But he doesn’t ask me how I know he’s leaving. He’s just silent, and I echo the silence as I sit. We’re brothers who understand each other beyond the physical. I’d accepted before now that he’d leave. And I’d prepared for this moment, after mourning his departure and facing the pain that comes with it. Deze has no idea how much or how quickly she has helped me get to this point of acceptance. She was just the distraction and strength I needed to enter this phase of my life. 

The silence continues, filled with a decade of shared history, of building something from nothing.

Finally, he says, “You’re right. I’m leaving the partnership.”

There it is. No fanfare, no drama. 

“I’ve known for a while. The way you’ve been pulling back.”

He gives a slow, sad nod, a gesture of respect for the truth between us. “The textile business. It’s a real opportunity. For her. For us.”

“I understand. On my side, I’m prepared,” I tell him. “I’ve had the papers drawn up. We can negotiate your stake. Clean and fair.”

He places the whiskey glass on the floor, grabs his cane, and gets on his feet. “Thanks for not making a big deal out of this. And em… Ifechi… She wants us to throw a sendoff party.”

I chuckle. “Barrett Brothers owes you that much.”

He turns his head around, as if taking in the space that was once his. When he stops, his head is angled in the direction of his office. “Barrett Brothers,” he says, nostalgia on his face. “I’m going to miss this place.”

“We should do drinks next weekend once we sort out all the paperwork?”

He nods. We don’t shake hands or hug. There’s no fight. No raised voices. Just two brothers, in a quiet room at the end of the day, dismantling their shared dream with hardheaded grace.

***

At our usual corner table, a heavy slab of wood that feels as old as the friendship I share with my three closest friends provides a backdrop of normalcy against the many thoughts running through my mind.

Nabil is to my right, eyes behind his signature gold-rimmed spectacles. To my left, Tega, my police inspector friend, wearing a simple polo shirt, has his gaze constantly scanning the room to assess threats we all know aren’t here. He’s always trying to show us that he’s good at his job, when we know that he’s the proverbial Nigerian policeman who would run at the first sign of danger. Opposite me, Boma, the accountant, is already hunched over his phone as he manages some late-night financial fire for a client abroad.

I take a slow sip of my Macallan. In theory, the papers are signed, the deal is done, Don is out, and she is in. The words have been circling in my head all afternoon, a mantra of change.

“—so I told the man,” Nabil’s voice cuts in, and my thoughts return to the table, “if the price isn’t right, my tractor will remain in Ibadan.”

Boma looks up briefly. “Your loss, his loss. The numbers don’t lie.” He goes back to his phone.

A comfortable lull settles over the table. I swirl the whiskey in my glass. 

“King.” Tega nudges me. “Dis one wey you quiet so…”

“You know,” Nabil says, “there are many types of quiet. There’s ‘I’m-calculating-money-in-my-head’ quiet. There’s ‘I’m-tired-from-dealing-with-idiot-clients’ quiet.” He leans forward, and I hear the fabric of his kaftan rustle softly. “But this one…” he tsks. “This quiet tastes like a woman.”

Tega lets out a short laugh. “Omo, Nabil, you don dey read minds now?”

I don’t bother denying it. There’s no point. “Her name is Adaeze Nnadi,” I say, and the name feels both like a shield and a surrender. “And no matter what the internet says, she’s the most brilliant person I’ve ever met in my line of work, and I’m about to bring her in to Barrett Brothers.”

The silence I get in response is not surprising. My friends all down their drinks at the same time, as if cued. 

“Chairman, wait…” Boma leans forward. “When you talked to me last week about buying a business and asked how much we could comfortably stake out, you were referring to her?”

I look him squarely in the eye. “Yes.”

“And Don agreed to this?” Tega asks.

“Don is leaving Barrett Brothers,” Boma announces.

Nabil breathes out loudly and stares at his Chapman. “I need something stronger.”

“Oh boy!” Tega exclaims. 

“How? Why? When did this happen?” Nabil asks, the questions stumbling out. I take my time to explain how Don and I got to our present situation. Then, I also talk about why I think Daze Events is a perfect fit for the new age of Barrett Brothers.

“The numbers finally worked? I saw the due diligence. It was a tight fit, but the creative assets are undervalued. Good move, King. High risk, but high reward.”

Nabil leans back. “King, you? The man who once threatened to fire a junior planner for sending a flirty text to a client’s son? You’re mixing business with pleasure? You said you wanted her, and I thought the most you’d do is the usual ‘knack and go’. But business?”

“I know. Don said the same thing to me this evening. Almost verbatim. It seems to be the universal consensus.”

“Shit. So, it’s that serious,” Tega states. “You’re trading a brother for a…”

He doesn’t finish, but the word hangs in the air between us. For a woman.

“I am,” I admit. “And that’s the hell of it. I made her the offer because I was genuinely, professionally impressed. I wanted that mind, that fire, on my team. I wanted to covet it.” I finally look up, meeting their concerned gazes, one by one. “But the truth is, I made the offer to keep her close. It was the only respectable way I could have her in my life without immediately crossing a line I’ve drawn for fifteen years. And now I have to sit across a desk from her tomorrow and pretend that’s all it is. That she’s just an acquisition.”

The admission hangs between us, raw and uncomfortably honest.

I meet Nabil’s gaze. “I’ve never done this before. I’ve never wanted someone I couldn’t logically have. It’s… disorienting. It makes me feel like I’m not in control of my own mind.”

He nods slowly, a look of understanding dawning. He’s seen me build an empire from a single idea. He knows what control means to me. “So, what’s the play?” he asks.

“The play is that once the contract is signed, we’re locked into each other’s worlds. There’s no going back.” I shrug in a gesture of helplessness so foreign that it feels like someone else’s emotion. “And now… I have no idea. It’s like I’m building a plane while I’m flying it at the same time.”

“And if it crashes?” Boma asks.

I look at my whiskey glass one last time and finish what’s left of my drink. “Then it crashes,” I say.

***

The usual hum of the AC in the conference room is the only sound. Sebastian, my lawyer, has already laid out the documents in neat, parallel lines. It feels less like a signing and more like a surgeon preparing his instruments.

Then she walks in.

She’s wearing a baby blue dress, the color of a clear Abuja morning sky. It’s simple, but it’s fitting in a way that makes my breath slow down. 

Aisha follows, bringing in an air of severity.

They take their seats. My eyes are locked on Adaeze. No—Cora. The name is a secret I’ve been carrying since I saw it buried in the preliminary documents Aisha sent over. Adaeze Cordelia Nnadi. I’d tested it out loud in the silence of my apartment. Cora. It felt like uncovering a hidden part of her, something soft and ancient and just for me. When I’d first called her that, a slow, surprised smile had spread across her face. “Nobody’s ever called me that,” she’d said, and added that although she liked it, it was definitely not the short form of Cordelia. We argued about it and ended up on the internet, which ultimately proved I was right. 

“Will you start calling me Cora?” she had asked, her small nose scrunching up because she was hiding a prolonged blush.

“Only on special occasions.”

“Like…?”

I left her question unanswered and blessed her with kisses on her neck instead. 

Now, that moment feels a lifetime away as I look at the absolute seriousness on her face.

Sebastian starts talking, his voice a monotone about clauses and indemnities. I’m not listening. I’m lost in her.

I’m remembering the smell of her. Baccarat Rouge 540—that mad blend of burnt sugar, saffron, and jasmine. It’s the scent of a woman who is both the luxury and the flame, a scent that clings to my sheets and memory. I’m remembering the sound of her laugh, not the polished one for clients, but the real one that comes as a sudden, unguarded burst.

My mind conjures the feel of her body against mine, the way she fit perfectly under my chin. I remember watching her once when she didn’t know I was looking, frowning at her phone, chewing on her bottom lip in a way that was so endearingly anxious. I see the tiny, almost invisible scar on her neck, a flaw I’ve kissed, a part of her history I don’t know but adore.

This is why, a voice whispers in my head. This is why you’re falling. It’s not just the brilliance or the ambition. It’s the whole, complicated, breathtaking mess of her. The strength and the vulnerability, the fire and the fear. She is the most real thing that has ever happened to me.

I’m an idiot in love.

“King?” Sebastian’s voice pulls me back. “Your signature.”

I blink. The pages are in front of me. I pick up the pen and scrawl my signature in all necessary spots. I slide the documents to her.

She signs. Adaeze Cordelia Nnadi. The name is a poem on the page. Our futures, legally, professionally, bound.

The lawyers leave with murmured congratulations.

She finally looks at me, and in her eyes, I see the same war I feel raging inside me.

“King,” she says, and her voice is soft but firm. “This… changes everything.”

“It does,” I agree.

She takes a breath. “What’s between us… the… closeness… it has to stop here.” She gestures vaguely between us, a world of meaning in the space. “We can’t date. We can’t blur these lines. It would be… unprofessional. It would poison everything we’re trying to build.” She offers a small, pained smile. “We have to be smart about this.”

Smart. The word is a dagger. It’s the same word I’ve lived by my entire life. And now, it’s the word she’s using to build a wall between us. Not like I didn’t see this coming. In fact, it was my first scenario when I thought of our future together. But I’d also hoped she’d find a way around it, like me.

The bittersweetness of it is a physical pain. I am heartbroken by her resolve, and yet, my admiration for her swells, making the heartbreak even more acute. She is protecting what we’ve built, even from ourselves. This is why I want her.

“We’re on the same page, Adaeze. Business first.”

The relief that floods her features is a brutal sight. I have given her what she needs. I have honored the strong, pragmatic woman I fell for.

She stands, clutching the signed contract to her chest like a shield. “I’ll see you on Monday, partner.”

“Monday,” I echo. We shake hands and I lead her to the door. She walks out, and I sit in the sweetness of her perfume. The most intelligent, strategic move of my life has just left me ruined.

***

In the silence of my apartment hours later, I shrug off my jacket, and it feels like I’m shedding a skin. 

The doorbell rings. I frown. I’m not expecting anyone.

I open the door to find Ifechi standing there with a strained smile on her face. And flanking her, my two anchors to everything simple and good: Melody and Flourish. Melody gives me a quiet smile. Flourish doesn’t bother with formalities. She launches herself at my legs with a happy cry of “Uncle King!”

I scoop her up, accepting the comfort that her small weight offers. “Hey, little explorer.” I look over her head at Ifechi. “Fechi. This is a surprise.”

“I hope it’s a good one,” she says with a voice a little too bright. Her eyes are doing that thing they do, searching my face, looking for the cracks, trying to gauge if the business split has spilled over into blood. “We were just in the neighborhood. The girls have missed you.”

“I’ve missed them too.”

I step aside to let them in. Melody walks in with her mother’s careful poise, but her eyes are already scanning the room for my gaming console.

Ifechi hovers by the sofa, not sitting. “You know,” she begins, “I was thinking about how we used to do that last Sunday of the month lunch. All of us together. I miss that.”

I set Flourish down, and she immediately makes a beeline for a stack of comics she’s not allowed to touch. “We can start that up again,” I say, meaning it. “It doesn’t have to stop because Don and I aren’t sharing an office.”

Ifechi’s shoulders relax a bit. “Good. That’s good. And with Christmas coming… I was hoping we could all make plans. Spend it together. Like always.” She pauses, and a shadow passes over her face. “Your mom… she’s decided she’s staying with us for the holidays. Don’s idea.”

She doesn’t say more, but she doesn’t have to. I know my mother and her quiet, unyielding judgments. I know what it means for Ifechi to have her in the house for the entire season.

“All is good with us, Fechi,” I tell her, my voice firm and gentle. “Despite everything. The business is the business. You’re my family.” I meet her gaze squarely. “And congratulations on the textile business. I mean it. I wish you nothing but success.”

The last of the tension leaves her body. The performance is over. She came to test the waters and to build a bridge, and I’ve let her know the bridge is still standing.

“Thank you, King,” she says, her smile finally reaching her eyes. “I should get these monsters home for dinner.” She turns to gather the girls. “Oya o! Say goodbye to Uncle King.”

“No!” Flourish runs to me and clutches me tightly. “I want to stay with Uncle King and play games!”

Melody looks up from the gamepad already in her hands, a flicker of hope in her eyes. “Can we, Uncle King? Please?”

Ifechi starts to protest, but I cut her off. “Let them stay,” I say. “They can have a sleepover. I’ll bring them back tomorrow.”

The hours that follow is a gift from the torture of not having Deze in my arms. A blur of cartoon soundtracks, the frantic clicking of game controllers, and the smell of buttery popcorn. I let Flourish beat me at every racing game. I listen to Melody explain the complex social hierarchy of her class with a seriousness I haven’t felt in years. In the morning, I take them for ice cream, and Flourish gets more on her dress than in her mouth, and for a few hours, the only thing that exists is their laughter.

I return them to Don and Ifechi’s house on Saturday evening, each with a bag of presents. The air between Don and I is still careful, but it’s not hostile. We make small talk about the girls, about his plans for the new business. It’s cordial.

As I’m turning to leave, my hand on the car door handle, his voice stops me.

“King.”

I look back.

“This thing with you and Ms. Nnadi. How deep are you in?”

I look at my brother, and a slow, genuine smile touches my lips, a secret I have no intention of sharing.

“Deep enough,” I say.

***

I’ve just parked across the street from her house. The drive here was a blur, as if a giant magnet pulled my subconscious mind and my conscious is only now catching up.

What are you doing, Kingston?

The thought is a cold splash of water. This isn’t me. I am a man of schedules and appointments. I don’t show up unannounced at a woman’s door after she has explicitly drawn a line in the sand. I respect boundaries.

This is what stalkers do, a voice hisses in my head. You’re the client who can’t take no for an answer. You’re becoming the very thing you despise.

I look at her house. A light is on in the living room. She’s in there. Just a short walk across the street, a knock on the door, and I would see her.

My phone sits silent in the passenger seat. I could text. I could call. But that would give her a chance to say no. And right now, the need to see her is a physical ache that overrides all logic and protocol.

I get out of the car.

The walk to her door feels both endless and instantaneous. I raise my hand and knock, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet night.

A pause. The shuffle of feet. Then the door opens.

She stands there, backlit by the warm light from inside. She’s changed out of the baby blue dress into soft-looking sweats and her hair is pulled up in a loose knot. She looks younger, softer, and so beautiful it makes my chest hurt.

“I know,” I finally say, breaking the silence. “I know what you said. About being smart. About the lines.”

I take a half-step closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of her cologne.

“But I can’t stop thinking about you, Adaeze. I can’t.”

“I knew you’d come,” she answers with a smile.

“Am I that predictable?”

“No. I summoned you in the spiritual.”

I laugh. Her eyes are locked on mine.

“Okay, priestess. I just came for a kiss,” I whisper, the admission feeling both foolish and utterly essential. “That’s all. One kiss, and I’ll go. I promise.”

For a long second, she just looks at me. Then, a slow, disbelieving laugh escapes her. It’s not a laugh of mockery, but of surrender, of shared insanity.

That’s all the invitation I need.

I erase the final distance between us as my arm goes around her waist and pulls her face to mine. I fiercely lower my mouth to hers.

It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a confession. A kiss that says to hell with the lines!

And when my foot crosses the threshold, and I step into the warmth of her house, pulling her with me as the door swings shut behind us, she doesn’t stop me.

***

The first thing I register is the scent. Not my own crisp, clean linen, but one of her signature scents. Jasmine and something uniquely, intimately her. The room is dark, and she is curled against my side, her breathing soft and even. The windows are wide open, and the night still lingers on this cold Monday morning. The dry season has officially announced itself. 

I’m in her bed. The memory of the last two days—a tangle of limbs, dirty talk, laughter, and a language that belongs to just us—will be stamped on me permanently. But right now, reality creeps in.

I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. In her bathroom, I see my reflection in the mirror. A man looking back at me with a quiet, dazed wonder I don’t recognize. A man who has mixed business with pleasure and will do it all over again.

I turn to the small shelf that holds her toiletries and take an unopened packet of a spare toothbrush. My mind flashes back to the first time I slept over, when I’d grumbled about morning breath. She’d just smiled, reached into this same shelf, and handed me a toothbrush from a collection.

I’d foolishly wondered how many men she had had in this bathroom, using these spare toothbrushes. But now, all I can think is how incredibly thoughtful she is. It’s a small, practical kindness. The kind of thing a hostess does, the foresight of a first daughter, making sure everyone is comfortable, even when she’s playing the part of the spoiled princess.

The door pushes open. She stands there, covered in a flimsy robe. She secures it tighter when our eyes meet in the mirror. On Saturday night, she had been shameless, undressing in front of me, right in her living room, as if she were the last woman on earth, and I was the only man. It hadn’t been a gentle peeling of clothes. She’d made it known that she wanted me as urgently as I desired her. At the sight of her nudity, I had lost all ability to speak, and let my mouth and hands do the talking. When I found my voice later, it was to whisper the sweetest things into her ear in the middle of her kitchen while my fingers traveled down her navel to the soft, dripping center of her I’d claimed just a while ago. 

“Good morning,” she says to me now. Her eyes are soft with sleep.

“Morning.” I finish brushing. We move around each other in the small space with a new, careful choreography. There’s no awkward bumping, just a silent, heightened awareness of the other’s body. The air is thick with everything we’re not saying.

I go back to the bedroom. I don’t get dressed. I just sit on the edge of the rumpled sheets, waiting.

She comes out a few minutes later, her face clean and bare. She doesn’t say anything, either. She lies down on her side, facing me, and pulls the duvet up to her chin. I mirror her, turning to face her. We’re lying nose to nose, our shared minty breath mingling in the small space between us.

“It’s past five,” she whispers. “Why are you awake?”

“Force of habit.”

We don’t talk for a few more minutes.

“So,” I say, “first day of work.”

A slow smile touches her lips. “Yeah. First day.”

The words hang there. Partners. We have to go into that office and be professional. We have to sit in meetings and make decisions, and I have to pretend that the warmth of her skin, the taste of her mouth, and the last 48 hours never happened. The impossibility of it settles in like a cold knot in my stomach.

“Why isn’t Monday part of the weekend?” she asks, and it’s great to know she feels the same way I do. I smile and gently touch her cheek. My hand feels heavy on her face. 

“I have to go, Cora.”

Cora. The name I can’t let go of. The one she allowed me moan into her ear while I was deep inside her. The memory of it sends a message downwards. Things are about to blur if I don’t leave this house now. So, I sit upright and start to move. My foot hasn’t even touched the floor when her hand darts out from under the duvet and grabs my wrist. Her grip is surprisingly strong.

“Wait,” she whispers, her eyes pleading. “Just… one more. Please.”

I don’t hesitate, as I throw the duvet off and slide back to find the warmth of the bed and coolness of her lips. My kiss is unhurried and slow, and when it leaves her mouth, it travels down her body. I don’t intend to rush, as this might be the last time I’m with her this way.

In the dark, as a lone dog howls in the distance, I employ every sense in loving her.

Sight: Moonlight filters through the window, painting her body in shades of brown and shadow. I watch the expressions across her face. Pleasure, anticipation, bliss.

Sound: I listen to her breath when my tongue circles her nipple. The soft, pleading whimpers that escape her throat, the way she moans my name like a prayer.

Touch: My hands rediscover every inch of her. The softness of her inner thighs, the firm swell of her rounded bum, the delicate ridge of her spine. I learn her body like a map I never want to forget.

Taste: I taste the salt on her skin, the unique sweetness between her legs, the faint hint of mint in her mouth.

Smell: Her scent is everywhere. On the sheets, on my skin, in the air I breathe. It’s the scent of sex, of a woman who’s falling for me but doesn’t know. Her fragrance is now permanently etched into my soul.

I enter her, and I set her on a slow, deep, rolling dance. We move together, our eyes locked in the dim light, communicating everything we haven’t yet said with the unhurried but powerful thrust of our bodies. It’s about connection and capturing a moment in time we might never have again.

It goes on until daylight shows up, and we have to catch our breaths. Neither of us cums, as if we’re both afraid to end it. 

“Please, don’t go,” she whispers as I pull out of her. I smile, kiss her and get off the bed. A few minutes later, she watches me dress in silence. The air is thick with goodbye. At her front door, she looks up at me, her professional mask already trying to slide into place, but not quite fitting.

“Bye, King,” she says softly.

“Bye, Adaeze.”

I walk to my car and slide into the driver’s seat, the leather cold through my clothes. I grip the steering wheel, as my head falls back against the headrest.

“Fuck,” I whisper into the silence of the car. 

***

The office has its usual Monday morning hum, as I walk in and respond to quiet greetings. I head straight for my office, needing the sanctuary of my desk to assemble the professional mask I’d left in a tangled heap on Adaeze’s bedroom floor.

But she’s already here.

She’s sitting in one of the visitor’s chairs in front of my desk, back straight, legs crossed. She’s wearing a brown, fitted dress, hinting at the curves I’d traced with my hands just hours ago. Over the dress, she has a long, deep blue denim jacket, and her feet clad in white sneakers. The combo is business-casual, and I approve. But it’s her hair that steals the air from my lungs.

She’s wearing it natural, held up in an updo from behind while the front is styled to the left in curls. My fingers twitch with the memory of being buried in this very hair, feeling the soft, dense texture against my skin as she moaned my name into the dark.

Is she trying to torture me?

Everything about her, sitting here so composed, is a screaming reminder of the weekend. The subtle shift of her shoulders reminds me of how she’d arched against me. The way her now painted lips press together reminds me of how they’d felt whispering against my neck. How in God’s name am I supposed to sit here and talk about profit margins and client portfolios?

I don’t even make it to my chair.

“Good morning, partner,” I say, my voice thankfully steady. “A tour?”

“Good morning, King.” She stands. I lead the way out, my hand hovering just behind the small of her back, not touching, but close enough. It’s a special kind of hell.

Her office is directly across from mine. It used to be Don’s. It’s larger and has a better view than the one next to mine, which I’d given to Marian. I’d seen the flash of displeasure in her eyes last week when I told her. But this office has to be Adaeze’s. I need to be able to look up from my desk and see her.

“All yours. When you settle in, you can redecorate as you wish.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m calling a meeting in five to introduce you to everyone.”

I return to my office, make an important phone call, and step out again to the open plan hub, the heart of Barrett Brothers. I raise my voice. “Everyone, gather round for a quick announcement, please.”

There’s a shuffling as planners, coordinators, and assistants form a semi-circle. Adaeze’s team of four move to stand loyally beside her. 

“Morning, everyone,” I begin, projecting a confidence I’m borrowing from some deep, untapped reserve. “Some exciting changes. So, firstly… Don is no longer with us here.”

There’s a collective gasp.

“Okay, that wasn’t so exciting.”

“What happened to him?” someone asks, and the import of her question makes me laugh.

“Nothing happened to him. He’s alive and well, but he’s moved on to build something of his own.”

“We’re going to miss him,” Marian says. I don’t miss the sincerity in her tone. I’m beginning to lean hard into my theory that there had been a workplace romance between them.

“Okay, moving on! Barrett Brothers has formally acquired Daze Events. Please, welcome Adaeze Nnadi, our new Head of Creative and Special Projects, and her talented team.”

There’s silence at first and the quick glances my staff throw into each other’s faces. I allow the surprise settle.

“Adaeze is a senior partner here, meaning she owns part of this company. You’d do well to accord her the same respect you do me.”

Only then does my team welcome her. She gets a few genuine smiles, but I don’t care. They’ll have to adjust soon.

“Adaeze will be spearheading our new ‘Barrett Experiences’ division,” I continue, “focusing on curated programs for couples and high-level corporate retreats. I expect everyone to give her and her team your full support.”

Just as I finish, the main door opens and a familiar but unfriendly face walks in. I instantly recall the book signing night and the formidable woman in a police camouflage uniform that was obeying her boss’ order to throw Deze out of the premises. 

“Good morning,” the tall and beefy woman in a punk hairstyle greets. Her eyes are directed at Deze, who has immediately gone stiff.

“Good morning,” Marian answers. “You’re welcome to Barrett and Barrett.”

Our front desk girl is clearly not going to have her job by tomorrow morning, as her continuous tardiness always leaves our reception unmanned at this time of the day.

“I am here to see Ms. Adaeze Nnadi,” the policewoman says.

“Hope all is well?” I ask, moving toward her threateningly. 

She eyes me and takes her stare back to Deze.

“Please, come with me.”

I’m about to say something in objection but a blink in my direction from Deze lets me know she can handle it. 

“I’ll be back,” she says and follows the woman outside. I stare after them for a few seconds longer before I go back to addressing the staff. When I’m done, I return to my office, worried about Deze.

She stops in a short while after.

“I bring business your way,” she says. “Nkene Okon’s twins are turning ten. She wants me… us to handle the birthday event.”

“Wait. How did she know you were here?”

“Story for another day. But are you in or not?”

“Am I in? This is not about me, Deze. It’s you. You’re the one she humiliated. And it’s because of her husband, you got into trouble with the law.”

“And with one birthday party, we can erase all that.”

“Deze—”

“I know. But it’s huge money. I’m in.”

I squint, studying this amazing woman who truly is practical in all she does. Her ambition is both inspiring and scary. But why do I feel like she is hiding something from me? I can see it in her eyes.

“Fine,” I say.

“She wants me to meet with her for dinner this evening. I’ll keep you updated. See ya!”

I get the message. She doesn’t want me at the dinner meeting.

I watch the sway of her beautiful backside as she walks to her office. Right on cue, my phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number, but I know it’s the florist I contacted yesterday.

Delivery confirmed. Recipient: A. Nnadi.

A few minutes later, the tardy front desk girl walks into Deze’s office, carrying a bouquet of flowers. I’d picked a combination of sunflowers, yellow roses and pink lilies. It comes with an unsigned congratulatory note.

I allow myself a small, private smile. Shortly, my personal phone lights up on my desk.

Adaeze: Stop.

I pick it up, my thumb hovering over the screen. The professional mask I’ve been clinging to finally cracks, just for me.

Last night, I muse, it was “don’t stop.”  

I text her back. 

Me: Yes, boss.