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Chapter 13: Deze

As sure as death and taxes, I’d known he would come; just as he had known I wouldn’t turn him away. And we’d both known that the time we would spend together could be our last for a long while—maybe even forever. Two highly ambitious individuals, ready to burn everything that stands in the way of our success, yet throwing away commonsense in a moment of desire.

When he asked for that one last kiss and I let him in, I had every intention to use each second with him to the max. From my small couch to the kitchen, and later to the bathroom, King was more than I’d fantasized he would be. He was a force of nature, and for two days, I was happy to be swept away in his wake.

No, it wasn’t the sex, although that moved the needle a lot. It was just… him.

It was the way his arm was thrown over his face as he breathed deep and even. In the quiet of my room, with the Sunday morning light filtering through the blinds, he looked younger. The usual intensity around him was gone. The shrewd, observant eyes were closed, and the stubborn set of his jaw had softened in sleep. He was just a man crazy about me. A vulnerable one.

And that’s when it hit me. This quiet, inconvenient truth: What I felt was more than a flutter in my tummy.

I really, really, really liked him.

Not just his body, or his ambition, or the way he’s made me laugh. The whole complicated, driven, unexpectedly-gentle package. It is a terrifying fact that has come to stay. The line between our strategic merger and something real has just been irrevocably blurred. The demolition didn’t work; instead, he’d laid a foundation.

And I have no idea what the hell to build on it.

But like I said, business comes first. This is why I do my best to mentally shut him out of my mind as he drives away from my house, even though I’m still throbbing from him being inside me all weekend. 

I take a shower, listening loudly to a motivational speech from Carla Harris.

“Every choice that you make has a consequence,” she says. “As you go forward from this day, I will urge you: when faced with a choice, choose the options that position you to be a leader.”

“Preach!” I exclaim, barely escaping a soap sud headed into my nostril. 

Are you a leader, though? My inner voice asks. Were you a leader when he had you right here in the shower?

I shut out the voice and tune back to Carla Harris. When I’m done with my shower, I get dressed for work, keeping my outfit casual. My dress code for Barrett Brothers is going to be as unpredictable as my workplace personality. I’m only interested in hitting those goals and bringing money in.

Now dressed, I give myself one last look, slowly running my palms down my curves. I tell myself that I picked this outfit for myself alone, but somewhere in my mind, I have this mental image of King’s eyes following my body whenever I’m not looking. The man has a thing for detail, and his eyes won’t miss the way I’ve rolled the cuffs of my jacket, or how I’ve played with textures in my ensemble, combining the roughness of the denim with the soft knit of the dress. Most of all, he will appreciate the trail my perfume leaves when I walk past him.

Grabbing my handbag, I leave the house. 

***

The memory of the policewoman’s cold stare is a fresh brand on my mind as I sit in this discreet restaurant booth. The lighting is soft, and the air smells of lemongrass and polished wood. My fingers are wrapped tight around the stem of my wineglass. I haven’t taken a sip. It’s just something to hold onto.

She doesn’t sweep in. She appears, dressed in a deep plum-colored pantsuit, and slides into the booth opposite me. 

“Have you ordered?” No greeting. As if we are resuming a conversation we were already having.

“I’m not hungry.” 

Her head tilts slightly. She scans me, the wine glass, and the untouched menu. 

“How did you find me at Barrett Brothers?”

“That’s a rather stupid question, Adaeze.”

I cross my arms. “Why am I here, Mrs. Yele?” Addressing her by her husband’s name is deliberate. “We both know this isn’t about your daughters’ birthday party. You threatened to dismantle me and my family. You had me publicly humiliated. Now you want to hire me?”

“Yele served me with divorce papers,” she says casually. “It happened on the day of the book signing. That was the source of my… poor mood.”

I look at her. Divorce. 

For me, the word is so monumental, so life-altering, yet she says it like she’s commenting on the weather.

“I blame you. He’s in love with you.”

“Not true.”

“I know my husband. He doesn’t simply desire things. He becomes consumed by them until they are his.”

A cold dread settles in the pit of my stomach. 

“What does that have to do with me? If he’s serving you papers, that’s your business. You are Nkene Okon. You don’t need a man like that. You won’t be the first powerful woman to get a divorce.”

A short, harsh laugh escapes her, but she’s not amused. “Where I’m from, a marriage, especially this marriage, is not a private affair. It’s a public covenant. I cannot drag my children through the mud of a scandalous divorce. It is bad for them, and it is catastrophic for my brand.” She leans forward slightly. “I’m announcing my run for senate soon. And Yele knows this. He wants to destroy my ambition on his way out.”

She lets that sink in. 

“So, what do you want from me?” I ask.

“I want you to do what you were already doing before you dumped him,” she says in a near-whisper. “Go back to him. Keep him occupied. Keep him… distracted. If he has you, he might be content and forget about the divorce. We can all win. You get his protection and patronage. I get to keep my public image intact and my political future secure. And you? I’ll even restore your business. By the way, what were you doing in Barrett Brothers earlier? You’ve been hanging with King Barrett a lot. You know he handles Yele’s events, right? That was until you stepped into the scene. Are you fucking him too?”

“None of your business.”

“As I was saying, I’ll make you the number one event planner in Abuja. In fact…” She pauses, letting the offer hang in the air. “Concerning the birthday,” she continues, as if we’ve just settled the main order of business, “send your quote. I want the best children’s party this country has ever seen. And through it, I’ll publicly rehabilitate your image. We will be seen together. It will be a powerful message.” She gives a small shrug. “By the way, I made a call to the NFCC. They’re already working on your accounts, and they should be unfrozen by tomorrow. Consider it a gesture of goodwill. Women supporting women.”

I am utterly dumbfounded and slightly dizzy. From threats of ruin to a multi-million naira contract and the restoration of my finances, all contingent on me agreeing to be her husband’s official mistress.

She stands and smoothens down her suit. The meeting is over.

“Think about it,” she says in an almost friendly tone, then angles her body to give me a side hug, before leaving.

Weird. 

***

Hours after that meeting, I lean against my front door, feeling like I’ve been branded by Nkene’s request. I need an anchor, solid and normal. Thank goodness for the soothing strings of a classical symphony coming from my bathroom. I drop my handbag and walk in.

Fana is submerged in my rarely used claw foot tub, her head resting against the rim, eyes closed. The air is thick with steam and the scent of my most expensive bath oil. She’s high and doesn’t stir, so I back out, leaving her to her sanctuary. Some storms you don’t interrupt.

Pulling out my phone, I type a quick message into the family group: Reminder: Family meeting. Group call in 10 please

Almost instantly, my phone rings. It’s Daddy. He’s initiated the call. One by one, the squares light up. Mommy, her face serene. Queen, looking irritated at the interruption. Zulu in his scrubs, eating a carrot. Chika’s wife, showing up with a Korean face mask.

“Chika is in surgery,” Nan announces as I head back to the living room to escape the loud music. “He sends his love. Good evening, everyone.”

We all exchange greetings.

“Okay, nne,” Daddy says, his face filling the screen that all we can see is his reading glasses perched on his nose. “You called this meeting. What is it?”

I take a deep breath. “I have some news. Big news.” I can see their faces sharpen with interest. “I’ve sold Daze Events.”

The reaction is immediate. A chorus of “What?” and “Congratulations!” fills my speaker. But one square remains silent. Zulu. He just stares, a frown forming around his brows.

“Why?” His voice interrupts the celebratory noise. “Why would you sell a brand you built from scratch, Daze? I’m not impressed.”

“Let me finish,” I say, holding up a hand. “I sold it to Barrett Brothers. And I’ve been brought on as a senior partner. I own a part of the company now.”

The screen erupts again, but this time the tone is different. It’s a deeper, more respectful approval.

“Barrett Brothers?” Zulu’s frown vanishes, replaced by a look of dawning respect. “The Barrett Brothers? The ones who handle the Aso Rock gigs? The ones that built that events center in Jahi?”

“Yes. Although the older brother, Don, is no longer with the company. I’m partners with the younger one, King Barrett.”

“Now you’re talking! That’s a solid move, Ada. I’m impressed.”

Daddy adjusts his glasses, a sure sign he’s processing this new information. “This Barrett person… What did you call him?”

“King Barrett.”

“Is he married?”

The question is so typically Daddy that Queen and I burst out laughing.

“Daddy!” Queen chides, but she’s smiling.

“I’m just asking!” he defends himself, but a small smile plays on his lips too. “A man you go into business with… Hmm… It is important to know all about him. Is he… equipped to be a husband?”

“Daddy?” I laugh. 

“You know what I mean!” he insists, but he’s chuckling now. “As long as you have the protection of a man who is equipped, I approve.”

Of course, King is more than equipped to handle me. I don’t know about the husband part.

 “A senior partner! That is something.”

“I’m very proud of you, Ada,” Mommy says in her warm voice. “This is a wise, mature decision. A solid future.”

“Congratulations, Mma,” Queen says, calling me by my least liked name.

“Thank you, Nenye,” I respond, although my comeback is weak. Queen’s native name is her favorite.

“We would like to see this King of a person,” Daddy declares, and the call dissolves into a happy chaos of jibes and laughter before we finally say our goodbyes.

The moment the screen goes dark, my phone rings again. Zulu. 

I answer, still smiling. “Yes, Doctor Nnadi?”

“Oya, tell me about Mr. Equipment,” he says.

“You too? How did you allow Daddy put this madness in your head just now-now?” I lean back against my couch, the lingering scent of King’s perfume enveloping me. “There’s nothing to tell, Zulu. We’re just business partners.” 

“Hmm,” is all he says. I can feel his skepticism traveling across oceans to meet me.

Just then, my bedroom door opens. Fana walks out, completely nude, water droplets still glistening on her dark skin. She moves with a lazy, unselfconscious grace, her eyes half-closed, lost in her own world. She walks past the back of the couch, paying no attention to me or the phone in my hand.

Zulu’s face on the screen freezes. His eyes widen slightly, tracking her movement. “Who was that?” he asks.

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “You know.”

Fana walks back into frame. This time, she stops in front of the window to draw the curtains shut, her back to us. Zulu gets a full, unobstructed view of her bare back, and everything else. He’s completely lost, his mouth slightly agape.

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

He seems to shake himself, blinking rapidly. “I… I have to run off,” he stammers. “Talk later, Daze.”

The call disconnects abruptly.

I’m still chuckling when Fana turns from the window with a slow, hazy smile on her face. “He’s so going to soapy,” she slurs, with absolute certainty.

“Eww! He’s my brother! What’s wrong with you?”

She finds her way to the couch, curls on the space available, and falls instantly asleep.

I shake my head, a smile on my face. The interaction, as absurd as it was, leaves me feeling strangely grounded. The world of Nkene and Yele feels a million miles away from the simple but messy reality of my life.

My phone buzzes. A text from Zulu.

Zulu: I forgive you

Me: ?

Zulu: For not encouraging Fana and me to elope. 

What? I chuckle. My brother is not okay. He sees the love of his life nude, and instead of acknowledging that it has messed him up, he wants to prove that she means nothing to him.

Me: 😕

His next message comes in a string.

Zulu: Liatu Luka is the best thing to happen to me in a long time
Zulu: Firstly, she gave me a child
Zulu: Then, she supported my dream to pursue medicine out of Nigeria. She financed it and is now financing this hospital
Zulu: Let’s not forget that she freed me from a marriage I didn’t want. No fights, no drama, just a clean divorce with lots of benefits.

I am stunned into silence. This can’t be my brother, the hopeless romantic, sounding so… transactional.

Me: Bro!!!

Zulu: Hmm?

Me: I have a question

Zulu: Shoot

Me: Are you and Lia still…

The typing bubble appears, disappears, and reappears.

Zulu: If you’re asking if I’m part of her harem? NO!

Why is he shouting?

Zulu: Look I have to go.

Me: Suddenly???

He doesn’t respond with text. Instead, a voice note comes through with his warm laughter, followed by, “I love you, sis. Take care.”

I shake my head, laughing to myself. Not him denying his never-dying feelings for Fana.

I head to the kitchen to make dinner. I focus on the simple task of warming my food, fighting my mind from naturally replaying what happened during the weekend. 

***

Fana and I both wake up to my beeping alarm at 7 AM. Fana goes for a pee first and comes back with a toothbrush in her mouth.

“I have to be in Keffi before nine,” she murmurs as I hurry to the bathroom. “I really hate this job, Daze. I just want to be softly catered to by a man. Is that too much to ask?”

I pee and return to the bedroom.

“Zulu is all the man you need, and you know it, or you wouldn’t have done that thing you did last night.”

Laughing, she goes to rinse her mouth. 

“Don’t blame me. I’m a highly horny, highly emotionally abandoned girl, seeking attention.” She walks into the room. “But let’s talk about you… You and King… Oya, tell me all about the weekend.”

I can’t help the smile that stretches my lips.

“I’m listening.”

“It’s nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious, and you ghosted me all weekend? You better start talking.”

The memories from Saturday evening attack me without mercy. I tell Fana about how it started from the kiss at the door that landed us on the couch, where we had our first sex. Steamy, hardcore, loud, and utterly nasty. Nothing like the paced romantic image that my mind had conjured of us. I had screamed my lungs out, and God knows my neighbor is not going to look at me the same for a long time. 

“Forget your neighbor, abeg,” Fana says dismissively. “Continue.”

“Later, in the kitchen, as I was making dinner, he snuck up behind me and made me cum with just his voice in my ears, his lips on my neck, his fingers pressed against my clit, and his dick rubbing hard on my ass.”

“What?” Fana squeals. “Who is this guy?”

“Fanasiba, it was so intense that I begged him to fuck me. But he refused. He said that… he got immense pleasure from seeing me potty in his hands.”

She sighs dreamily.

“But he eventually caved in, and we did it in the shower. We just let the hot water run, and the steam fogged up everywhere and…”

Fana sighs again and slips into her dress. I laugh at her. 

“And you want to give all that up because of your business partnership?”

“This merger and my career mean everything to me. You know that.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just… I don’t want you and King to end up like me and Zulu.”

I hear the regret in her voice.

“He hates me, doesn’t he?”

“He doesn’t.”

“He won’t pick my calls or respond to my texts. Every year, I send him birthday messages, but no response. He’s never sent me a birthday wish. He hates me.”

I don’t know what to say at this point. My brother is an ass. 

“I’ll talk to him—”

“No, no. Please, no. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m desperate. Please, don’t say anything.” She smiles and shakes off her sad mood. “I have to go, Daze.”

“I’ll call you later.”

***

The morning is a whirlwind of logistics. We’re in the main conference room, King at the head of the table, me to his right. Spread out before us are the files for three major clients I’ve brought over from Daze Events. My small team and his key planners are hammering out the transition details.

King is all business, his voice that calm baritone that directs the flow of the meeting without effort. My mind keeps getting caught in the memory of his voice, low and rough in my ear, whispering things that had nothing to do with vendor contracts.

My phone vibrates on the table. An email notification. Then another. And another. A cascade of bank alerts. I tap the screen, my heart seizing for a moment.

It’s the NFCC. A formal, dry email stating that the freeze on all my corporate and personal accounts has been lifted, effective immediately. Before I can stop it, a loud, heavy sigh escapes me, which sounds like a moan.

The conversation at the table halts. All eyes flick to me.

“Everything alright, Adaeze?” King asks, his brow tilted up.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Carry on.”

But I forward the email to him. His phone lights up. He glances at it, then back at me. His expression is unreadable for a fraction of a second. There’s something there, a flicker of calculation before he steers the meeting back to where he left it.

When the meeting finally wraps up and the room empties, he doesn’t move. “Adaeze, a moment.”

I stay seated as the last of the staff files out. 

“The Nkene Okon situation. The twins’ birthday. It’s a significant piece of business. But I need to understand the play here. Last I checked, that woman wanted to feed you to the wolves. Now she’s handing you a golden ticket. Why?”

His eyes are sharp, probing. The man sees layers where others see surface. 

“I don’t know her full game,” I say, which is the truth. “She apologized for the book launch. Said she was having a bad day. She wants the best for her kids.”

King watches me. “A bad day,” he repeats. He leans forward slightly. I force my eyes to meet his. The intensity is enticing. “This is the part where I ask you the question everyone in this city has been whispering,” he says, his voice dropping. “Did you have an affair with Yele?”

The directness of it is a punch to the gut, and my five seconds of lust clears. My mouth, trained in self-preservation, moves on its own. “No, I did not.”

I see relief on his face.

“Okay,” he says, leaning back. “Then, we proceed with caution. We treat her like a client, not a benefactor. Every interaction is documented. Every decision is run by me. Understood?”

“Understood,” I echo.

“Good. Let’s get the initial proposal to her by end of day.”

I nod, gathering my things, desperate to escape the weight of his stare and the weight of my own lie.

***

Back in the sanctuary of my own office, I drop into my chair. I stare at the blank surface of my desk, but all I see is King’s face, the quiet intensity in his eyes when he asked the question.

Why did I lie?

The question echoes in the silence. I’ve lied to protect myself for months. Lying should be as easy as breathing. But with him, it felt… foul. It felt like a betrayal of the man who held me while I fell apart, the man who kissed me like I was the only solid thing in his world.

And why do I feel so bad about it? It’s not like I’m in love with him.

The thought is a flimsy defense. I may not be in love with him, but what we shared wasn’t nothing. Lying to him feels like I’ve dragged the corruption of my past into the one clean, well-lit space we’ve started to build together. I’ve tainted it.

And the worst part? The reason I lied is the same reason Nkene’s offer is so terrifying. Because if King knew the truth, that I did sleep with Yele, that his wife is now blackmailing me into doing it again, he would look at me the way I’m sometimes afraid he will: not as a partner, but as just another desperate woman playing a dirty game. I can’t bear to see that respect in his eyes turn to disgust.

***

King is not having a good day. From a flat tire, to an insubordinate staff he had to fire, and now to a cancellation from a high-profile banker client whose massive New Year’s gala Barrett Brothers is already planning. The man canceled ten minutes before we are due to leave the office for a meeting with him. King relays the news with a shrug, already taking off his suit jacket in his office.

“His loss,” he says, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. “But the reservation is at Céline. I’m not wasting it. Come on.”

It isn’t a question. 

Céline is all soft lighting and murmured conversations, a world away from the bright, functional mood of our office. We’re seated at a corner table, and we talk about the client who canceled, about the Nkene proposal draft, and about the logistics for the upcoming Shonola-Abbas wedding.

“Franklin Abbas is my friend. We all attended university together. So, this wedding is personal to me.”

“And the bride, Yewande Shonola? You know her?”

He looks at me, surprised.

“I’ve updated myself on every event we have from now until February.”

He smiles and looks like he wants to say something, but flags over a server instead. 

“I just got to know Yewande mid this year. Frank changes women like he breathes.”

The server comes by.

 “We’ll have the ’98 Dom Pérignon,” King says, not even glancing at the menu.

My eyebrows lift. “Celebrating the lost account?”

He gives me a slow, charming smile. “Celebrating the fact that the client didn’t show up. Which means this late afternoon lunch…” He leans forward slightly and his voice drops to that intimate register that makes my skin prickle. “…is not officially officious. No agendas. No minutes. Just two friends, eating food that’s too expensive, on a company card.”

The champagne arrives, and when the server pops it, it shatters whatever remaining tension there is between us. The first sip is dry and effervescent, and I feel something in my chest begin to unclench. King doesn’t talk about work again. He tells me a ridiculous story about Sody trying to paint his living room wall and ending up with more paint on the ceiling than the wall.

I see the affection in his eyes for his sister; it’s the same way Zulu cares about me.

We talk about everything and nothing. Music, the best spots for the best meals in Abuja, the secret nightlife in the city. 

The champagne flute is cool in my hand, but my skin is warm under his gaze. He’s effortlessly charming, drawing me out, making me forget the crooked paths in my life.

As the plates are cleared, leaving only our Arabian teas, the easy atmosphere shifts. 

“This is harder than I thought it would be,” he says.

“What is?”

“Acting like nothing happened between us.” He holds my gaze. “Sitting across from you in meetings, hearing your voice and having to pretend I don’t know what it sounds like when you…” He stops himself and rubs his palm over his neck, looking away. He brings his eyes down to his tea, then back to me. “It’s hard, Cora. But I’ll learn. I promised you business first.”

The confession is a sucker punch to the gut, sweet and painful at the same time. It’s everything I’ve been feeling but haven’t allowed myself to articulate. 

We linger until the afternoon burns away. Stepping outside, the first signs of darkness welcome us. We stand by our cars for a moment, and I think to myself that it would be so easy to follow him home and end a perfect day in his arms

“See you tomorrow, partner,” he says with a tone that is professional. But his eyes are soft when I look into them.

“Tomorrow,” I echo.

We go our separate ways.

***

Fana is a vision of yellow and sunshine on my doorstep this Saturday afternoon. Huge sunglasses perched on her head, a massive woven tote bag dangling from her shoulder. Her smile is a kilometer wide.

“Surprise!” she announces, as if the word itself is a gift.

I lean against the door frame, crossing my arms, playing along. “Is this the surprise party you promised?”

She swats my arm. “Agbaya! Surprise party ke? Me that I can’t even plan my own breakfast, it’s to be planning a party. I’m taking you out, jare. Let’s officially celebrate your epic new job and pretend you aren’t playing with fire with the hot man you call your partner.”

I hiss, smiling.

“So, go.” She shoos me back into my apartment. “Shower. Dress nice. And I don’t mean ‘client-meeting in a pantsuit’ nice. I mean, ‘we are young, fabulous, and drinking something expensive’ nice. Move it!”

An hour later, I’m sliding into the passenger seat of her car. I chose a simple but elegant buttery dress with yellow flowers to complement Fana’s outfit. It’s short, flare, and the Queen Anne cleavage makes me feel bustier than normal. 

“Oooh! We’re twinning!”

She forces me into a selfie with her, just before we leave.

“So, where is this temple of celebration?” I ask as the car pulls into the flow of Abuja’s non-existent weekend traffic.

“A new lounge in Jabi. Very discreet. Very chic. You’ll love it,” she says.

The lounge, ‘The Velvet Cadence’ lives up to its name. The entrance is understated, just a polished brass plaque. Inside, it’s golden lighting, and the soft, soulful hum of a jazz quartet. It smells of polished wood, old books, and expensive whiskey. It’s exactly the kind of place I love.

Fana, however, doesn’t pause to appreciate the ambiance. She threads her way through the main room with purpose, leading me towards a heavy, midnight-blue velvet curtain at the back.

“Reserved the private room,” she says breezily. “Just for us.”

She pulls the curtain aside.

The explosion of sound and light is absolute.

“SURPRISE!”

Confetti, actual, shimmering confetti, cascades from the ceiling. I physically stumble back a step, my hand flying to my chest, my heart hammering against my ribs. 

The room is filled with familiar, beloved faces. Chika, my ever-solid brother, is already beaming, an arm around his wife, Nan, who is blowing me a kiss. And there, shrieking my name, are my girls, some from school days, others from different moments in my life. Fana, who doesn’t like them on a good day because she’s jealous, somehow finds a way to have them all here, celebrating me. The thoughtfulness almost puts me to tears.

Across the room, leaning against a well-stocked bar with the easy grace of men who own the space, are King and Nabil. King’s eyes find mine immediately and sends warmth my way.

Fana pushes me forward into a tidal wave of affection. I am passed from hug to hug. For a few minutes, I am just Deze. Not the scandalous planner, not the new partner, just a woman surrounded by the people who loved her before any of it happened. I’d forgotten I was this person. 

King intercepts me as I surface from someone’s embrace. His hand finds the small of my back as he guides me to meet his friends. “These four have been dying to meet you properly,” he says. “Tega. Our resident guardian of law and order.” 

Tega, sharp-eyed and with a firm, no-nonsense handshake, offers a respectful, “Ma’am.”

“And this is Boma,” King continues, nodding to the man with a calm, intelligent face. “The wizard who makes our numbers sing and keeps us from bankruptcy.” Boma’s smile is warm, his handshake brief but friendly. 

“A pleasure, Adaeze. We’ve heard… a lot.” His eyes twinkle. 

“This is Babatunde. But we call him Baba or Babs. He’s a pilot. We don’t always get to see him.” 

Baba shakes my hand, and I’m tempted to ask why his palm is so soft and his skin looks like he spends his waking hours in a spa.

“Finally, this is Franklin Abbas, whose wedding we’re handling. He’s an engineer.”

Franklin takes my hand and kisses it. King calmly extracts my hand from his.

“And you know, Nabil, of course.”

Nabil smiles at me. “Nice to meet you again, Adaeze.”

I smile at them, all handsome men. The party is alive with clinking glasses, overlapping conversations, and bursts of laughter. Abebi is deep in discussion with Marian, whose unwelcome presence here is a surprise to me. But she looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her, so I’ll let it fly. 

King has me and Deze at a table with him and Nabil. I notice that Nabil shifts his chair closer to Deze’s and whispers into her ears now and then, making her laugh. King is more subtle with the way he gives me attention. He flags my empty glass for a refill before I can notice, gently nudges a shared plate of appetizers my way, and when a sudden draft hits, he casually shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over the back of my chair.

At some point, the music lowers and Fana climbs onto a small, makeshift platform and taps a butter knife against her champagne flute.

“Everyone! A little attention for the woman of the hour!” Her voice, trained to command attention in boardrooms and halls, stops the chatter.

All faces turn to her, then to me. Fana’s expression is pure affection and pride.

“This,” she begins, her gaze sweeping the room before landing on me, “is my best friend, Adaeze Cordelia Nnadi. The most stubborn, most ambitious, most resilient, most gloriously brilliant woman I have the privilege of knowing.”

“Tell them, baby!” I hola. King laughs.

“She has walked through fire that would have incinerated a lesser person. And she didn’t come out with ashes. She came out with steel.”

She turns, her gaze finding and holding King’s across the room. “She’s in the right place now. With people who see that steel and respect it. King Barrett, take good care of her o, you hear me?”

I catch the curiosity on Chika’s face as he looks at King, who nods at Fana.

“She’s a national treasure.” She raises her glass high. “To Deze! To survival! To new beginnings on her own damn terms!”

“TO DEZE!” A wave of love and approval washes over me from my guests. I blink back sudden tears, offering a wobbly smile. King puts his arm around me in a side hug.

“Congratulations.”

As daylight turns to darkness, the drinks flow, formalities dissolve and friendships merge. People dance with abandon. King and I do not dance. We become observers, leaning against a wall.

He shifts closer, his shoulder brushing mine. “Reminds me of the first time we danced in that club.”

I keep my eyes on Boma attempting a terribly complex dance move with Abebi. “That wasn’t dancing. It was a release.”

“It was perfect.” I don’t have to look at him to know he’s smiling too.

Eventually, the party mood winds down. Chika and Nan leave with crushing hugs and promises of a family lunch. He looks into King’s eyes curiously when he shakes his hand. My girls depart in a flurry of air kisses and “call me’s!”. Abebi and Marian share a taxi. Baba and Franklin are next to leave when a chauffeur comes for them. Nabil, Tega, and Boma are locked in a heated, laughter-filled debate about football. The room feels larger, quieter. 

Fana is hunting for her sunglasses under a table when King walks over to where I stand.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, as if he were the host. The formality is touching.

Then he closes the distance and pulls me into a hug. It is not the brief, back-patting hug of acquaintances. It is full. His arms are strong around me, one hand splayed against my back, the other cradling the back of my head just for a second. It lasts three heartbeats too long to be casual. 

He releases me but keeps one hand on my arm, as if to steady us both. With his other hand, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small, flat box, wrapped in matte charcoal gray paper and tied with a single, slender ribbon of black satin.

“A small token,” he says, his eyes holding mine. 

Fana pops up from behind the table, sunglasses in hand. “Oooh, intrigue! A present!”

I take the box. It’s almost weightless, leaving me curious. “Thank you, King.”

He nods and Fana herds me toward the exit. As we get to Fana’s car, Nabil comes after us.

“A word?” he says to her, and they find a spot between her car and another’s. They talk for a couple of minutes, ending in a hug that has Nabil leaving a kiss on her cheek.

“What was that?” I ask when she returns to me.

“Nothing,” she answers.

“Fanasiba, you and Zulu must work. None of this Nabil thing you’re doing. I am invested.”

She simply smiles. 

In her car, as she hums a tipsy, contented tune beside me, I carefully untie the satin ribbon. I peel back the gray paper.

Nestled inside a velvet box is a single, exquisite object.

A silk sleep mask. It is crafted from the finest silk in a deep, lustrous shade of purple—the unmistakable color of the silk lingerie I wore on that Saturday night after we first made love. The edges are meticulously woven with a thread of gold so subtle it only catches the light at certain angles. It’s an object of pure, quiet luxury. Deeply intimate.

Tucked beneath it is a small card. I pull it out. His cursive handwriting is there:

For when the city lights are too bright.

– Barrett

My breath gets caught in my throat. It’s a direct, tender reference to my offhand complaint about the relentless security lights from the house across the fence, filtering through my curtains and ruining the perfect darkness. 

This is a shared secret. It says, I remember the small things. I see your unguarded moments, and I want you to have peace in them.

“A sleep mask?” Fana laughs. “King Barrett, you romantic weirdo!” 

“I smile.”

“This is the kind of thing a bad boy will do, Daze. By the way, he planned this whole surprise party. All I did was invite people.”

I close the velvet box gently, holding it in my lap as Abuja scrolls by the window. The ghost of his hug, the weight of his gaze all night, and the intimacy of this gift come together in the quiet of the moving car. 

But all I can think of is why did I lie to him?