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Chapter 10: Deze

The first thing that strikes me about King’s apartment is the silence. It’s not an empty silence, but a deep, settled one, like the building itself is holding its breath. The air smells of a faint masculine fragrance and clean linen.

“Welcome to my bunker,” King says. He closes the door behind us, and the madness of the world psychologically vanishes.

I stand by the entrance, taking it all in. The floors are dark and spotless. Warm, earthy gray walls surround us, serving as a backdrop for two large, bold paintings that have splashes of gold, yellow, and indigo. The sofa set is minimalist but looks expensive and comfy, inviting you to sink into it. A sleek wooden coffee table holds a single art book placed precisely in the center and three remote controls at the edge. There is no clutter or stray magazines. No dust. It’s the home of a man who is utterly in control of his environment.

“It’s beautiful and… serious,” I finally say, and then clamp a hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. It’s beautiful. Just very precise.”

He lets out a genuine laugh. “Serious is accurate. The therapist in my head calls it ‘aesthetic control as a trauma response.’ I call it, knowing where the hell my keys are.”

I smile and shamefully remember the mess he met in my house when he came earlier.

“Come, I’ll show you around.”

He leads me through the living room to a short hallway. “This is the guest restroom.” He points to a door. “And this,” he says, opening the next door, “will be your room.”

The room is simple and serene. A large bed with purple beddings that have a harlequin pattern, a glass wardrobe, a bedside table with a reading lamp, and a large window that looks out onto a balcony with a few well-tended plants. The door that opens to the bathroom reveals that it’s as impeccably clean as the rest of the house so far. It’s a hotel room, but warmer. 

“This is lovely, King. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He gestures to the door across the hallway. “That’s the home office. You’re welcome to use it if you need to work or… well, if you just need a quiet space.” He doesn’t mention my non-existent business. The sensitivity is appreciated.

Finally, he stops at the last door at the end of the hall. He pauses, his hand on the knob. “And this is… my room.” He pushes the door open but doesn’t step inside.

I peer past him. It’s a larger version of the guestroom, dominated by a king-sized bed. 

“I don’t actually sleep in here,” he says, a hint of embarrassment in his tone.

“Why?”

He looks up at the ceiling. I follow his gaze. “The ceiling fell in some months ago. Right onto the bed. Missed me by seconds. They fixed it, but I don’t know… The trust is broken. I’ve been sleeping on the couch in the living room ever since because I don’t like the bed in the guestroom. It’s too soft.”

His confession is so strangely vulnerable. This man, who gives off such control, is defeated by a patch of drywall and soft beds. I feel a sudden, unexpected tenderness toward him. 

“The kitchen is that way.” He points and looks at me. “Do you love cooking?”

“No. But I’m a good cook when I try.”

He closes the door to his bedroom, as if shutting away a ghost. “So, that’s the grand tour. There are no real house rules. Mi casa es su casa and all that. Just… you know, the usual.”

“The usual?” I ask, following him back to the living room.

“Well, you know,” he says, ticking points off on his fingers. “Shoes off at the door.”

I stare down at my fancy slippers, which I hadn’t taken off at the door. I stare at his feet and find that they’re out of the sneakers he wore earlier and are now in a pair of slides. His toenails are well-manicured. 

“Sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay.”

“No loud noises after 10PM,” he continues. “The walls are thinner than they look. If you use the last of anything, you write it on the board on the fridge. Wash your dishes after you’re done eating. No leftovers in the kitchen overnight to avoid roaches. Absolutely no red wine on the sofa. That’s a capital offense. And the remote controls… they have to be aligned parallel to the edge of the coffee table. Not perpendicular. It just bothers me.”

I stare at him, my eyebrows creeping towards my hairline. “And you said there were no house rules.”

He shows me an unguarded smile. “Okay, fine. There are a few. But they’re more like guidelines for harmonious living. Lastly, the cleaning is sorted. I have someone who comes in every day for that. So, do not, on no account, pick up a broom or mop. Well, except for the kitchen when you use it.”

“Alright.” I chuckle. He seems to have every aspect of his life organized. I don’t know if I find it cute or weird. “I should warn you, sha… I’m not the most orderly person,” I confess. “But for the sake of harmonious living and the safety of your sofa, I will try.”

“That’s all I ask. And don’t worry about food or anything. I know… things are complicated for you right now. Consider me your temporary benefactor.”

“King, I can’t ask you to—”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. It’s settled.” His tone brokers no argument. “So, how long are you planning to hide out here?”

The question is gentle. I look around the beautiful, ordered space, a world away from the chaos of my life. “I don’t know. Is… is two weeks too long?”

“Make it a month,” he says. “Give yourself some breathing room.”

His phone vibrates, and he gives me an apologetic look. “Very important call.”

“It’s fine.”

I let him have his privacy and wheel my suitcase to the bedroom assigned to me. I shut myself in, switch on the AC and the water heater. It’s a few minutes after six, a good time to call Zulu. But when I try his number, it rings unanswered. I send him a voice note, asking him to call me when he’s free. Just then, Fana’s video call comes in. I brace myself for a scolding.

“Why am I the last to know?”

She has on the cute pout she thinks it’s a frown.

“I know you were busy with your dad, which always puts you in a bad mood—”

“So, instead of you to brighten my mood, you left me to suffer more.”

I laugh.

“Wicked human. You allowed Nabil break the news to me. It’s not fair.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her lips part in a smile. “Since you denied me the right to scream loudly, I’ll scream small.”

But she screams so loud in excitement that I have to place my phone away from me for a bit.

“And to think I almost wanted to dobale in front of my dad to ask for help. Thank God Nabil called and broke the news.”

“It’s all over now o.”

“Nabil was minimal with the gist. He won’t tell me who made the call. So, who did?”

If Liatu wasn’t Zulu’s ex and Fana’s least favorite person in the world, I would have told her the truth.

“I don’t think the NFCC had a case,” I respond “Plus, all the pressure from you guys.”

“Me, personally, I sent enough insults to that dirty Yele. And maybe he got tired of his name being dragged in the mud. I’m sure his wife gave him hell for it and told him to behave.”

My tummy flutters with guilt that hides behind a fake smile. 

“Of all the women in Abuja, he had to go after you. You, my friend, of all people!” she says in anger that won’t go away soon. She blames herself for introducing Yele to me. “And I bet you he’s terrible at sex. Men like him who can’t keep it in their pants are always one-minute men.”

I maintain my smile. Yele is far from a one-minute man, but I don’t think about our trysts fondly. Whatever pleasure I got from him has now left a memory of regret and guilt. I’m disgusted at myself for lowering my standard.

Fana is relieved I’m free and apologizes for her sudden trip to the east. Her father had a health scare, and with Auntie Fausti gone, he leans heavily on Fana, especially since his sons have proven useless. Fana, now holding the second-largest stake in the family business, nearly lost his favor by supporting her mother’s departure, but he soon realized she was all he had. Their bond is now a power struggle: he wields his authority as company head, while she exploits his dependence. His health is fading, and Fana remains his last tether to reality.

“He was asking me where his grandchildren were,” she tells me as I undress for a shower.

“Your brothers’ kids?”

“No. Mine. Daze, he was mentioning nonexistent names, and I was confused.” She laughs, and so do I. Then, silence. Fana is willfully child-free, a choice that began as rebellion against her husband and father but became an act of self-preservation, a refusal to raise a child in a loveless home. Her husband went on to have two children with other women, sparing her the role of stepmother. Yet I know she longs to be a mom, a dream she’s held since we were young.

“I’ve been thinking…” she says. 

“About?”

“Remember during the lockdown, how we spent an entire month locked in and talked about our future?”

I wince. I know where this is headed.

“Fana, we planned a lot of futures with so many possibilities.”

“The one possibility that if we get to a certain age and men were not in our lives, we could get sperm donors and have our babies and live together and co-parent them?”

“Ah… that possibility.”

“You think we can start planning towards it? I can’t wait for the divorce to be fully over before I start living my life.”

“And what about Zulu?”

“What about him?”

“He’s another possibility, Fana. There’s something very strong there.”

“I know, but I… Just in case, Daze. Just in case.”

“I want your child to be my niece or nephew. Forget all dis wan wey you dey talk. Zulu is your man. He will come back for you.”

“And you?”

“Me?”

“What next, after this whole NFCC thing? Start from scratch or…?”

This question stresses me out so much. It constantly rings in my head, and I don’t have clarity on which route to take.

“I’ll think about it. For now, I don’t know.”

“Just let me know when you figure things out. I’m always here to help. You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“And if you have plans to get knocked up, can you tell me, at least?” 

I laugh. 

“So that I can quickly have a night of drunken sex with a total stranger… Or several nights. We need to have our babies together.”

I laugh harder.

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, ma.”

“Is it weird that the more I have my life figured out, the more I find it hard to do things on a whim? I’m in control, but I want to play it safe.”

It’s called being scarred, bestie.

I get her. The younger me would have moved on from the NFCC scandal so quickly. I’d have run straight back to Yele, middle finger to the world, maybe even thrown a party. But this version of me cares. She thinks before she leaps. Maybe it’s why I haven’t had a real relationship in a while. The flings fade fast; I’ve lost my wonder. I don’t know how to fall in love anymore, only how to look for compatibility, not castles or perfect men.

“Daze?”

“Yes, luv.”

“I have to go.”

“Alright—”

“Wait… That is not your room.”

I freeze. 

“Whose room are you in?”

“This?” My eyes do a quick scan. “Hotel room. I just… I’m taking some time off.”

“That’s good. I need it too. When I come back, I’m joining you.”

“Okay.” I giggle. 

“Bye!”

I blow kisses to her and hang up. Okay, how do I tell her that King and I are not a thing, and I’m just bunking in his place platonically?

I shower and chang into comfortable nightwear. Stepping into the living room, I find King watching a football match. His eyes travel from the TV to me, and he stands. “What do you want for dinner?” he asks.

“Dinner?”

“Please, don’t tell me you don’t like food or you’re trying to lose weight.”

“Me, I like food o.”

“Good. There’s stew. We can boil rice. Or we could have afang and a light swallow. Or…” He points at the dining table and my eyes follow his finger. “You could have your chocolate cake and ice cream.”

My eyes light up. “You remembered.”

“How can I forget when you made the request less than three hours ago? Unfortunately, I can’t bring you Fana.”

I smile.

He walks to the table. “Being that this is a surprise, I had to choose a flavor for you. Please, tell me you’re a cookies and cream girl.”

“I am.”

“Great. I got coffee flavor for myself.”

And wine? Do you have wine?

“Thank you, King.”

“My pleasure.”

I take the ice-cream and cake and return to my bedroom. I really want to sit with him, but I don’t want familiarity to be the thing that kills this warm feeling between us. I’ll protect it, even if it might not lead to anything. It’s been a while since I permitted myself to like a guy.

As I settle in to enjoy my meal. My phone buzzes with an incoming video call from Zulu. I almost excitedly take the call, then I recall that Fana had recognized that I wasn’t in my bedroom. I fear that Zulu might notice, too. I let the phone ring out, then I initiate a voice call. 

“How are you, jailbird?” he asks and I laugh. We talk for almost three hours. When he finally hangs up, I switch off the lights, stretch out on the too-soft bed, and fall asleep.

***

Our coexistence begins as a careful dance. I learn his rhythm: up before dawn for a walk, then moving through the house, always humming. I avoid disturbing him for three days.

On the fourth morning, a deep, grinding ache in my belly betrays me. He hears my groans and stops outside my door.

“Deze? Are you okay in there?”

“I’m fine,” I manage in a strained voice.

“Is it okay if I came in?”

“Yeah.”

The door opens a crack. King peers in. His eyes scan the room, landing on the packet of pads on my nightstand. Understanding dawns.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Cramps?”

Heat floods my cheeks. “It’s nothing.”

He doesn’t leave. “Anything I can get to ease your pain?”

“You don’t have a hot water bottle, do you?”

“I do, actually. I have a younger sister who sends me on emergency ice cream and heating pad errands more times than I can count.”

“You have a sister?”

A smile transforms his face. “Rhapsody. Sody Barrett. She named herself that. She’s a force of nature. A brilliant artist, feisty, with a bad mouth who gets into more trouble than a teenage boy without home training.”

I laugh.

“Give me a second.”

He leaves and returns with a hot water bottle. Standing by the door, he tells me stories about his sister and the bond they share. I tell him about my family too, more than I did the last time.

When I realize that I’ve taken much of his time, I give him permission to leave. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

As he turns away, I thank him.

“Is there anything you want me to get for you on my way back?”

“No, thank you.”

At noon, I join a virtual meeting with my staff. My business is dying, and I’ve been absent. The update is grim: we’ve lost most of our clients and owe refunds. Abebi has been inundated with calls and complaints.

Guilt washes over me, but I’m not ready to return. I’d rather close this chapter and start again than build on the ruins.

“I don’t have the cash,” I confess. “NFCC has frozen all our accounts, mine and the company’s. I’m still waiting for them to be unfrozen.”

I allow the shock settle in.

“But since it’s the end of the month, and you guys need to be paid, Abebi will come and get cash from me.”

There’s uneasy silence, and I read their unspoken words. 

“Guys, Daze Events is not dead. Please, don’t leave me now. We’ll be back, stronger and better, I promise you.”

“What if that doesn’t happen?”

The question is from a twenty-one-year-old intern, fresh out of university, waiting for her NYSC.

“Like I said, I’ll figure things out.”

“So, it’s okay to get other side gigs?”

“Don’t we all do side gigs in Naija?” Abebi throws at her, knowing well what she’s alluding to.

“No, I meant, can we go and work elsewhere?”

“With other events planning companies, you mean?” Abebi retorts. Last night, she informed me that Atirola reached out to a couple of my staff.

“Gigi,” I say, sighing. “If you want to go and get a new job, that’s fine. I won’t hold you down. But… when we get back, don’t expect your position to be waiting.”

“I don’t really have any position,” she replies and sips noisily from a sippy cup in her hand, eyes looking away. Abebi shakes her head. I smile. I’m not angry at Gigi. She’s the honest one amongst the bunch. I know two of them are going to leave the moment this meeting ends. They’re just here to see if I can perform some magic.

“Okay,” I say, ignoring the biting cramp in my lower tummy, which has just returned with a vengeance, the painkillers having worn out. “Any other matter arising?”

The response is silence.

“All right, then. I have to rush to another meeting. But remember, please, no speaking to the press. No talking about it online, either. It will all come to pass, and we’ll be back where we left off like nothing happened. Have a good day.”

I leave the meeting, my shame as painful as my cramps. I have no other meeting to attend, but I had to give the impression that I’m still standing strong.

Shutting my laptop, I curl up on the bed and cover myself with a blanket as the cramps attack me viciously. I struggle with the pain until sleep takes me. I don’t know when King comes back until the sound of his laughter from the living room forces my eyes open. The cramps have subsided to a dull ache. The familiar sound of King’s laughter is comforting, a reminder of the safe harbor I’ve found.

Before I can get up, my phone rings, shattering the calm. It’s an unknown number. I take the call.

“Adaeze Nnadi,” I answer, my voice raspy with sleep.

“Adaeze, what is this nonsense I’m hearing from your girl?” The familiar voice on the other end is sharp, heavily British-accented, and brimming with fury. My tummy churns. I’ve closed this chapter of business already. Why this phone call?

“This is Ms. Adebanke Jolaoso, in case, you’ve forgotten me.”

“Good evening, Ms. Banke. I haven’t forgotten you.”

“I just got in from London, and I have a message from your assistant asking if I want a refund for my ‘Unleashed’ divorce party. Explain yourself.”

My heart plummets. Abebi, following my directive, must have reached out to clients we’re owing. I didn’t, however, ask her to send flippant messages.

“Ms. Banke, I am so sorry you were contacted that way. There’s been a… a situation with my company, and we’re currently reassessing our capacity—”

“Reassessing what?” she cuts me off. “I don’t care about your capacity. I care about my party. You planned my friend, Tope’s, 60th birthday. It was flawless. That is why I flew back to Abuja for this. I don’t care who you fucked or what scandal you’re in, Adaeze. I just care that you deliver what I paid you for.”

Her words are brutal, transactional, and oddly… empowering. In a city that has shunned me, here is a woman who only sees my talent.

“So, let me be clear,” she continues, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The date stands. The theme stands. I am not getting a refund. I am getting my party. Do not disappoint me.”

An apology dies on my lips. Instead, a new resolve steels my voice. “You’re right, Ms. Banke. The party will happen. I will handle it personally.”

“Good. I’ll expect your update tomorrow.” She hangs up without a goodbye.

I sit in the silence of my room, her words echoing. I don’t care who you fucked. I just care that you deliver. As her voice fades, another sound filters in. King’s warm laughter from the living room. And just then, an idea forms in my mind.

I push myself out of bed, smooth down my clothes, and walk into the living room. He’s lounging on the sofa, the TV playing a comedy special.

He mutes it as I approach. “You’re up. Feeling better?”

“Much,” I say, my heart hammering against my ribs. This is a bigger gamble than any I’ve taken before. “King, I have a proposition for you.”

His eyebrows lift in curiosity. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“I have a client. A high-profile, no-nonsense client who contacted me to plan her divorce party, which is in two weeks. She’s refusing a refund and is holding me to it. I can’t do it alone… and I was thinking… what if we co-planned it?”

He doesn’t hesitate. Not for a second. A slow, intrigued smile spreads across his face. I’m guessing it’s the look he gets when presented with a compelling business challenge.

“Co-plan it,” he repeats, nodding slowly. “I like that. Come to the office with me tomorrow morning. We’ll look at the brief together and see how Barrett Brothers can integrate.”

Relief floods through me. “Thank you, King.”

“You’re welcome.” He points at the TV. “You want to watch?”

I nod and take the space beside him.

***

The days fall into a seamless rhythm, with the “Unleashed” party as our shared obsession. The office becomes our war room. With Abebi’s coordination, King’s logistics, and my junior planners, we become a single, efficient organism.

Our synergy is undeniable. King builds the strategic skeleton; I flesh it out with nerve and detail. Our workflow is an unspoken dialogue, a shorthand of mood boards and Gantt charts. It feels less like collaboration and more like a single mind operating through two bodies.

This professional intimacy bleeds into everything. In the office’s quiet hum, I truly start to see him: the absent tap of his pen against his lips, the small scar bisecting his eyebrow, the straight line across his knuckles. I learn the warm timbre of his laugh and the scent of his perfume, how it settles into sandalwood and clean skin by late afternoon.

And the stares. During meetings, I glance up to find his gaze on me. An intense, unnerving look that has nothing to do with work and everything to do with the unspoken thing between us. The air feels thin and charged. It’s a dangerous hum we both ignore.

I notice Marian, too. Impeccably professional, her reports flawless. But her smiles are tight when directed at me, her praise delayed. She watches King with a softness she quickly masks. She doesn’t like me. The chill is there, subtle but unmistakable.

On the day of the “Unleashed” party, everything clicks into place. The venue is a masterpiece of elegance. Ms. Adebanke Jolaoso is thrilled and doesn’t hide her joy. It’s not just a celebration of escape from a marriage wrought with domestic violence. It’s the audacity that she does so in style.

 As the party reaches its peak, one of her guests, a regal, older woman, approaches King. I’m standing beside him, chatting with Zulu on the phone.

“This party was simply magnificent,” she gushes. “My 40th wedding anniversary is in two months, and I must have you plan it.”

King doesn’t miss a beat. He gently pulls me forward from where I’m standing slightly behind him. “Thank you so much. But I can’t take all the credit. This is Adaeze Nnadi, my partner. The creative vision is all hers. We’re a package deal.”

The woman’s eyes twinkle as she looks between us. “Oh, I see! You make a wonderful couple. You remind me of me and my Charles in our early days.”

My cheeks flush. “Oh, we’re not—”

“We do make a great team, don’t we?” King interjects smoothly, cutting off my correction and placing an arm around my waist possessively. At the same time, he tugs out a card from his pocket. “We’d be honored to discuss your anniversary.”

As the woman walks away with the card, he leans in and speaks into my ear with that delicious baritone. “See? Our first unofficial referral as a ‘couple’. We should charge a romance premium.”

I laugh, getting lost in the shared joke and the intimacy of the moment. Across the room, partially obscured by a floral arrangement, stands Marian. She isn’t supposed to be at this event, as she’s handling a smaller event elsewhere. Yet there she is, watching us. And this time, she makes no effort to hide the cold disapproval in her stare.

Just then, King’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He takes it out, glances at the screen, and the easy smile on his face vanishes. I peep at the screen. It’s Don, his brother.

From the scattered pieces I’ve gathered—a hushed argument I overheard in the office hallway, the way his staff tiptoes around the subject, the shadow that crosses his face at the mention of Don’s name—I know things are fractured between them. 

He excuses himself to take the call and returns a few minutes later. The tension on his face is now visible on his shoulders. “Deze, I’m sorry. I have to go see my brother. It’ll be quick, I’ll be back before load-out is finished.”

I wave him off. “Go. Handle your family. We’ve got this.”

But he doesn’t return soon. The party winds down, and the crew begins dismantling our creation. I pour a glass of champagne, toasting the hard-won battle and letting the high of success fade into a familiar quiet.

I’m grateful to King for letting me back into the world I love. I’d feared my trauma would ruin this for me, but here I am, already looking forward to the next event.

King reappears, his tie loosened. The tense look from earlier has deepened, etched into the lines around his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, “That took longer than expected.”

“It’s okay. Is everything alright?”

He shakes his head. I sense frustration in him. “Do you want to get a drink? I really need a drink.”

We end up at a pulsating club, ushered into a secluded VIP section. He orders a whiskey, neat. Then another and one more. I watch, with concern, as this man of controlled habits drinks like he’s trying to drown a memory. He then opens up about the friction he’s having with his brother and his brother’s wife, and how it is threatening their business.

“It feels like a weight I’m constantly carrying,” he says, his voice low and weary. “And I don’t even know why I’m still holding it. What am I trying to prove?” He turns to look at me. “What should I do, Adaeze? Any words of advice?”

“Talk to him,” I say softly. 

“But that was what I went to his house to do. We ended up yelling at each other. Again.”

“Talk to just Don. Without her. Say everything you just said to me.”

“And what if it doesn’t change anything? What if I lose him for good?”

“You won’t.”

“I still have Ifechi to deal with.”

“King, she is his other half. Not you. Their relationship trumps what you and him have, I’m sorry.”

Again, that sad laugh. Then, he gulps down his drink “He and I hawked stuff on the streets in Lagos. He was in Uni, I was in secondary school. When I got admission, we still hawked, in and outside school. We’ve come a long way. We can’t throw it away like that.”

“You shouldn’t. But what if that’s not what he wants?”

King holds my stare, and I see fear in his eyes that he poorly tries to hide. I reach over and cover his hand with mine, gently rubbing my thumb over the scars on his knuckles. “He’s your brother. Everything will be fine.”

He looks down at our hands, then back at me. I see the storm in his eyes beginning to calm. A weary smile touches his lips. “You know, you’re like a deep, cool breath after being trapped in a room with no air.”

“Stop lying.” I chuckle. He pulls his hand away from mine and motions for another drink. But I suddenly get to my feet and offer my hand. “Dance with me.”

He hesitates for only a second before his hand closes around mine. On the dance floor, we find a smooth, soulful sway to a fast song, like we’re warming up. But when the music tunes up to something primal and bass-heavy, the ease between us evaporates. Our dancing shifts into a conversation of hips and intent. It’s a raw, unspoken acknowledgment of the attraction we’ve been fencing for weeks. His hands settle on my waist, guiding me. I can feel the solid strength of him and the possessive press of his fingers. 

It. Is. Too. Much.

I break away, my breath coming in short gasps. “I… I need to sit down.”

He nods and follows me back to our seats. But the veil is off. We can’t pretend we’re just colleagues anymore. The air between us is thick and charged, and we sit in a heavy, awkward silence, unable to look at each other. The only other couple in the VIP room, clearly inspired by our display, takes to the floor, their own dance immediately picking up where ours left off.

I can’t bear it. 

“I’m ready to go home,” I say.

He stands, wordlessly, and leads the way out. We don’t speak as we walk to the car. We don’t speak as he opens the door for me. The silence in the car as he starts the engine is louder than any music, filled with everything we didn’t do, and everything we so desperately want to.

We maintain the silence until we get to his place. We enter the apartment, and the familiar, orderly space suddenly feels alien to me under the new tension. We move around each other like ghosts, both taking off our shoes at the door, both heading to the kitchen for water, both avoiding eye contact.

“Deze—” he begins, just as I say, “King—”

We stop. He runs a hand over his face. “I’m… I’m not in a good headspace tonight. Because of Don. And I don’t want to… I don’t want to start this with you when my head is somewhere else.”

His vulnerability, as usual, disarms me. “I understand,” I respond.

He nods and swings his pointed forefinger in the space between us. “But this isn’t over. This conversation.”

“I know.”

He gives me one last, long look that promises everything and nothing, then turns and walks to his bedroom, leaving me to go to my bedroom alone. The tension isn’t resolved; it’s put on pause, creating an agonizing, electric anticipation for the morning.

Sleep, when it finally comes, is a restless, fitful thing. My mind replays the feel of his hands on my waist, the heat in his eyes, the heavy silence in the car. I drift off with a desperate, half-formed prayer for the morning to bring clarity.

By morning, an old Anita Baker song is tangled in my dreams and I can’t shake it. I don’t remember the title, but one line echoes: In the morning, it’ll be all over in the morning.

The irony is an annoying joke because I wake up not with clarity, but with a low, throb of desire, a kind of horniness that feels new. It’s like I’m suddenly aware of my own skin. 

Hoping to shake it off, I wander into the kitchen for water.

And there he is. Of all the days to dress inappropriately! 

Wearing only a pair of joggers, he tends to something on the cooker. The muscles in his back and shoulders shift with his movements, a landscape of smooth, dark skin and controlled power. The sight is so visceral that it steals the air from my lungs. I freeze for a second, then spin around and practically run back to my room.

I slam the door shut and grab my phone, dialing Fana without a second thought.

She answers on the first ring. “Daze? What’s wrong?”

“When are you coming back?” I blurt out. “I need you!”

“Why? What happened? Are you okay?”

The words tumble out of me in a disjointed, breathless paragraph, stumbling over each other. “Do you remember King? The event planner guy you met that I told you that I hung out with at Magic Land, Nabil’s friend? Yes, that one. Well, I’m staying with him. No, my rent has not expired. I’m just there to escape everything that happened. But looking back now, I think coming here is a mistake because what nonsense escape was I escaping? Anyways, we worked together on a party, and it was amazing, but he was so tense from frighting with his brother, and I was drawn to that, and then we went to this club, and we danced, and it wasn’t normal dancing, Fana. It was… and then now I just saw him in the kitchen without a shirt on, and I think I’m having a crisis—”

“Crisis?”

“I want him, Fana. In a way that I’ve never wanted a man before. Normally, men want me, then I somehow want them. But this is all on me—”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, bestie,” Fana cuts in, her voice laced with amusement. “Start from the beginning. Slowly.”

I take a shuddering breath and tell her everything, from when King and I first met, to the charged professionalism, to the dirty dancing and to the sight of him dressed indecently in the kitchen. When I’m done, she’s quiet for a moment. 

“So… what do you want to do?”

“I want to kiss him,” I confess in a scandalized whisper and burst into laughter that Fana joins.

“Ashawo.”

“I so badly want to kiss him and do more. And I think… I think if I do, I’ll just run home and never see him again. It’ll get it out of my system.”

“Then do it.”

I muse, not for the first time, how my best friend never gives me responsible advice. But it’s the permission I didn’t know I needed. Fueled by a sudden, reckless courage, I end the call, take a quick shower, pack my things, and steel myself. I’m going to do it. I’m going to get that kiss, exorcize this madness, and leave.

I take a deep breath and yank the door open, only to find King standing right there, his hand raised as if he is about to knock. Thank God, he’s wearing a t-shirt now. My lust is temporarily sated.

He looks startled, then recovers. “Good, you’re up. I made breakfast.”

The kiss plan evaporates. I mutely follow him to the dining table and sit opposite him. The tension is a physical presence with us, thick and undeniable. We eat in silence for a few minutes, with only cutlery doing the talking.

He finally puts his fork down. “Do you have something to get off your chest, Deze?”

Yes. I want to kiss you. I want to climb you like a tree.

But I shake my head, looking down at my plate. “No. I… I just wanted to thank you for letting me stay here and for everything. You’ve been a great host, a greater friend, and the best business partner. But… I’m leaving today.”

He goes completely still. “Leaving? Why? I… I want you to stay.”

“King, this isn’t my house. That divorce party was all I needed to get back on my feet. I have to go back home.” 

I get up quickly, taking my plate to the kitchen to hide the turmoil on my face. I’m at the sink when I feel him enter. He leans against the countertop, facing away from me, his shoulders tense.

“Are you trying to run away from this?” he asks, his voice low. “From what’s growing between us?”

The directness of the question undoes me. “Yes,” I admit softly.

He sighs. “I am too.”

The confession hangs in the air. Then, he turns to face me. “So, let’s make a deal. Let’s be partners. Officially. Barret Brothers and Daze Events. We already know that we can work together like we were built for it. You have clientele and a creative vision I don’t want you to lose. I have the infrastructure and stability you need. We build something new.”

The idea is brilliant. It’s a lifeline and logical professional reason to keep my work garden and not have to start from scratch. “I… I love that idea,” I say. “But what about Don?”

“Let me worry about Don,” he replies with a steady gaze. “Do we have a deal?”

He extends his hand for a formal shake.

I look at his outstretched hand, then back up at his face. A slow, daring smile spreads across my lips. I deliberately wipe my hand on a kitchen towel, my heart thundering.

“Yes,” I say. “But before we become partners…” I take a step closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “There is something I need to get off my chest.”

I close the final distance between us, rise onto my toes, and press my lips to his.

It begins as my act of courage, a daring move to break the unbearable tension. But it lasts for only a heartbeat. The moment our lips meet, the control shatters and I put a foot backward to break away.

But he pulls me back in, claiming my waist as a low, ragged sound escapes him. It’s the sound of a dam breaking. His hand comes up to frame my face. His touch is not hesitant, but reverent. This is no longer my kiss; it is his answer to my audacity.

He takes over with a devastating tenderness that steals the breath from my lungs. His mouth moves over mine with a slow, searching intensity, as if he’s learning the language of my tongue. His hand slides from my cheek into my hair, and his fingers tangle gently at the nape of my neck. The other hand on my waist pulls me against him until nothing remains between us. I can feel the solid beat of his heart against my own.

This is not like what happened on the dance floor. This is deeper, more profound. It’s a conversation of sighs and softness, as if we’re silently confessing to every lingering glance and suppressed want of the past weeks. I melt into him as my hands travel up his chest to wrap themselves around his neck.

We are so lost in it that we don’t hear the front door open.

Someone clears their throat loudly, and I immediately break contact. King, however, holds on to me, his head turning slowly.

Standing in the kitchen doorway is a beautiful, petite, dark-skinned woman about my age. She is chubby in a cute way. She has a curly pixie hairstyle, multiple ear piercings and arms dedicated to tattoos. But what makes her stand out is her professional makeup over an outfit that looks like she just tumbled out of bed. She’s dressed in a cut-off boyfriend tank top paired with joggers. I find her artsy at first sight. Artsy and complex.

She’s smiling at us with an expression of pure amusement on her face.

“Privacy?” King manages, his voice husky and rough.

She just smirks, holding up her hands in a gesture of mock surrender before turning to leave, giving us a knowing wink as she goes.

King’s attention snaps back to me. He doesn’t let me put space between us. His second hand finds my waist, holding me there. “That,” he breathes, his forehead coming to rest against mine, “is not over. And we’re not shaking hands on anything until we know what this is.”

He leads me, my hand firmly in his, into the living room, where the lady is now casually inspecting the artworks on the wall.

“Deze, I want you to meet Sody, my younger sister. Sody, this is Deze—”

“Your girlfriend,” she says.

“What?” King laughs. “Ignore Sody. She’s playing.”

“I’m not.” Sody stares at me, unsmiling. Her eyes are sharp and have something about them that seems to find my soul. “She’s actually your wife.”

King rolls his eyes. “Sody—”

“Nice to meet you, Sody. King has told me about you.”

“And he never said anything about the woman who’s going to be his wife.”

“Sody, can you not do this?” He scratches the back of his head in embarrassment. But she won’t stop looking into my eyes. “Sody Barrett!” He snaps his fingers in her face and she regains composure.

“Welcome to the family, Deze.” She puts her arms around me in a tight hug. When she pulls back, she has a sweet smile on her face. “You’re so gorgeous.”

“You’re stunning too. King didn’t tell me you were this beautiful.”

“Oh, it’s just great makeup. Or, if you prefer… art.”

“Yes, I forgot to tell you,” King says to me, “she did all the paintings in this house.”

“For real?” I look at the two large paintings on the wall before us. Weirdly, they suddenly come alive, as if I’m seeing them for the first time. The one on the left is of a woman that seems to have supernatural powers, and she’s seated above a body of water. The second one has something eerie about it, but each time I had stared at it over the past couple of weeks, I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

“Let me introduce you to my babies.” Sody hooks her arm in mine and guides me closer. “This is called Osun’s Algorithm. It reimagines the Yoruba goddess for the digital age. That’s why the mirror she’s holding has a luminous binary code and her necklaces are strings of microchips and motherboards.”

“Oh!” I exclaim, suddenly seeing aspects of the artwork I had missed. “And the lagoon… Is that a blueprint in geometric grids?”

“Yep!”

“Ooooh… And the plastic bottles floating on the surface are famous tech logos!”

“Yes!” She laughs and looks at her brother. “See? She gets it!”

“But…” I take a couple of steps back and stare at the painting again. “It’s… I don’t know how to put it. There’s something spiritual about it. I can’t explain it.” I stare at the other painting. “Especially this one. It’s like I’m looking at a spirit.”

Sody covers her face and squeals, hopping from one foot to another in excitement like a giddy school girl. “We’re going to be best friends, Adaeze!”

As she hugs and clings to me, I don’t recall telling her my full name. When she finally lets go, she looks at King and asks, “So, when is the wedding?”

“Oya, come and be going.” King takes her hand and leads her to the door. She throws her head back and blows me a kiss.

“Your wedding is going to be maaad!”

I laugh as he carts her away. Alone in the living room, I study the painting of the spirit and get lost in its vortex-like eyes until King returns.

“If you stare at the abyss, it stares right back at you.”

“I actually love it,” I tell him. “Your sister is insanely talented.”

“And unhinged. I apologize for the whole wife and marriage thing. She was just joking. She jokes like that sometimes. Plus, there’s that need to see me happy in love or something like that.”

“I can relate. My family wants me married ASAP to clear my reputation.”

“Hmm.”

We stand in the quiet aftermath of our kiss. He takes a step closer, his eyes dark and serious.

“So… The kiss?”

I look up at him, at this man who is order and chaos, control and surrender, all at once. For the first time since I’ve known him, I have no witty retort or clever deflection. My mind is a blissful, overwhelmed blank. The only truth I have is the one my lips still taste.

A naughty smile curves his sweet lips. “Cat got your tongue, Ms. Nnadi? And here I thought you always had a comeback for everything.”

The spell breaks. A laugh bubbles out of me. “Maybe you’re just more distracting than I thought, Mr. Barrett.”

“Good,” he whispers.

And in the space between one breath and the next, while my laughter still hangs in the air, he closes the distance and captures my mouth with his.

This kiss is different from the first. It’s not a question or a tender exploration. It’s a statement that silences everything: my laughter, my fears, the outside world. It’s a kiss that claims me, and I willingly surrender as the last of my resistance melts away.