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Chapter 8: Deze

“I’m on a short business trip. Once I get into town tomorrow, I’ll see you.”

Long after he hangs up, and I lie in bed, his voice echoes in my head. A call from Aisha shatters my escape, and I tap the answer button.

“Aisha?”

“Adaeze.” Her tone is different. The usual professional crispness is replaced by a layer of disbelief. “I do not know what strings you pulled, and frankly, I do not want to know. But I have never in my entire career seen a case of this magnitude simply… vanish.”

I sit up straight. “Vanish?”

“It is gone. The case file has been marked for indefinite review. Chinedu just called me. The prosecutor’s office has no further interest. The weekly reporting requirement is waived. You are free, Adaeze.”

For the second time, the enormity of my present situation is too immense to process. It still doesn’t feel real. It’s like a final, cruel twist before the trapdoor opens. “My accounts?” I whisper.

“I’m already drafting the motions to have them unfrozen. It’s a formality now. Your passport will be returned to my office by the end of the week. There is just one thing.”

“Anything.” My heart is a frantic bird against my ribs.

“The fifty-million-naira bail. It will not be returned.”

A sharp sting amidst the overwhelming relief. A part of me, the part that still believes in a just and orderly world, balks. “I thought… I thought bail was returned when the case was over. When you fulfill your obligation.”

“Normally, yes,” Aisha explains. “A cash bail is a financial guarantee you will appear in court. When you fulfill that obligation, the money is returned. It can be forfeited if you jump bail, of course. Or it can become… an administrative fee. A cost of doing business, so to speak. Consider it the price of your freedom. A bargain, if you ask me.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My father’s fifty million, gone. A king’s ransom paid to the shadows to make a problem disappear. Not solved. Erased. “I understand.”

“My advice to you now,” Aisha says, her tone firming back into its authoritative tone, “is to stay out of trouble. Do not draw any attention to yourself. Do not speak of this to anyone. Let the entire thing fade from memory. It is over.”

When the call ends, I sit in profound silence, feeling the weight of the charges, the fear, the cold green cell, all dissolve into nothing. Liatu’s reach is strong and absolute. She didn’t just open a door for me; she made the entire prison disappear. The relief is so immense it’s dizzying, and beneath it, a cold trickle of fear. What kind of power operates like this? And what does it expect in return?

I know she went far out of her way to do this. Zulu once told me that she doesn’t like using her connections in the political sphere, having been burned a couple of times.

I get out my calendar and set a reminder to ask Zulu what he thinks an appropriate “Thank You” gift for her would be.

But first, I try to reach Nabil, as I’ve yet to thank him for his help. But he doesn’t take my call. I send him a voice note, and in a matter of seconds, he responds with a thumb-up smiley.

The last thing I do online before I switch off my phone is to send a voice note to the family group, breaking the good news to them. Then, I settle into my best sleep position, resting my head on my softest pillow and clutching a bigger one. Sleep comes easily when I fantasize that I’m listening to a late-night radio show and King Barrett is the host.

***

In the morning, I clean up my entire apartment and do some laundry. Afterward, I perform a ritual of putting on a bright yellow dress, applying makeup with the precision of an artist restoring a damaged painting, and fix on a bright smile. Then I go to see my family.

I find Chika outside the family house, tinkering with his car in the garage. He sees me and straightens up. 

“Deze, nwa! I listened to your voice note four times last night! I was like is this one joking? How do you drop a message like that and then off phone?”

I laugh.

“But are you for real?”

“Yes.”

“Like, how did that happen?”

I shrug. I’d explained it all in my voice note to them, not mentioning Liatu, of course. I’d made it seem like a combined effort from them, reaching out to prominent people, turned my status around.

“How do you feel?” Chika asks.

I do a Carlton Banks dance that has him in stitches. Growing up, I was the clown of the family and always entertained them with my imitations of popular movie characters.

“That’s my girl!” He wipes sweat off his forehead. “The whole thing really scared us, I won’t lie.”

“I’m so sorry, Broda,” I say with a pout. He likes it whenever I address him that way. He’s huge on respect, which Zulu richly denies him.

“Sorry for…?”

“The hospital…” I say. “I didn’t know they’d drag you guys—”

“Stop it. And forget internet people, abeg. Dem go taya.”

My smile returns. “So, when is Nan coming back?” I inquire about his wife, who is presently visiting family in Jos. 

“Next week. Not sure of the day.” He hisses. “I’m exhausted from Daddy duties, abeg.”

I chuckle. “Sorry.”

“Meanwhile, your mom is around. She came in last night.”

“Oh?”  I feel the atmosphere shift. My mom’s arrival from Lagos, so soon after everything that happened, tells me that there’s a family meeting about to be had in my honor.

I walk into the house and find my dad in the living room. He looks up from a book, his reading glasses perched on his nose. 

“Ada,” he calls. 

“Daddy, good morning.”

“Morning. I’m sure you slept well?”

I grin. “Very well.”

“That’s what I want to hear…”

His eyes shift to a spot behind me, and I turn. My mom is holding a hanky to her nose, into which she sneezes. All her life, she’s suffered from chronic sinusitis. I was born with my own struggles, probably inherited from her. But by some miracle, I haven’t suffered from an attack in years.

“Ada?” she calls. I walk over and put my arms around her. She responds with a gentle pat on my back and lets go. She’s not the most expressive person, and we’ve all learned to live with that. In fact, I would describe my mom as the warm but distant presence in our lives. She was always there but not in the way that Auntie Fasti stamped her love on her children’s lives. In her defense, Mommy was and still is a career woman. She’s always loved us in her own quiet way.

“Are you sure the case is over?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“I’m asking because this one that there’s no paper trail…”

“That’s the best way, Mommy. Or we’d have to go to trial, and it could drag… I can’t handle that or waste time waiting for a verdict. I have to go back to work.”

“Work?” my dad asks.

I turn.

He takes off his glasses and polishes them slowly, a habit he has when he’s thinking deeply. “I’m not as worried about all that has happened as I am about you. This is a heavy burden to carry alone.”

“I’m not alone,” I insist, waving my hand over a massive family portrait featuring the Nnadis. “I have you guys and Fana and friends. I’m an Nnadi and we are strong, right?”

He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes seeing too much. Finally, he nods. “Yes. We are strong. But—”

“Ada,” Mommy interrupts. “Come and help me finish this soup, please.”

My dad wears his glasses and picks up his journal, after giving his wife a stern look. I hurry to the kitchen. The aroma of oha soup reminds me that I’ve not eaten today. But it’s the glass of wine, left unattended beside the microwave oven, that my eyes locate first. Mommy is the one who introduced me to this wine lifestyle. 

She comes in after me and instructs me to wash the oha leaves.

“I’ve already made ofe utazi. You can take some home. I brought plantains and Ijebu garri, your favorite.” She says all this while blowing her nose. I thank her as I wash the vegetables.

We don’t speak for a bit. Then, I hear her call my name.

 ”Adaeze.”

I don’t turn. “Mommy?” 

“They will not break us.” She comes and stands beside me. “Look at me.” I look at her and she lifts my chin. She holds my eyes with hers before resting both palms on my cheeks. “I want you to know that I’m proud of you, no matter what.”

I’m instantly moved to tears, but I hold back and give a brave nod, drawing strength from the strongest woman I know, who is no stranger to adversity. She had begun her journey with Daddy on a rocky foundation. His family didn’t want him with an Isoko woman, and her parents weren’t pleased with Daddy either. He was fresh out of med school then and had nothing to his name, save for his audacity. She had richer suitors, men that could change her family’s status, but she chose the struggling doctor who knocked her up before paying her bride price. Their wedding was rushed and plagued with the usual shame that tainted such unions. Afterward, Daddy took her to the east—against her wish—to be with the Nnadi family while he volunteered with the World Health Organization, traveling to other parts of Africa, even during the birth of Chika.

And it was in this manner they managed as husband and wife until Zulu’a birth. Daddy’s years of service to humanity finally paid off, and he got funding to build a community clinic in Jos. But Mommy didn’t stay idle. She went from being a storekeeper at the clinic to becoming a small-time supplier of medical supplies. While pregnant with me, she got admission into the university to study Business Administration. By the time Queen was born, she was already running a successful medical supply chain and was the proud owner of two bachelor degrees.

“It is going to be well, okay?” she affirms.

I nod and she returns to the living room. 

***

We settle around the dining table, the four of us. The feast on the table is a stark contrast to the tension coiling in the room. We eat, we laugh, but it’s the kind of laughter that waits for permission to stop. I feel their disappointment, and I hear the unspoken words.

Finally, my dad asks us to settle in the living room. As we do, Chika connects to Queen, whose face pops up on the TV screen, her connection clear. They try to reach Zulu but can’t get through. Knowing him, I’m sure he wants nothing to do with this ambushing that’s about to take place.

“Ada?” Daddy calls.

“Daddy.”

“We thank God for what he’s done, and we’re happy you’re back home and safe with us. However, I don’t like what I saw on the internet. It’s nothing good. We must erase that bad image of you being someone’s mistress.”

I lower my eyes.

“It pains me a lot,” he says in Igbo, poking his chest. “I did not raise you and your siblings to have stellar reputations, just for strangers to come and rubbish your names like that. No!”

“I’m very sorry, Daddy.”

“My friends have been calling and asking if it’s true. My private message on Facebook is a mess. My WhatsApp is the same thing!”

“Same here,” Chika states. “People have been calling.”

“Now, we must be practical, Ada. This business of yours… it is a highway that leads to dangerous people.”

My mother leans forward, her voice soft but firm. “Come to Lagos, nne. Leave this Abuja life. Come and manage the company with me. It is solid. Respectable. In a few years, you could be running it. No more scandals.”

The cage, gilded and comfortable, is presented with love. I feel the walls closing in.

“She’s right, Dee.” Chika shakes his head. “You need to start afresh and clean up your rep.”

I force a light laugh. “So, that’s the verdict? No more event planning? Just like that?”

Daddy’s face hardens. “This is not a joke, Adaeze. I’m tired of your unseriousness.” His voice booms, and I flinch. “Maybe I’m to blame. I gave you too much freedom, unlike your siblings. I let you chase this… this dream, and look where it led you. Look at the shame it brought to our name.”

Queen nods, her expression one of pious concern. “Dad is right, Deze. All this stress is not necessary. A woman needs stability. A foundation. A family. You should just listen to him.” She pauses, and her eyes soften in a way I know is calculated. “Remember all those times you were in and out of the hospital as a child, with your asthma? Daddy was so worried. He always said you needed a softer path. Maybe this is it.”

The mention of my childhood asthma is a masterstroke. It looks like sisterly concern, but it’s a reminder of the reason I became his favorite. I was the fragile one, the one whose breath could literally be taken away. While the others were expected to be strong, I was allowed to be creative, to be ‘different’, because my father lived with the quiet, constant fear of losing me. My creativity was my life force, and he nurtured it fiercely, while demanding pure, unadulterated excellence from Chika, Zulu, and Queen.

I feel the old heat flare in my chest. I remember Queen at fourteen, staying up until 2 a.m. every night, determined to be the top of her class, not for herself, but to see that same unbridled admiration in our father’s eyes that he gave me for a simple painting I did. She’d bring home a 98% on a math exam, and he’d say, “Good job, Queen. I expect nothing less.” Then I’d show him a clumsily assembled artwork for a school project, and he’d beam, “Look at this! Such creativity!”

“My asthma hasn’t bothered me in fifteen years, Queen,” I fire back. “But is it not your way to keep a detailed medical file on me? What’s next, are you going to bill me for the consultation?”

Her serene smile tightens at the corners. “I remember because I cared, Deze. While you were busy being ‘different’, someone had to be responsible. Someone had to follow the plan.”

“The plan,” I scoff. “Ah, yes. The famous Nnadi Ten-Year Plan. Let me see, for Queen, it was: First Class Honors in Physics, travel to Germany for Master’s, get a high-paying job, marry the Igbo pharmacist from a good family and have three babies in quick succession. All boxes ticked. Except the box of ‘thinking for yourself’.”

“At least my boxes are ticked with accomplishments, not a tabloid scandal.”

“Accomplishments? Or other people’s expectations? You didn’t build a life, Queen. You just assembled a kit.”

“That is enough!” our mom scolds. “Both of you! We are a family, not animals in a pit. The subject is closed.”

“Girls,” my dad’s voice is weary. “Queen, she did not mean it like that. Adaeze, your sister is only concerned.”

“I know, Daddy,” I say, turning my sweetest, most mischievous smile on him, knowing it’ll melt him and aggravate Queen. “I’ll think about everything you people have said. I just need some time.” 

“Na so,” Queen mutters. I stick out my middle finger as I get on my feet. 

“I have to go.”

I hug my dad first, then my mom, and Chika, lastly.

“Don’t forget to take the things I got for you,” my mom says, pointing toward the kitchen. I leave through the backdoor, taking the items with me, knowing they’d be talking about me and what moves they think they should make so that I’d take them more seriously.

But I’m serious about my life and future, and it doesn’t help that they’re pressuring me. I might be free from the NFCC and from the courts, but not from their plans for me.

***

On my way home, I stop at the small supermarket in my neighborhood. I’m out of wines and probiotic yogurts. 

Done shopping, I turn onto my street, the familiar rows of fences and flowering hedges welcoming me. Parked directly opposite my gate is a black SUV. The black SUV. My heart begins to beat fast. 

My foot hovers over the brake. I could drive away and avoid this confrontation. But a bitter, weary curiosity grips me. What could he possibly want? After everything, what words does he have left?

I press the accelerator and pull into my compound as the gateman unlocks the gate. My neighbors are all at work and I park outside my apartment. I cut the engine. Everywhere is silent. I wait, expecting the SUV’s door to open, for him or that damned Abubakar to step out and approach me. Nothing happens. The vehicle sits there, dark and silent. For a wild moment, I think maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s a neighbor’s visitor.

I get out, retrieve my shopping bags, and walk to my front door. The key slips into the lock, but when I turn it, there’s no click.

Strange. I’m sure I locked the door, as I always do. Or maybe, I didn’t.

I open the door, step into the cool, dark interior, and reach for the light switch.

“Leave it.”

The voice comes from my living room. Deep, calm, and intimately familiar. My blood turns to ice. I flick the switch on.

Yele is seated in my favorite armchair as if he owns it, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. He isn’t dressed in one of his severe office suits. He wears a simple t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He is his usual suave, magnetic build on supreme confidence. And his eyes hold me. Dark, intelligent, and capable of conveying both intense focus and unsettling warmth. He smells of power and expensive, smoky oud; he also smells of memories I’d rather forget. It is only occurring to me, as I stand here staring at him, how close we’d been. 

He’s holding a drink he’s helped himself with and looks utterly comfortable, as if his presence in my sanctuary is the most natural thing in the world. I want to ask him how he got in, but what does it matter?

“What are you doing in my house?” 

“I needed to see you.” His gaze sweeps over me. “You look… thin.”

“Why are you here, Yele?” I demand, ignoring his comment, my arms wrapping around myself.

“To explain.”

“Explain what? How you set me up? How you planned to destroy my life?”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, his expression earnest. “I did not set you up, Adaeze. I could never do that to you.”

The denial is blunt and audacious. 

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Why would I want to set myself up, just because I want to get back to you? Do you know what your case did to my reputation? My office? Some idiot added the whole thing to my Wikipedia.”

“Oh, wow. Your reputation,” I repeat. “Your off—”

“It was Nkene.” He says his wife’s name like it’s a curse. “She orchestrated everything. The arrest, the media leaks. All of it.”

 Nkene Okon. A powerful woman in the political and business sphere, formerly the widow of a billionaire bank CEO, who played her game well and secured her place amongst the wealthy and influential. Her family, unlike Yele’s, came from nothing. But today, Nkene, just thirty-four, is the CEO of the bank her late husband once owned. Asides that, she is a media mogul and majority shareholder of a media conglomerate, which includes a network of a radio station, popular blogs and influencers. Lastly, having studied law, she is a partner at a top law firm that specializes in corporate law and government contracts. In comparison to her, Yele pales.

“And you stood by and allowed her?” I hiss, stepping closer to Yele. “You did nothing while she threw me to the wolves?”

“I pulled strings!” His voice rises with a hint of frustration. “I worked behind the scenes, and you’re out today!”

I can’t believe his guts. “Stop lying, Yele! Stop taking credit for what a loved one did for me! Why are you lying?”

He flinches as if I’ve struck him. The confident facade cracks. He looks away, running a hand over his face. When he speaks again, his voice is low, strained. “She has leverage, Adaeze. My wife… she has information that could… it doesn’t matter what. She has it. I was paralyzed.”

“Leverage?” I scoff, the bitterness overflowing. “So, you sacrificed me to save your own skin.”

“I am sorry,” he says, and for the first time, it sounds genuine, weighted with a shame he can’t disguise. “From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry for what you went through.”

He stands, closing the distance between us. His presence is overwhelming as he looks into my eyes. “But I need you to understand something. The reason she did this, the reason she felt so threatened… is because I have feelings for you.”

I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Be original, Yele. That’s the oldest line in the book.”

“I swear to you.” His eyes are burning with an intensity that is almost convincing. “It’s the truth. I fell for you. We started as… something else, but it became real.”

“Please, stop.”

“Nkene saw it. She confronted me at the hotel that day, when she came with the girls and saw you leaving. She asked if I was in love with you. I denied it, but she knew. She always knows. That’s why she targeted you. Not because you were another woman, but because you were the one woman.”

I laugh so hard that tears fill my eyes. But he’s unmoved by my mockery. He reaches out as if to touch my face, and I step back sharply. His hand falls.

“I fired Abubakar,” he adds, a final, desperate offering. “He was her spy. He’s gone.”

I look at him, this powerful, suave man standing in my living room, confessing a love that has only brought me ruin. I don’t see a savior or a soulmate. I see the architect of my downfall, still trying to control the narrative, still trying to own me.

“Get out,” I whisper, the fight gone from my voice, replaced by a cold, final exhaustion.

“Adaeze—”

“Yele, leave my house, please.”

He doesn’t leave. Instead, he takes a step closer, his hands spread in a placating gesture. “Adaeze, please. You have to understand the position I was in. You don’t know what Nkene is capable of—”

“I DO!” The scream tears out of me, shredding the last of my control. “I know exactly what she’s capable of because I lived it! Five rotten days in that dirty cell! My father had to pay fifty million naira! My family’s name is a joke online! Our hospital was trending! They dug up my mother’s old contracts! And my own life? Where do I start? You have no idea what your wife’s ‘leverage’ cost me!”

I don’t see the tears coming, but they attack me fast, and I make no move to stop them. Seeing me break, Yele closes the final distance between us. He ignores my weak, flailing attempts to push him away and pulls me into his arms, holding me tightly against the smooth fabric of his t-shirt. I am too exhausted, too broken to fight him.

“Shhh, my baby. My strong girl. I know,” he murmurs into my hair. His hand strokes my back in slow, steady circles. “I know what they did to you. And I swear, I will make it up to you. I will give you heaven and earth to make you forget that hell.”

I try to pull away, but he holds me fast. 

“Don’t… don’t lie to me…”

“I’m not lying,” he insists, his lips close to my ear. “I’m being more honest with you than I have been with anyone. My marriage to Nkene is a business arrangement that has run its course. Untangling myself will take careful time. But it is done in my heart. It’s over.”

He pulls back just enough to cradle my face in his hands, his thumbs wiping my tears. 

“I’m ready to give you my heart, Adaeze. My world. Let me build you back up. Let me give you an event planning empire that will make your old business look like a child’s plaything. I’ll clear your name with my own hands. Just give me a chance. Give us a chance.”

The promises are extravagant, seductive. They weave a picture of a future where all this pain is erased, where I am not just restored, but exalted. I look into his eyes, at the earnest passion there, and I see the same man who once whispered about children in the dark. “Let’s not use anything tonight. I want to feel all of you. I want to own you completely and have a baby with you… a baby that would be a part of us forever. He had been a king begging for a shackle, a powerful man brought to his knees by me. 

It is the same now, and I should bask in my power over him, but I firmly remove his hands from my face and take a full step back, putting a decisive space between us. The tears are still on my cheeks, but my voice is steady, final.

“No.”

The word hangs in the air, simple and absolute.

He doesn’t argue or try to persuade me further. He simply absorbs it. His shoulders relax, not in defeat, but in a kind of resigned acceptance. The intense fire in his eyes banks down to a quiet, simmering ember. 

“Alright,” he says, in a quiet and remarkably composed voice. “Think about it,” he adds, not as a plea. As if he knows the seed has been planted and is content to wait for it to grow. “The offer stands.”

He doesn’t look at me again. He turns and walks to my front door with the same unnerving calm with which he entered. 

I stand alone in the sudden silence, the ghost of his touch and his promises clinging to the air. I am trembling, but I am free. I said no. And for the first time since this nightmare began, the “no” feels like it belongs entirely to me.

I crave the dry sweetness of red wine, but I don’t go for any of the five bottles I bought from the supermarket. The thing about being a functional alcoholic is that I can be in control sometimes. Getting drunk and wasting away on my couch isn’t going to solve anything. Resuming work immediately isn’t going to help either. I need to face my shame and rebuild, but I want to run away at the same time.

I take the food items I got from my mom to the kitchen. I put the ofe utazi in the fridge and take out my favorite ice cream, which I haven’t had in a while. As I dig a spoon into the cup, the doorbell rings. I pause, hoping it’s not Yele again.

I walk to the door and peek into the peephole. My body stiffens. 

The bell rings again. Taking a deep breath, I open the door. A familiar woman stands there. She is elegance personified, from her impeccable wrap dress to the glaring diamonds on her ears. 

Nkene Okon

Does she know her husband just left here? What do these people want from me? Why is an ant like me so important to their lives? Don’t they have matters of state importance to attend to?

She boldly walks in. A uniformed policewoman comes in after her and pins herself against the door after she shuts it.

“Adaeze Nnadi,” Nkene calls, turning to face me. Her voice is quiet, but it carries the weight of absolute authority.

I can’t speak. I can only stare. She is sculpted from money and ice. Her beauty is sharp and polished, from the elegant line of her bone-straight bob to the flawless canvas of her skin. She wears a simple cream dress, but her jewelry choice is anything but plain. Everything about her, from the silent click of her heels on my floor to the faint, expensive perfume that trails her, is a testament to a world where I will always be an uninvited guest. 

I feel myself being catalogued and found utterly insignificant under the glare of her eyes. She doesn’t need to raise her voice. This is not a person you argue with; this is a force of nature you simply survive.

“I knew everything,” she states. “The affair was a small, dirty secret, like his other affairs. But you decided to show that you’re a sidechick amongst sidechicks, and now, you brought trouble to my door.” 

“I didn’t—”

She takes a single step forward, and I step back instinctively. “I heard that someone made your case at the NFCC go away.” She laughs. “You should thank God for small mercies o, because what I was planning for you, ehn…”

“I have no business with your husband anymore.”

She stares me down. She doesn’t believe me. “A word of advice. Stop going after people’s husbands and get yours because as far as you’re concerned, your career is toast in this town.”

Her aide’s phone rings, and she pauses, slight irritation on her face for being interrupted. But she doesn’t take her eyes away from me.

“Look, if your name is ever linked to my husband’s again, I will dismantle you. Piece by piece. That your family hospital will go down too. There will be nowhere in Nigeria for you and your entire clan to hide. Do you understand me?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She walks out of my house and her security aide follows her, slamming the door.

I sit on my couch, my entire body trembling in anger. The walls are closing in, despite my freedom. 

There is only one person left. Someone with no stake in this mess, someone who, against all odds, will look at me with kindness.

I pick up my phone. My hands shake so badly. I’m about to dial his number when his call comes in. 

“King, hi,” I say, forcing cheer into my tone.

“Hi, Adaeze. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m in town now, and I think we should see.”

Hearing his deep voice, the voice of the man who knew me for two afternoons of laughter and light, undoes me completely.

“Yeah, we should.”

“I know a place—”

“Do you have a wife?” I ask, interrupting him.

“What?” A light chuckle. “No.” There’s confusion in his tone.

“Girlfriend?”

“None.”

“Baby mama?”

“I hope not.”

“Can you…? Can you please come to my house? I’m at home.”

There is no hesitation. None. “Send me your location, and just wait for me.”

I end the call, send him my location, and fifteen minutes later, the bell rings. I open the door. King stands there, his face etched with curiosity. 

“Talk to me.” His eyes search mine.

I hug my arms around myself, feeling small and shattered. “I can’t stay here,” I whisper. “Everyone… everything… I need to get away. Just for a little while.” I look up at him, my eyes pleading and all my painted-on bravery gone. “King… I know it’s a lot to ask… but can I stay with you? Just until this blows over?”

He looks at me. I see the calculation in his eyes. The strangeness of this request from a woman he barely knows, the undeniable mess I represent. But I also see the decency that drew me to him in the first place. He takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” he says, his voice firm and steady. “Get what you need. You can crash at my place.”