Cracks in the glass
“And yet you came.” His gaze was steady, his tone not smug but certain.
Her chest tightened. “I… I just wanted to see for myself what this is. Why me?”
A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. For the first time, he seemed almost vulnerable. “Because in a room full of people who wanted to be seen, you weren’t trying. You were just… you. And that was enough.”
Her breath caught. For a moment, the noise of the gallery faded, the clinking of glasses and hum of conversations dissolving into silence.
She wanted to run. She wanted to stay. Her heart pulled in two directions, her mind screaming warnings while her body leaned into the gravity of his presence.
He extended a hand. “Let me show you something.”
Against every piece of logic, against every whispered warning in her mind, she placed her hand in his.
And in that moment, something inside her shifted.
---
The night unfolded like a dream. He led her through the gallery, pausing in front of paintings, asking her thoughts. At first, she was hesitant, embarrassed by her lack of knowledge. But he listened to her clumsy words with patience, his expression never mocking, his eyes soft with interest.
At one point, they stopped before a painting of a stormy sea. Chiamaka tilted her head, frowning. “It looks… lonely,” she murmured. “Like the waves are fighting themselves.”
Ade’s eyes lingered on her. “Or maybe,” he said quietly, “it looks like strength. A storm that refuses to be silenced.”
Their gazes locked. The air between them thickened, heavy with something unspoken.
Chiamaka’s chest fluttered. She pulled her hand back gently. “This is… too much. I don’t belong here.”
“You belong anywhere you decide,” he replied simply.
The words landed deep, unsettling her. She turned away, afraid of what might spill out if she looked at him too long.
---
By the time the evening ended, her emotions were a tangled knot. He didn’t press her for answers, didn’t force intimacy, didn’t even touch her again beyond the first hand she had given him. But his presence was overwhelming, his patience disarming.
When he offered to have his driver take her home, she refused firmly. She couldn’t let him breach the fragile boundary between his world and hers. She couldn’t let her mother see.
So she slipped into a danfo, dress creased, shoes pinching her feet, her heart thundering. She stared out at the lagoon as the bus rattled across the bridge, city lights shimmering on the dark water.
She told herself she had to end it here. That she couldn’t allow herself to fall into whatever this was becoming.
But deep inside, beneath all her fear, something dangerous glowed.
Hope.
And she hated herself for it.
Chiamaka woke the next morning with the weight of last night still pressing on her chest. She had gone to bed late, replaying every moment of the gallery visit, every word Ade Bakare had spoken, every glance he had stolen when he thought she wasn’t looking.
It felt like a fever dream.
She rolled over, staring at the thin curtain that flapped in the early morning breeze, and wondered if she had made a mistake by going. If she had opened a door she wouldn’t be able to close again.
Her mother was already awake, folding laundry on the bed. She looked up at her daughter, her sharp eyes catching every unspoken thing. “You didn’t sleep well,” she said simply.
“I’m fine, Mama.”
“You’ve been carrying secrets in your face lately,” her mother pressed. “Secrets have a way of weighing you down. Be careful what kind you keep.”
Chiamaka forced a small smile, kissed her mother’s cheek, and escaped before the questions became heavier than she could bear.
---
The day was ordinary—heat pressing down on the streets, the smell of fried plantain and exhaust fumes mixing in the air, customers haggling loudly at the tailor’s shop. Chiamaka clung to the rhythm of normal life, using it like a shield to block out the images of Ade’s intense eyes, the sound of his voice saying her name.
But by evening, the shield cracked.
She was leaving the shop when her phone buzzed. A message.
I hope you found last night worth the trouble. Meet me for coffee tomorrow. Afternoon. Just coffee. – A.
She stared at it, her pulse quickening. She should delete it. She should tell him to leave her alone.
Instead, her fingers betrayed her.
Where?
Almost instantly, the reply came. The Garden Terrace. 2 p.m.
She slipped the phone back into her bag quickly, as though hiding evidence of a crime.
---
The Garden Terrace was nothing like the noisy cafés she occasionally passed in Yaba. It was tucked away in a quiet part of Victoria Island, surrounded by flowering hedges and shaded with tall palm trees. The air smelled faintly of jasmine, the clinking of cups and low murmur of conversations blending into something almost serene.
Chiamaka hesitated at the entrance, her hands damp. She had worn her best blouse, a pale pink one she had sewn herself, paired with a skirt that was slightly too tight. She felt like an imposter again, stepping into a world that wasn’t hers.
Then she saw him.
Ade was seated at a corner table, a book open in front of him. The sight startled her—she had imagined him surrounded by bodyguards or assistants, not quietly reading like a student preparing for an exam. When his eyes lifted and met hers, that same electric charge shot through her.
He stood immediately, pulling out the chair across from him. “You came.”
She sat down slowly, her pulse refusing to calm. “Only because I wanted to make it clear this can’t continue.”
His lips curved slightly. “And yet you came.”
She looked away, frustrated by the way he always seemed to corner her with simple truths. “This is… reckless. You’re… you. I’m…” She trailed off, unable to finish.
“You are Chiamaka,” he said simply. “And that is enough.”
The words sank into her, stirring something dangerous. She clenched her hands in her lap. “Why me? You could have anyone.”
He leaned back, studying her with an intensity that made her shift uncomfortably. “Because everyone else comes with masks. You don’t. You don’t know how to pretend, and I find that… rare.”
Her throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but she couldn’t.