Officer, the days after Gregory gave me the new shop felt unreal, like I had stepped into someone else's dream and someone else's design of my life. I kept touching things—tables, fabrics, even the keys he pressed into my hand—waiting for the illusion to collapse. Waiting for a voice to snap, Enough, Timi. This isn't yours. But nothing disappeared. Everything gleamed, everything waited for me to claim it. Too real. Too loud
A whole building on Lagos' busiest commercial street, glass-fronted, painted cream with gold accents. Everything sleek and new, the kind I'd only ever seen in glossy catalogues. Sunlight bounced off polished tiles, glass doors, the steel of my counters, all of it shining too bright, too perfect
I should have been proud. I should have smiled and breathed in the triumph. But my stomach trembled. This wasn't just me. This was Gregory's hand rearranging my world, and I hadn't asked him to.
The first morning I opened the doors, my workers lingered outside, eyes wide, hesitant, as though they feared they would dirty the tiles with their slippers. Benjamin, now the most senior among them, ran a hand along one of the cutting tables, mouth half-open, as if words had abandoned him.
"This place…" His voice shook, small and fragile. "Madam… this place fit beat some of those Abuja fashion houses."
Laughter bubbled among the apprentices, but there was awe in it too. Their voices trembled like children let loose in a palace.
I wanted to lift my chin, to pretend I had built it all myself, to hold their eyes with pride. But I couldn't. This was a gift, and it was mine only because Gregory had made it so.
Days rolled into weeks. The shop lived. The hum of sewing machines rose like a chant. Scissors sliced cloth with the precision of surgeons. Colours burst everywhere—royal blue, deep burgundy, soft cream, Ankara so bright it seemed to pulse beneath the fluorescent lights.
Laughter floated above the rhythm, apprentices teasing each other over crooked stitches. Stuffing became pillows, pillows became sets of duvets, sets of duvets became piles ready for eager customers. Lagos mothers came in twos, clutching their wrappers and haggling with sharp eyes. Young brides-to-be pressed fabric to their cheeks and whispered to me about wedding nights. Bachelors slipped in shyly, hands brushing over soft cotton, searching for something simple but fine enough to impress.
My name was written across every stitch, every fold, every polished tile. But his presence was there too—quiet, unseen. But always felt.
He would appear in the afternoons sometimes, leaning against the door frame, silent and steady, watching me measure fabric or settle a customer's bill. He never intruded. He didn't need to. His presence commanded the room without a word. The workers lowered their voices, not from fear, but respect—the kind that hums through the air when a man's presence speaks before his mouth does.
And me? My heart stuttered every time I caught his gaze. Those eyes that had claimed me the first day, now following me with that same relentless precision, as if I were fabric he refused to let fray.
I told myself not to get lost in him. A man like Gregory was too good, too steady, too careful with me—maybe it was just timing, my broken heart clinging to someone who offered shelter.
But at night, in his house, beneath his sheets, timing melted into something heavier.
Nights with him were tenderness and fury, sanctuary and battlefield. He memorised my body with patience and heat, tracing curves like a cartographer charting a secret map. His hands slid over me with reverence, then gripped with hunger. His lips murmured along my collarbone, down my stomach, coaxing breathless sounds from me I never thought my body could release.
Some nights it was slow, reverent. He touched me as though he was worshipping, his kisses deep, unhurried, each one a question that my body answered with trembling need. Other nights, it was feverish, tangled, sheets pulled, pillows tossed, our breaths stolen in shared gasps. He drove me to the edge until I clung to him with nails and teeth, and even then, I wanted more.
Mornings I barely stood, not from grief but from the fire that lingered, clinging to me, demanding again. And I wanted again. Wanted him until I shook, until my heart screamed against the quiet.
He gave me fire, joy, desire—and danger. Dependence. I measured my hours by his presence, by the softening of his voice for me alone, by the tightening of his jaw when other men dared to look.
And yet… the shadow lingered.
Bose.
Her absence was a silence in the bright new space, a question without an answer. Workers whispered when they thought I wasn't listening, eyes flicking my way, lips almost moving but stopping just short.
One afternoon, I caught Benjamin staring at me as though the question perched on his tongue. His lips parted, then snapped shut when my eyes met his. He looked down, guilty, as though he had swallowed a stone.
I pretended not to notice.
Where was she? Why had she vanished when the flames had devoured our old shop? Why didn't she answer their calls?
I told myself not to care. I had buried Bose and Raymond in the rubble of my past. They belonged there.
But Lagos doesn't let you bury anything fully.
Sometimes, when I pressed my face to the smooth cotton of a newly folded duvet, inhaling the clean, fresh scent, the unease crept back. Bose was gone, yes. But not forgotten.
And Gregory's shadow grew longer in my life. He came nearly every day, tall in tailored shirts, arms folded, watching me command the shop, correct apprentices, measure fabric. Customers adored him, mistaking him for partner—or husband.
He never corrected them.
A rare, small smile would flicker across his face when they said it. His silence was possession enough.
And me? My chest tightened each time. Because a part of me—small, dangerous—didn't mind the mistake.
Nights became rituals of fire. He would hold me so tightly I thought my body would bruise from his embrace. He would whisper my name into my skin like it was both a vow and a warning. Some nights I collapsed against him, breathless, my body spent but my mind whirling.
Other nights, it was rougher, rawer, like his need for me carried something deeper than desire—something closer to fear of losing me. His hands gripped harder, his lips pressed deeper, as though he wanted to write himself into my very bones.
And I let him. Gladly, desperately.
For a single, fleeting moment, I let myself believe I was safe.
Officer, you may call it blindness. I call it survival. I was building a new life on a floor made of glass, but I dared not look down. Not yet.
Gregory kept too close, perhaps too close.
But I don't mind.