CHAPTER TEN

The Ikeja apartment is quiet, but Chinaza’s pulse is a riot. She trails Shalem into the living room, the scent of the KFC bag in his hand mocking the expensive, clinical silence she just left behind in Ikoyi.

Her heart hasn’t slowed since the ride from Oniru, since he looked her in the eye and dismantled her defenses with three sentences.

Cancel them.

I intend to change the narrative of you not being happily married, starting now.

You’re coming home with me tonight.

Why did she follow him? The words should have tasted like an insult; she loathes instructions and despises the very whisper of submission. Yet, here she is, standing in his living room like an obedient schoolgirl.

It’s the dishwasher, she tells herself, adjusting her glasses with trembling fingers. I only came to inspect the plumbing and the bathroom upgrades. It’s a property assessment. Nothing more.

“I need to freshen up,” she says. Her voice is too quiet, lacking its usual executive edge. She ducks past him, heading for the master bedroom before he can see the flush creeping up her neck.

She pushes into the bathroom and stops.

Read more

CHAPTER NINE

The coffee is too sweet.

Chinaza freezes, the liquid sitting heavy on her tongue. She sets the mug down on the desk with a sharp clack and stares at it in shock.

She stabs the intercom button. “Liora. My office. Now.”

Liora appears seconds later, her smile bright and unsuspecting. “Yes, ma’am?”

Chinaza doesn’t look up from the mug. Her voice is a low, dangerous vibration. “Why is this coffee sweet?”

“I made it exactly how Shalem does, ma,” Liora says, her confidence wavering.

“Which is?”

“Blue Mountain blend. Heavy cream. Four sugars.”

The migraine pulsing behind Chinaza’s left eye flares into a recurring pound. She has spent four years drinking perfection, and not once did she realize it was a formula she didn’t actually know.

“I don’t take sugar in my coffee, Liora. If I wanted a dessert, I would have ordered a cake.” Chinaza says. Her frustration isn’t really about the glucose; it’s about the fact that she’s currently explaining her own existence to her secretary.

“Aren’t you the one who made my coffee yesterday?” Chinaza asks, frustration sharpening her voice.

Liora blinks, confused. “Shalem made it for you yesterday, ma’am. He was busy today, so I made it.”

The air in the room suddenly feels thin. So, the "sticking to his job description" routine wasn't just about his arrival time; it was a total withdrawal of his intuition.

“I can make another one, ma’am,” Liora says, reaching for the mug.

“Tell Shalem—” Chinaza starts, then stops. She exhales a breath that tastes like burnt caramel and ego. She doesn’t need him. The world does not revolve around a man who thinks shared dishes are a spiritual experience. “Never mind. That will be all.”

Liora scurries out, leaving the office in a silence that feels loud.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Chinaza scoffs, leaning back in her chair. Who knew the “humble” Shalem Olanrewaju had a spine made of such rigid iron?

Her private line rings. She snaps it up, her irritation bleeding into her professional mask. “Chinaza Olanrewaju.”

“Good morning. I was given this number by a mutual friend. I’m looking for something exclusive on the Island.” The voice is smooth, deep, calm, and expensive.

Chinaza’s posture shifts. This is her territory. “I see. What exactly are we looking for, and in which neighborhood?”

“A five-bedroom duplex. Modern fixtures. High-end finishes only.”

She pulls her iPad forward, her pen hovering over the glass. To have this number, he’s been vetted by someone in her inner circle. “Do you want to give me a list of your non-negotiables and also the specific location you are looking at?”

“VI or Oniru,” the caller says. “I want something that makes a statement without shouting.”

“I have two properties that fit that description perfectly,” Chinaza replies, her voice regaining its effortless snap. “When are you free for a viewing, sir?”

“This Saturday?”

“That works. You can come by the office, and we’ll head out together.”

“I’m Charles, by the way,” the caller adds. There’s a tilt to his voice, an understated confidence that brushes against her ear.

“Noted,” Chinaza says. She hangs up and stares at the screen.

A Saturday viewing. A new client. A distraction. She looks back at the cold, sugary coffee and pushes it to the very edge of her desk.

Subscribe now

Shalem stares at his monitor, but the spreadsheets are just a blur of meaningless black lines. His mind is a few steps away, trapped behind the door of the executive office.

He knows his wife. Forcing her to come back home would sound like control, that’s why he had to let her leave, but then it’s been four days since she left home, and knowing Chinaza, she won’t come back on her own.

He checks his bank app for the fifth time. The balance mocks him. He could liquidate his fixed savings—his safety net—to upgrade the bathroom and install a dishwasher. It’s financial recklessness. If an emergency hits tomorrow, he’ll be standing on red.

“Just plates,” he mutters under his breath, almost like he’s defending himself to no one. “It’s just plates…”

But even he hears how hollow that sounds now.

He thinks of the two cups of tea he brewed this morning. He drank both, cold and bitter, staring at her empty stool.

He opens the Fouani website. An LG QuadWash: 890,000 Naira.

Then, with a slow breath that feels like surrender, he confirms the liquidation.

He hesitates… not because of money, but because he is about to cross a boundary he set for himself.

“This is not about a machine,” he says quietly, almost to himself, as the confirmation loads. “It’s about whether she stays.”

The notification hits: Transfer successful.

For a moment, he just sits there.

Then he locks the screen like he’s sealing a decision he can’t take back.

He should contact a plumber and a contractor to make the bathroom adjustment.

“You look like someone who’s about to resign or commit a crime, Shalem.”

Liora’s chair scrapes the floor as she slides into his personal space, her shoulder brushing his. Her perfume is a loud, floral intrusion.

"I'm fine," Shalem says, his voice flat.

Liora leans in, her eyes dancing. "I've been meaning to ask. The ring. Is it a new fashion statement? Because last time we checked, you were very single."

Shalem doesn't hide his hand. He lifts it, the gold band catching the harsh office fluorescent light. "It’s a wedding band. I’m married, Liora."

Liora scoffs, waving a hand as if dismissing a bad joke. "Oh, please. I know that ring is just your way of keeping women at bay. Admit it, that is just a prop. You haven't taken a day off. No wedding? No relationship phone calls? You can't get married in a week, Shalem. The math doesn't add up jare"

“I’m serious, Liora,” Shalem says, leaning back. The chair groans under his tension. “I am a married man. You need to back off.”

“If that’s true, why wasn’t I invited?” Liora pouts. “When did this secret marriage even happen? Do you think I’m stupid?”

Shalem rubs the back of his neck, an exasperated chuckle escaping him. "Why would I lie about this? For the hundredth time, I’m not interested. I wasn't interested before the ring, and I’m definitely not interested now."

Liora’s smile falters. She looks at the set of his jaw, the hard, tired line of his mouth. “Are you... actually serious?”

“Yes, Liora.” Shalem looks down at his phone, scrolling for his plumber’s contact.

“So you just went and married someone else?” Liora grabs his arm, shaking it with a forced playfulness. “Just like that? Without giving me a chance?”

“Liora, don’t. I’m busy.” Shalem reaches over, gently, without force, his fingers wrapping around her hand to firmly peel it off his arm.

The door to the executive office swings open.

Chinaza stands there, her expression is a flash-freeze. Her eyes drop to the desk: Liora’s hands on his arm, Shalem’s hand tight around hers.

A sharp, hot needle of pain stabs Chinaza’s chest. Her stomach burns—a physical, acid ache.

It’s because I haven’t had lunch, she tells herself.

It’s 3:00 PM. For four years, a balanced meal would have appeared on her desk by 1:00 PM. Today, there was nothing. No tray, no water, no Shalem. She had finally decided to walk out and get it herself, only to find him occupied.

“Huh huh.” The sound Chinaza makes isn’t quite a cough; it’s a sharp, dry friction in the back of her throat that cuts through the office air like a blade.

Liora recoils instantly. She lunges back into her own workspace, her chair screeching a frantic apology against the marble. Shalem doesn’t jump. He simply lets go of Liora’s wrist and looks up, his expression settling into a mask of calm, professional readiness.

Chinaza adjusts the gold frames of her glasses, her pulse thudding against her collarbone. She stares at the space where their hands had just been joined.

“Shalem,” she says, her voice a fragile pillar. “Did you… order lunch?”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. Shalem just holds her gaze with a steadiness that makes her skin prickle.

“No, ma’am.”

Chinaza’s throat goes dry. The hunger in her stomach twists into a sharp, bitter knot. She waits for the follow-up—the ‘I’ll get it now’ or the ‘It’s on the way.’

It doesn’t come.

“Ma’am, I assumed you preferred handling that yourself now,” he adds. His tone is gentle. Not a drop of malice in it.

Which somehow makes it a total demolition.

Irritation coils in Chinaza’s chest, hot and defensive.

“Liora,” Chinaza snaps, her eyes never leaving Shalem’s. “Go get me lunch. Now.”

Liora scrambles for her bag. “Yes, ma’am! What would you—”

“Shalem,” Chinaza interrupts, her voice dropping dangerously low. “Please teach Liora the specifics of my coffee and my lunch preferences. She’ll be handling my personal requirements from now on.”

She doesn’t wait for his acknowledgment. She turns on her heel, her silk hair whipping behind her as she stalks back toward her office.

The door doesn’t just close; it punctuates the room.

Inside, Chinaza leans against the desk, her breath coming loud and uneven.

So this is what he meant by covenant, she thinks.

He preaches about the sanctity of marriage until the sun goes down, but by 3:00 PM on a Tuesday, he’s holding hands and sharing affection with her secretary.

She tells herself it’s nothing. But her attention lingers longer than it should.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

The Oniru duplex is a masterpiece of white marble and floor-to-ceiling glass, but inside the foyer, the air is thick with a different kind of architecture.

Charles is exactly what this space was built for. He stands by the panoramic window, his tailored linen suit catching the afternoon sun. He looks expensive in the way people are when they’ve never had to check a balance.

Shalem stands three paces behind them. He carries the floor plans and the tablet, a silent guard in a crisp white shirt. He is playing the "Assistant" with terrifying precision—no smiles, no small talk, just a gaze that tracks every movement like a radar.

“The light here is exceptional, Ms. Olanrewaju,” Charles says. He lets her name linger, treating it like a vintage wine.

Chinaza adjusts her glasses, her professional mask flawless. “It’s a premier listing. The orientation ensures you get the sunset without the heat.” She gestures toward the dining wing. “It’s open plan, the developer prioritized flow, though this partition can be modified if you prefer a formal separation.”

Charles keeps his gaze on her, ignoring the walls. “What would you do?”

The question shifts the gravity in the room. Chinaza pauses. She’s used to giving directions, not being asked for her taste.

“I’d remove it,” she says finally. “It restricts the room’s potential.”

Charles nods, a slow, appreciative curve to his lips. “Exactly what I thought. We’re aligned.”

Shalem hears it. It wasn’t a business agreement; it was a vibe.

They move to the kitchen, where Charles leans against the island, his presence taking over the marble. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, “but impractical for someone like you.”

Chinaza tilts her head. “Someone like me?”

“Structured. Fast. No tolerance for inefficiency.”

A faint, genuine smile touches her lips. “Correct.”

Charles moves closer to inspect a detail on the counter. As he does, his hand brushes the small of her back—a casual, high-society gesture of familiarity. It lasts barely a second, but in the silence of the house, it feels like a shout.

Chinaza doesn’t flinch. In her world, this is the social dance of the elite. But Shalem’s eyes drop to that hand. His jaw doesn't just set; it turns to stone.

He notices the way Chinaza’s head tilts toward Charles as he speaks—a micro-reaction of genuine interest. To Shalem, it doesn’t look like a business transaction. It looks like a match.

“Let’s see the master suite,” Chinaza says, leading them upstairs.

Inside the suite, Charles takes in the layout. “The insulation needs an upgrade,” he says suddenly, tapping the wall. “You don’t like noise.”

Chinaza blinks, surprised. “I don’t.”

Charles taps the wall lightly, already mentally redesigning the space. “Then we’ll need soundproofing. You shouldn’t have to hear the world if you don’t want to.”

“You’re thinking ahead,” she says with a small smile as she shows her wedding band.

His eyes drop to the gold band on her finger. “Ah. You’re married. I suppose the good ones are always off the market.”

He pauses, his voice dropping into a daring, private register. “Are you happily married, or should I keep a sliver of hope alive?”

The air vanishes from the room. Chinaza feels Shalem’s gaze like a physical burn on the side of her face. She thinks of the Ikeja apartment, the fight over dishes, and the sight of Liora’s hands on Shalem’s arm. The silence stretches too long.

“I’ll take that hesitation as a ‘maybe,’” Charles says smoothly. “I want the property. But I have custom requirements for this suite. Shall we discuss them over dinner tomorrow?”

Chinaza’s pulse skips. “I’ll have to check my—”

“Mrs. Olanrewaju has a prior engagement tomorrow evening.”

Shalem’s voice cuts through the room. It’s calm, but it has the texture of crushed glass.

Charles looks from Shalem to Chinaza, his eyebrows climbing. Chinaza recovers quickly, nodding. “Yes... my assistant manages my schedule. It seems I am booked.”

“A shame,” Charles says, his smile unbothered. “I’m a patient man, Chinaza. I don’t mind waiting for something of value.”

“Ma’am,” Shalem says, his tone dipping into a dangerous, intimate baritone. “We’re done here.”

As Chinaza walks past Shalem toward the door, her arm brushes his chest. She feels the heat radiating from him—the suppressed thunder of a man who is finished playing the subordinate.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

The interior of the Range Rover is a pressurized vacuum.

Shalem drives with a terrifying, rhythmic precision. His eyes are fixed on the Lagos traffic, his jaw a jagged line of granite. In the rearview mirror, he tracks Chinaza. She is staring out the window, her thumb tracing the gold band on her finger—the band she hadn’t taken off, despite Charles’s flirtations.

“He’s a solid lead,” Chinaza says, her voice breaking the silence. “He’ll close by Monday.”

“Are you happily married, Chinaza?”

The question is a low vibration, almost too quiet. The words leave Shalem’s mouth before he can filter them. They are raw, stripped of the “ma’am,” stripped of the professional varnish he has worn like armor all week.

Chinaza turns her head slowly. Her eyes are unreadable behind her frames. “Do you think we are?”

Silence floods the car again.

“He’s a high-net-worth client, Shalem,” she continues, her tone hardening. “He’s allowed to be demanding.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now? Letting a stranger touch you to keep the commission alive is ‘demanding’?”

Chinaza finally lifts her chin, her eyes meeting Shalem’s in the rearview mirror. The reflection is sharp, a collision of two people who haven’t touched in a week. “And what exactly is it to you? You wanted professional boundaries. You wanted to be the assistant. An assistant doesn't audit his boss’s social cues.”

Shalem’s grip on the leather steering wheel tightens until his knuckles are white, the gold wedding band mocking the distance between the front and back seats.

“I am your husband,” he says. The words are quiet, but they carry the weight of an ultimatum.

“You’re a man who confuses compromise with control,” Chinaza counters. “If we aren’t working, Shalem, don’t blame my clients. Blame your ‘budget’ and your pride.”

Shalem swerves the car into the slow lane and kills the speed. The engine purrs like a trapped animal. He doesn’t turn around. He just stares into the mirror, locking eyes with her through the glass.

“We are going to church together tomorrow,” he says, his voice a dangerous, intimate baritone. “And we are having dinner. At home.”

“I’m not staying in that apartment just to become your domestic help,” Chinaza replies, though her pulse is beginning to thud against her throat.

Shalem exhales, a slow, grounding sound. “I’ve already bought the dishwasher. The bathroom has been upgraded during the week. You aren’t going to dinner with a client, Chinaza. You’re coming home with me tonight.”

“I... I already have plans,” she stammers.

“Cancel them,” Shalem says. He shifts the car into drive, the power of the engine surging under them. “I intend to change the narrative of you not being happily married, starting right now.”

Chinaza opens her mouth, but the argument dissolves before it forms.

Her pulse thunders as Shalem pulls back into traffic, one hand steady on the wheel, the other flashing gold beneath the Lagos sun.

Author’s Note:

Are Shalem and Chinaza back? 🤭🤭

This book has kissing scenes o, just a heads up 🫣😂

Leave a comment

CHAPTER EIGHT

Shalem eyes the wall clock. 4:20 PM.

On a typical Saturday, Chinaza is usually home by two. He picks up his phone. Dials. It rings, a long, hollow sound that echoes in the quiet of the apartment, until it drops to voicemail.

He paces the length of the tiles. Most times, he drives her. But this morning, she’d insisted on driving herself, her voice a flat line of “I’m good. I’ll drive myself.”

Lord, what’s wrong?

He taps his contacts and calls Doris. The receptionist picks up on the first ring, her voice bright with background music.

“Shalem, how far?”

“Doris. Is Ms.... is Mrs. Olanrewaju still in the building?”

“No, o. She came in this morning, stayed barely twenty minutes, and vanished. Why? Is everything okay?”

Shalem’s chest tightens, the air in the apartment suddenly feeling thin. “Right. Thanks, Doris. See you Monday.”

He hangs up and dials Chinaza again. Silence. He calls Austin; he needs a voice that isn’t his own panic.

“My guy,” Austin answers, his voice absorbed by the low rumble of a television.

“I can’t reach Chinaza,” Shalem says. His hand trembles slightly against the cool glass of the phone.

“Calm down. What’s the subtext, Shalem? What happened before she left?”

Shalem winces. “Nothing. We just... had a… conversation. I told her I’d handle the cooking and every other chore around the house, but I asked her to do the dishes.”

A beat of silence. Then, Austin’s laughter explodes through the receiver.

“Guy! You told the Ice Queen to wash plates? Do you have a death wish? Why didn’t you just outsource it like a normal person?”

Shalem exhales loudly, “Why are we outsourcing intimacy before intimacy even exists?” Shalem snaps, his frustration boiling over. “I’m trying to build a partnership, Austin. A shared life. Doing things together creates intimacy. I asked her to wash our plates… two plates, at most four daily.”

“Guy, listen to yourself,” Austin’s voice drops into a pitying tone. “Logically, your words don't make sense to a woman who earns twenty times your salary. You said ‘partnership.’ She heard ‘lay down your crown.’ A queen doesn't argue with her staff, Shalem. She just replaces them. She hasn’t vanished; she’s retreated.”

“Are you not the one who said she is a lioness and you don’t want her to be a house cat?” Austin adds.

“I’m not trying to turn her into a house cat… I intend to do most of the chores here,” Shalem sighs, rubbing his temples.

“Well, you just tried to put her in a kitchen apron. Take my advice: meet her at her level first. Make her comfortable before you try intimacy, or she’ll keep running back to where she’s in control.”

Austin hangs up, leaving Shalem in the thickening dimness of the living room.

His intention wasn't submission; it was a foundation. He didn't want to live with a boss; he wanted to live with a wife. But as he strides toward her bedroom and pushes the door open, the truth hits him.

The room is untidy, but still.

He checks the vanity. Her essentials are gone. He opens the wardrobe. Her clothes remain, hanging like colorful ghosts, but he knows her well enough to know they are just decoys.

She didn’t go to a meeting. She went back to Ikoyi.

He pulls out his phone, his thumb hovering over the keypad. He types:

He sinks onto the edge of the bed, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. He wanted a partner; she wanted a compromise she could control.

He’d tried to pull her into his world, but all he’d succeeded in doing was locking himself out of hers.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

Chinaza’s living room is a masterclass in quiet wealth. Floor-to-ceiling silk curtains swallow the chaotic Lagos sun, filtering the light into a muted golden haze.

She sinks into her Italia Camaleonda sofa. It doesn’t creak; it simply accepts her. She props her iPad up and starts the call, the high-definition ring echoing through the hollow perfection of her duplex.

Oluwashindara picks up first, her face filling the screen with obvious concern. “Girlfriend, talk to me. How is the struggle-house?”

Before Chinaza can answer, Keziah joins, breastfeeding her infant. “Naza,” she greets softly with a smile. “How is your husband? When are we starting the real wedding planning? My Nigerian gele is already crying to be tied.”

Chinaza adjusts her glasses, the gold frames catching the light. “I’ve left the apartment. I’m back in Ikoyi.”

Silence ripples through the digital connection. It is the kind of silence that only happens when a social pillar collapses.

Keziah’s smile falters. “What do you mean, you’ve left?”

“He expects me to wash plates, Keziah.” Chinaza’s voice is flat, but her thumb traces the edge of her tablet in angry motion. “And his sisters are coming in three weeks. There is no espresso machine, the bathroom is a tragedy, and I am tired of the noise of neighbors and common appliances.”

“Is he mad?” Shindara’s voice spikes. “Does he not have hands? Or a budget for a maid? Or get a dishwasher?”

“Ah-ah! Shindara! Show some respect,” Keziah warns, her voice grounding the conversation. “That is her husband.”

“Is that why he wants to turn her into a modern-day housegirl?” Shindara counters.

“Who has been doing the work since you moved in?” Keziah asks, ignoring her.

Chinaza looks at her perfectly manicured nails. “He cooks. He washes. He keeps the place spotless.”

“Then why isn’t he getting a cleaner?” Keziah presses.

“He said no maid, and getting extra things isn’t in his financial budget for this month, so we have to do it together. As a team.” Chinaza leans back, her voice dripping with disbelief. “I’m not going to do any chores.”

“Good for you,” Shindara cheers. “Remind him you’re his boss, not his kitchen assistant. You’ve spent years building a life where nobody can corner you, Chinaza. Of course, this is a trap.”

“Actually, it isn’t a trap; it’s a marriage,” Keziah interrupts, her voice grounding the conversation.

“Naza, you have to understand his finances. He isn’t as wealthy as you. He’s asking for a partnership; you both have to compromise.”

“Compromise on what? Her sanity?” Shindara snaps. “Marriage shouldn’t feel like punishment; he’s egoistic. He won’t move into her house because of his pride, but he’s happy to let her suffer in that cramped box. He’s acting like he’s too good for her world.”

“Herh! Oluwashindara, stop it!” Keziah warns.

“Stop what? He gave her a ring that probably came from a cereal box and signed a three-page paper. The families don’t even know! It’s barely a marriage.” Shindara says, her eyes narrowing at the screen. “Naza, don’t go back to that hole. And please, buy yourself a real diamond. That gold band on your finger is embarrassing you.”

“Changing that ring is a slap in his face,” Keziah says firmly. “Naza, don’t listen to her. You both need to talk, not run.”

Chinaza’s thumb moves to the gold band, twisting it. “He argues with me at every turn, Keziah. He told me ‘Don’t do that again’ because I asked for the lights to be dimmed. He’s trying to manage me.”

“Imagine!” Shindara scoffs. “Don’t let a three-page document hold you down. It’s a list of rules, not a law. Go on a date. Find someone who matches your bank account. Get a divorce.”

Keziah exhales, a long, tired sound. “Dara, why are you setting fire to Naza’s home? The man has done nothing but ask for a wife instead of a boss. Don’t you do chores in your own home?”

“My husband helps,” Shindara mutters.

“Exactly. The idea isn’t wrong, Naza; the issue is the delivery. He’s traditional, you’re modern. This was always going to be a collision. But running away in less than a week? That isn’t a solution.”

Chinaza crosses her legs, adjusting her glasses. The difference between her quiet, perfect living room and Shalem’s world feels like a physical ache. “It’s fine. I know what to do.”

“Just don’t do something you’ll regret,” Keziah pleads.

Chinaza nods dismissively. She knows exactly what she wants. And going back isn’t part of it, even though she’s starting to miss the closeness of the apartment more than the silence of her duplex.

She didn’t leave because she couldn’t live there. She left because she couldn’t predict him anymore.

Monday Morning

“Are you sure Shalem isn’t the one the ice queen actually married?” Doris leans over the reception desk, her voice low and urgent.

Liora throws her head back, her laughter bouncing off the polished marble of the lobby. “Doris, your imagination is doing overtime o. First of all, Shalem is too patient to handle that woman’s temper. Secondly, you see how she bosses him around? If they were married, he’d have a little more say, don’t you think?”

Doris shrugs, her eyes darting toward the elevator. “He called me on Saturday, asking about ‘Mrs. Olanrewaju.’ He sounded... stressed and protective.”

“He’s her assistant, Doris. His job description is literally ‘worrying so she doesn’t have to,’” Liora whispers, leaning in with a wicked grin. “Besides, her family is old money. They wouldn’t let her marry someone like him. It’s not in the script.”

“And the rings?” Doris counters, tapping her own ring finger. “They both showed up with gold bands on Thursday and Friday. And ‘Olanrewaju’? That’s Shalem’s last name.”

Femi walks in, his leather bag slung over his shoulder. He stops at the desk, taking in their huddle. “Do you both live for gossip? On a Monday morning, o.”

“We’re just analyzing a big issue,” Liora says defensively.

“What issue?” Femi picks up the heavy fountain pen to sign the register.

“Do you think our boss married Shalem?” Doris asks point-blank.

Femi pauses, the nib of the pen hovering over the sign-in book. He looks at Doris like she just asked the dumbest question. “Do you think the sun comes out at midnight?”

Doris scowls. “What kind of question is that?”

“The same kind you just asked me,” Femi says, finally scribbling his name. “If you saw them in the meeting room last week, you’d know they are not in love, talk less of being married. They were at each other’s throats. Two of them in one house? Lailai1”

“But the name... and the rings...” Doris persists.

Femi chuckles, tapping the side of his head. “Use your brain now. Is Shalem the only Olanrewaju in Lagos? A quarter of Western Nigeria shares that name. Amaka, in sales, wears a ring. Tunde also wears a ring. Does that mean they’re hiding a secret life together? Doris. Think.”

Liora nods vigorously. “Exactly. She’s way too proud for that. And honestly, her stubbornness? That’s a whole other level I don’t think Shalem could ever handle.”

Doris sighs and then nods. The logic is sound, but her gut is screaming.

(An hour and a half later)

Chinaza sits behind her desk, her spine a rigid line of resistance. She wears a power suit in a shade of burnt orange that screams for attention, a waist-length, silky human-hair wig that falls in smooth, straight lines, rich with the quiet luxury of something unmistakably expensive.

She has been in the office since 7:30 AM, fueled only by adrenaline and a desperate need to prove that her life is back on its original track.

The digital clock on her desk flips to 9:00 AM.

Exactly on the second, the door opens.

Shalem walks in. He looks rested. He looks professional. He looks like a man who spent his Sunday in church and in peace, not roaming the streets looking for a runaway wife.

He places a folder on her desk, the weekly projections, and stands back, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he says. His voice is a neutral, flat-line baritone.

Chinaza’s gaze snaps to his. Her throat is dry, and the lack of caffeine is making her temper fray at the edges. “You’re late.”

Shalem doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even check his watch. “My job description states a start time of 9:00 AM, ma’am. I am precisely on schedule.”

Chinaza’s hand tightens on her gold fountain pen. On a normal Monday, he would have been here before 8. He would have checked the thermostat. He would have placed an electrolyte sachet on her desk. He would have pre-screened her emails. And most importantly...

She looks at the empty space on her desk where a steaming cup of Blue Mountain coffee usually sits. He didn’t bring it. He didn’t even mention it.

Shalem knows instantly she is looking for her morning coffee. He almost brings it with him. The habit is louder than his decision. But then he stops himself, not because he doesn’t care, but because caring like before is exactly what got them here.

“You used to be here by 8:00,” she says, her voice dropping into a dangerous, executive snap. “Why the sudden devotion to the clock?”

“I’ll be keeping to my official hours going forward, ma’am,” Shalem replies, his expression as unreadable as a blank blueprint. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”

The air in the room becomes a vacuum. Chinaza waits for the “line.” She waits for him to mention Saturday. To ask why she didn’t follow him to church or come home for their mandatory Sunday dinner date. To reference the absence. To make her account for it.

He says nothing.

He begins to turn toward the door, his movements fluid and detached. He reaches the handle, and for a split second, he almost speaks.

He stops. His shoulders tense, and his head tilts just a fraction, as if he’s about to look back. He takes a deep breath, an uneven draw of air, and his hand tightens on the doorknob until his knuckles turn white.

Chinaza holds her breath. Her heart thuds once, twice, hard against her ribs.

Shalem’s chest expands, then slowly, deliberately, he exhales. He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t speak. He simply relaxes his grip and opens the door.

“Wait,” Chinaza blurts out.

Shalem pauses, half-turned. “Yes, ma’am?”

She wants to ask about the coffee. She wants to ask why he isn’t fighting for the “covenant” he was so obsessed with.

“Get Liora to bring me coffee. Now,” she says, her voice sounding thin even to her own ears.

“I’ll pass on the message,” Shalem says quietly.

He walks out, closing the door with a click so soft it feels like a final judgment.

Chinaza stares at the closed door; she got exactly what she wanted.

So why does it feel like she just lost something she never agreed to give?

Monday Afternoon (Hours later)

“Ma’am, the Boardwalk strategy has hit a wall,” Tunde says, his voice strained. He drops a stack of photos onto the table. They show a half-finished wooden structure and a group of men standing with folded arms in front of a tractor. “The baale2 of the community has rejected the bridge. He says we are trying to ‘decorate their poverty’ and that the boardwalk is just a fancy way to spy on their movements and obtain their livelihood from them. They’ve stopped all work. Again.”

Bashir, the Finance Lead, slams his folder shut. “We’ve already sunk thirty-four million into the materials for that boardwalk. If we scrap it now and go back to a wall, we’re looking at a 30% loss on the Ikorodu project. It’s a disaster.”

“And my buyers?” Amaka’s voice is shrill. “They liked the Cultural Landmark and Exclusive Heritage Waterfront Access pitch. If I tell them the landmark is now a riot zone or it’s no longer possible, they’ll want their refunds by noon.”

The team erupts. Arguments fly across the table like fragments: legal threats, bribe suggestions, logistical retreats. Chinaza sits at the head of the table, her pen tapping a chaotic sound against the table. She feels the familiar heat of a crisis rising in her throat.

She needs the magic. She needs the pivot.

She turns her head to the right.

Shalem is there, exactly where he has been for four years. His posture straight, his expression a mask of professional neutrality. He is scrolling through something she can’t see on his tablet, his thumb moving with agonizing calmness. He hasn’t expressed any worry or offered a single word of comfort or a spark of genius since the meeting began.

“Shalem,” Chinaza says. The room falls silent. Her team looks at him, waiting for the rabbit he usually pulls out of the hat.

Shalem tilts his head slightly, acknowledging her. “Yes, ma’am?”

“The Baale is playing hardball. What’s the move? How do we reframe the boardwalk to get them to sign off?”

A long pause. Not hesitation, but consideration.

“The issue isn’t the boardwalk. It’s perception,” he says.

His voice is polite, crisp, and entirely hollow.

“They don’t trust the intent behind it. To them, it looks like an outsider’s law imposed on their space.”

Chinaza’s pen stops mid-tap. “So?” she presses.

“So we stop selling it as a feature to them,” Shalem continues. “And start framing it as infrastructure they control.”

The silence in the room stretches, thin and taut.

“How?” Chinaza asks again.

“Bring the Baale into the design conversation. Let them assign purpose to it. Fishing access, local trade movement, security patrol, whatever aligns with how they already use that water.”

Bashir frowns. “That delays us.”

“Not necessarily,” Shalem replies. “It shifts ownership. And ownership reduces resistance faster than enforcement.”

Chinaza nods. It’s a clean and strategic solution.

She watches him for more details, the expansion, the layering, the brilliance he usually builds around a core idea.

It doesn’t come.

Chinaza’s gaze sharpens. “That’s it?” she says.

“That’s my recommendation, ma’am,” he replies.

Chinaza’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Why is he becoming difficult?

She turns back to the room. “You heard him. We’ll proceed with a community integration approach. Tunde, schedule a meeting with the Baale. Amaka, manage client expectations. Bashir, rework the budget projections.”

“Meeting adjourned,” Chinaza says. The words feel fragile, lacking their usual executive fullness. “Everyone out. Shalem, stay.”

The boardroom empties in hushed whispers. When the door finally clicks shut, the silence that rushes in is suffocating.

She exhales slowly. “You could have said more in there. You were practically a statue.”

“I answered the questions you asked,” he replies. His voice is a neutral, polished stone.

Her eyes narrow. “You used to do more than that.”

Shalem holds her gaze, his expression a masterpiece of professional detachment. “At work, I follow your lead, ma’am. You made that boundary very clear.”

Chinaza feels it, that shift again. That space where something used to exist.

“This isn’t about boundaries. This is a critical project. I need your brain, not your compliance.”

“Ma’am, you’re more than capable of leading it,” Shalem says, his tone steady. “You don’t need me to carry the weight for you.”

The room feels smaller, the air thinning between them.

“That’s not what I said,” she snaps, her hand tightening around her gold pen.

“I know.”

He reaches out, his fingers hovering near hers for a split second before he grips his tablet. He stands, the movement fluid and distant. “If there’s nothing else, ma’am, I’ll prepare the revised brief.”

He walks toward the door. He reaches the brass handle but doesn’t turn it. He stands there, his back to her.

“Shalem.”

He exhales. “Yes, ma’am?”

She hates how much she misses the way he said her name without the title just forty-eight hours ago. She shuts the thought down immediately. “Is this all because I left the apartment?”

He turns back slowly. His face is calm, but his eyes are dark with things he isn’t saying.

“You didn’t bring my coffee today,” she continues, the list of grievances spilling out before she can stop them. “You didn’t adjust my office temperature. You didn’t even bring me lunch. And now, you’re giving me the bare minimum in meetings.”

“You left without a word,” Shalem says quietly. “That’s not how we agreed to handle things.”

“I can’t cope there, Shalem! You won’t fix the bathroom, but you want me to do dishes?” She stands up, her defense mechanism kicking into high gear.

Shalem sighs, a sound of profound exhaustion. “I spent my savings on the rent and the furnishing to make it decent for you. I asked for a month to fix the bathroom. One month.”

He takes a step closer, the professional mask finally cracking. “I wasn’t asking you to become small, Ma’am. I was asking you to build something with me. If we eventually need help, we’ll decide that together. I don’t want a home where we outsource every inconvenience before we’ve even learned each other.”

“I can’t wait a month,” she says, her voice firm. “Get a dishwasher. I’ll pay for it.”

“It’s above my budget for now, but if that’s what you want, we’ll get one over time.”

“Then take a salary advance,” she presses. “Fix the bathroom.”

Shalem shakes his head. “That’s not financially wise at this stage.”

The silence stretches, heavy and thick.

“I’ll stay at my house, then,” she says, throwing the words out like a dare.

Shalem studies her for a long moment, his gaze tracing her face.

“If that’s your decision, I won’t stop you.”

The lack of resistance unsettles her immediately.

“I’m still here,” he adds, his voice dropping to a low, intimate vibration that haunts the space between them. “When you’re ready to build this properly. As my wife.”

Chinaza says nothing. For the first time since returning to Ikoyi, it no longer feels like victory.

Little update, Lovestackers 🤍

Bougainvillea is officially moving from Selar to Substack as part of my paid subscription 🥳

Inside the subscription, you’ll get:

🌸 Bougainvillea — every Saturday evening
📓 Mina’s Diary — chaotic rom-com autofiction
⚖️ Legally Shalem — early access chapters + exclusive scenes
📚 The Redemption Assignment — now moving from Selar

Thank you for reading and loving these stories with me 🤍

Subscription Link

Author’s Note:

When would Chinaza go back home like this?

Leave a comment

CHAPTER SEVEN

Chinaza pushes her plate away. It scrapes against the counter like a final warning.

Her appetite is gone, replaced by the sharp, ringing echo of Shalem’s voice.

Don’t do that again.

She stalks toward the door, her heels making a hollow, angry sound on the tiles of the new apartment. She yanks it open, expecting a delivery or a mistake.

“Hello!”

A woman stands there, waving with a brightness that feels aggressive in the face of Chinaza’s mood. She is slender, fair-skinned, carrying a smile that suggests she has never had to reallocate a multi-million naira budget.

Chinaza adjusts her glasses, raking her gaze over the stranger with the clinical precision of a site inspector. “Yes?”

The woman’s smile wavers, but doesn’t break. “I’m your next-door neighbor. I saw you and your husband moving in yesterday and thought I’d say hi today. I didn’t want to disturb you yesterday.”

Chinaza’s gaze remains cold. “Thank you.” She begins to swing the door shut, her arm forming a rigid barrier.

“I’m Mrs. Adeshina!” the woman blurts out, lifting her left hand to flash a gold band. It’s a peace offering, an attempt to prove she isn’t a threat.

Chinaza stares at the ring. And? Should I give you a plaque? Everyone seems to think being married is an achievement.

Before she can deliver a verbal sting, Shalem is there. He doesn’t crowd her, but his presence fills the doorway, his shoulder just inches from hers.

“Hello,” Shalem says. His voice is smooth, effortless, and entirely too friendly.

The neighbor visibly relaxes, her eyes gravitating toward Shalem’s warmth like a plant to the sun. “Good evening, sir. I was just telling your wife that I’m your next-door neighbor. I thought we should connect since we live close to each other.” She beams at him. “It’s good to have you here. My husband and I just moved in a month ago, too.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Shalem says, his smile hitting a note of genuine charm that makes Chinaza’s jaw tighten. “We look forward to being good neighbors.”

The woman glances at Chinaza’s stony expression, then back to Shalem’s radiating calm. “Goodnight then.” She retreats quickly, her footsteps light on the landing.

Chinaza doesn’t wait for the door to click. She walks into the living room and drops onto the couch, her back as straight as a steel beam. Shalem closes the door and follows, stopping just close enough for her to feel the heat of him.

“You’re done eating?” he asks quietly.

“It was probably her child screaming this morning,” Chinaza snaps, her eyes fixed on the blank television screen. “Like mother, like child. Loud and unnecessary.”

Shalem looks down at her. He doesn’t sound angry; he sounds like a man trying to explain the tide to a cliffside. “You don’t want to leave a bad impression on the neighbors, Chinaza. I know you well enough to know you don’t mean to be cruel, but the world doesn’t see your intent. It only sees your edge.”

“I don’t think I can survive here,” Chinaza says, standing up. She grabs her designer bag, the leather smooth and familiar. “I’m going to my room.”

She doesn’t look back as she walks into the bedroom, the door closing with a definitive, polished snap.

Share

Tunde leans over the reception desk, his pen hovering over the sign-in register.

“Our boss is married?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper meant only for Amaka and Doris.

Doris slides the register toward Amaka. “I’m still processing it too oh. I saw the ring during the Westbrook briefing yesterday. It’s… there. It’s very there.”

“Maybe she bought it for herself,” Doris suggests, leaning in. “You know… maybe a strategic way to keep everyone off her back.”

Amaka shakes her head, snatching the pen from Tunde. “That type of wedding band? No. Madam likes things that scream. It’s too simple for her to have chosen it.”

Liora breezes in before the thought can settle, her heels clicking at a musical tempo. “Good morning, everyone.”

“The CEO’s secretary has arrived,” Doris says, grinning. “Liora, give us update abeg. Is your boss actually off the market?”

Liora drops her bag and sighs, a look of disbelief crossing her face. “Her email signature changed yesterday morning. She’s officially a Mrs. now.”

“I knew it,” Tunde mutters.

“But we didn’t get a wedding invite?” Amaka asks, her brows knitting together.

“Maybe it’s just an engagement,” Doris offers.

“You don’t change your surname for an engagement, Doris. That’s a done deal,” Amaka counters.

“And no honeymoon?” Tunde adds.

Liora leans against the desk, shaking her head. “Forget the honeymoon. Are we really not going to talk about the impossible? Can you actually imagine our boss giggling? Can you picture the Ice Queen being romanced?”

“I can’t imagine her falling in love, honestly,” Tunde says, a chill following his words.

“Enough talk,” Tunde says, suddenly straightening his tie. “She’ll be here any second, and I’d like to keep my job.”

Amaka and Tunde hurry toward the elevator, leaving Liora behind. She lingers at the reception, her eyes fixed on the entrance, waiting for Shalem.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

The scent of sizzling breakfast is the only thing softening the sharp edges of the Ikeja apartment on a Saturday morning. Chinaza emerges from her room, the hem of her floor-length silk nightgown whispering against the tiles. Her eyes scan the counters, hunting for the one thing that justifies her being awake: her tea.

She finds Shalem in the kitchen. He is wiping down the kitchen island with a level of focus that makes the marble look like a mirror. He doesn’t look tired. He looks settled.

“Good morning, Chinaza,” he says, his voice a low, morning rumble. He doesn't look up.

Chinaza nods, her fingers curling around the warm mug he’s already left out for her. She turns toward the balcony, seeking the sunrise to drown out the sound of the home appliances that seemed to thrum right in her nerve endings.

“Chinaza.”

She stops, the steam from her tea ghosting over her glasses. She turns.

Shalem sets the cloth down. His expression is unreadable, his stance steady. “We need to talk. I’ve handled the house chores for three days so you could settle in properly. But today is Saturday. I think we need a system… something that works for both of us.”

Chinaza’s pulse gives a small, traitorous jump. “Define ‘system.’”

“The bathroom,” she continues before he can speak, her voice sharpening. “I told you about the situation two days ago. I can’t work under these conditions, Shalem. You’ve done nothing.”

“The repair is scheduled for the end of the month,” Shalem says. “We’ll fix it then.”

She lets out a dry, sharp laugh. “If you’re this broke, why did you insist I leave my comfort? Take a salary advance. I’ll approve it today, and you can get it fixed by noon.”

“No ma’am,” Shalem says. “That isn’t financially brilliant. We work with what we have. I don’t borrow from my future to quiet your impatience.”

Chinaza sighs, a sound of pure executive exhaustion. “I don’t like my mornings disturbed. I’ll be on the balcony.”

“Chinaza, wait.” Shalem steps closer, the space between them suddenly feeling very thin. “I took the lead on all the chores this week because I wanted you to feel welcomed. But a home doesn’t run on one person’s effort. It runs on agreement. I need us to share this… I can handle the cooking and heavy lifting chores, but I’d like you to take the dishes. At least for now.”

“I don’t do housework, Shalem. I pay people to—”

“We’ll get a cleaner when we have more rooms, but for now, I want to know the shape of the life we’re building with our own hands.” Shalem cuts in. His baritone drops, vibrating in the small kitchen.

“In the office, you delegate because your time is money,” he says. “In this house, we labor because our effort is love. If you have an issue with your assigned chores, we can negotiate. If not, the dishes are yours.”

For a fraction of a second, her mask cracks. The word love felt foreign in this cramped kitchen, heavy and terrifying. Chinaza’s pulse races, but she quickly buries the feeling under a layer of frost.

She stares at him as if he’s asked her to lay bricks. “My hands aren’t for soapy water, Shalem. I’ll call the agency. A live-in maid will be here by evening. Problem solved.”

“I’m not comfortable bringing in a maid right now. Not while we’re still figuring out how to build this ourselves.”

“Excuse me?” Chinaza’s voice climbs. “This apartment is already a tragedy. I’m having tea instead of coffee, I’m commuting long distance daily, and there isn't a walk-in closet in sight. If you think I’m adding 'house girl' to my resume to prove a point about your 'means,' you’re mistaken. I’ll pay her myself.”

Shalem walks toward her, stopping just outside the boundary of her personal space. The heat coming off him is a silent challenge.

"I don’t think we can build something real if we can’t do small things for each other… even the uncomfortable ones." His voice drops to a dangerous, quiet sound. "I insisted on a home I provide. If you pay for a maid to do the work I’ve asked you to share, you aren't helping. You’re subsidizing. And I don’t take subsidies."

Chinaza looks at him. “And if I refuse?”

Shalem doesn’t flinch. “Then we’ll be living in a very, very messy place. And I don’t think you can handle a dirty home.”

Chinaza’s grip on her mug tightens until her knuckles turn white. She sets it down on the island with a sharp clack.

“I don’t think this can work,” she says, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and something else she refuses to name. “It’s day three, and I’m fed up. I want out.”

She turns, her silk gown billowing behind her like a battle flag as she stalks toward her room.

Shalem exhales, the sound heavy in the quiet of the apartment. He rubs his forehead, where a dull ache is beginning to pulse behind his eyes.

Working for Chinaza for four years was one thing; he knew her moods, her triggers, and her attitude. But living with her is a different kind of headache.

He loves her, has liked her since the first day of his employment, but he is starting to realize that indulging her isn’t kindness. It’s a slow-acting poison. If he continues to be the silent laborer, absorbing her chores and her moods without a word, he isn’t building a home; he’s building a reservoir for future resentment.

He looks at the sink, then at the laundry she left abandoned a day ago. It isn’t the work that stings; it’s that she doesn’t even acknowledge his effort and just dumps the chores on him.

His phone vibrates on the marble kitchen island.

Haddie.

His jaw softens as he taps the screen.

“Good morning, Biggest Bro!” Haddasah’s voice chirps through the speaker, bright enough to cut through his tension.

“Báwo ni?1” Shalem greets, his voice finally finding its warmth.

“Mo wà pa!2 They released our exam dates, Brother. Three weeks from now,” she says, the excitement bubbling over.

Shalem nods, even though she can’t see him. He looks toward the closed bedroom door where Chinaza is currently walled off. He can’t keep this in the dark anymore.

“Haddie, can I call you on video? I need to talk to you and Debbie.”

“Oya now,” she replies, switching the call to video.

The screen flickers, and the faces of the twins fill the frame. Haddasah is grinning, while Deborah, the observant one, adjusts her glasses and leans into the camera.

“You look worried, Brother,” Deborah says. The smile leaves Haddasah’s face instantly.

“I need you both to listen,” Shalem says, his voice dropping into that firm, elder-brother register that commands the room. “And not a word to Dad yet. Are we clear?”

They nod in unison, their expressions turning identical.

“I’m married. Legally.”

Haddasah bursts into a startled laugh. “Mini-Dad, please. It’s the 13th of August, not the 1st of April.”

But Deborah remains silent, her eyes searching his face. “How?” she asks.

Shalem leans against the stool, the weight of the secret finally lifting. “We did the registry marriage last week.”

“Why?” Deborah’s question is a sharp needle.

“You fell in love in Lagos and didn’t even send a photo to us, and even went ahead with the wedding?” Haddasah adds, her hurt starting to peek through the shock.

“I’ll answer all the ‘whys’ when you come over,” Shalem says in Yoruba. “But I need you both to behave. Be nice. Don’t let me see even a flicker of rudeness when you meet her.”

“Wait.” Haddasah’s eyes go wide. “You’re already living with her?”

Shalem nods. “Yes. So come with your best behavior, especially you, Haddie. I’m serious.”

“Okay, mini-dad,” Haddasah mutters, still processing the bomb he just dropped.

“I’ll call you back,” Shalem says, ending the call before the interrogation can truly begin.

He walks to Chinaza’s bedroom door. He can feel her energy radiating through the wood. He raises a hand to knock for morning prayer, then pauses. He isn’t sure if she’ll open the door or if he’s ready for the battle if she does.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

Chinaza sits on the edge of the mattress, the durable sheets feeling like sackcloth against her skin. Frustration heats its way up her neck.

For four years, she thought she’d found the one man who understood the value of a silent, efficient engine. Instead, she’d invited a camouflage into her life. The mask has finally slipped, and the man underneath has teeth.

She stares at her manicured nails, the gel polish gleaming under the dim light. He expects her to wash plates? To touch laundry?

“There is no budget for a maid,” he’d said.

The absurdity of it makes her chest tight. He didn’t refuse ten million naira because of integrity; he refused it so he could buy the right to watch her struggle. He isn't protecting her; he’s trying to break her.

She grabs her phone, her thumb stabbing at the screen in a flicker of hesitation. She pulls up the three-page PDF and forwards it to her lawyer with a message that vibrates with clinical coldness: Mrs. Johnson, find any loophole. I want this signed document voided, but the marriage certificate must remain intact.

She needs the Olanrewaju name. She needs the legal shield. But she will not be his domestic experiment.

Why does she think she can have one without the other?

A soft knock sounds against the wood of her door.

Chinaza freezes. Her pulse skips, then thuds heavily against her ribs. She doesn’t answer. She isn’t ready to face the guy who somehow makes her feel like she’s the one behaving badly.

The knock comes again. Persistent. Patient.

She locks her phone and slides it under a pillow, her heart racing as if she’s just hidden a weapon. She straightens her back, pulling the mask over her face until every feature is frozen in place.

“Enter,” she says, her voice as sharp as a glass shard. She smooths the front of her silk robe, bracing herself for the apology she’s certain is coming.

Shalem enters. He sits on the edge of the bed, leaving a deliberate, charged gap of air between them.

“Chinaza,” he says. The way he speaks her name with no title, just the weight of his voice, makes the fine hairs on her arms stir. “Let’s have our morning prayer. We need to talk.”

Before she can protest, he takes her hand. His palm is warm, calloused in a way that feels grounding and terrifying all at once. Chinaza doesn't close her eyes. She watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, the movement of his jaw as he prays. When he finishes, the “Amen” that leaves her throat is barely a whisper.

He releases her hand, the sudden coldness where his skin met hers making her pulse stutter.

“I am standing by what I said,” Shalem says, his gaze locked onto hers. “We share this home. I will do the heavy lifting… but I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I’ve been carrying this alone… and resenting you for it.”

Chinaza stiffens. The apology she expected has been replaced by a declaration. “I have a maid I trust. I’ll pay her salary myself and have her come over.”

Shalem shakes his head. “I’d really prefer we try doing this together first… before we bring someone else in.” He pauses, his expression shifting to something more guarded. “Also, my sisters are coming in three weeks.”

“Your sisters? From Osun?” Chinaza’s glasses nearly slip. “For what?”

“Post-UTME exams. They’ll be staying with us.”

Chinaza lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Shalem, this is a three-bedroom apartment. I cannot stay in this cramped space with two teenagers. I’ll move back to the Island until they’re gone.”

“I’d rather we figure this out here… together,” he says.

“And where will they sleep? On the couch?”

“In my room. I’ll move into the study.” He stands up, his shadow stretching across the bed. “I also want to meet your parents. It’s the right thing to do.”

Chinaza nods, but her mind is already miles away, crossing the bridge back to Ikoyi.

She is leaving; there is no way she is staying here, staying in this marriage, never!

“I need to freshen up for the office. I have a virtual meeting in two hours,” she says, her voice flat.

“Do you want me to drive you?” Shalem offers.

“No, I’m good. I’ll drive myself,” Chinaza says, waving it off with a smile.

Shalem nods and steps out, closing the door with a soft click.

The moment the latch settles, Chinaza moves. She doesn’t touch her skincare; her Ikoyi dressing table is already stocked with every serum she owns. She ignores the clothes in the wardrobe; her walk-in closet at the duplex is a fortress of designer labels she hasn’t even unboxed.

She slides her iPad and MacBook into her bag, her movements fast and silent. Next come the essentials of her real life: her phones, her bank token, her hard drive. She sweeps her Cartier bracelet and the Jo Malone bottle off the vanity, burying them in the depths of the leather bag.

She grips her car key until the metal bites into her palm. She isn’t just leaving the house; she’s abandoning the whole marriage experiment.

She drops the car key into her bag and leaves the bag on the bed like a heavy secret, her heart drumming a fast, panicked pulse against her ribs.

“You can have the whole marriage idea to yourself,” she thinks, her hand trembling as she reaches for the bathroom handle. “I’m returning to my world.”

The drive across the bridge feels like a pressurized cabin finally stabilizing. The moment the security gates at her Ikoyi estate recognize her license plate and swing open, the imaginary weight on Chinaza’s chest vanishes.

She pulls the car into the driveway of her duplex. It is a pillar of glass, steel, and expensive silence. No screaming child next door. No loud noise of appliances or a car struggling to start. No shared water bills. No lectures on ‘covenants’. No teenagers coming over.

The front door yields to her fingerprint with a soft, melodic ring.

“Welcome back, ma’am,” Blessing, her live-in housekeeper, says, appearing instantly to take Chinaza’s bag. She doesn’t ask where Chinaza has been or why she looks like she’s just escaped a war zone. She simply falls into step.

“Coffee. Blue Mountain blend. Heavy on the cream, no sugar,” Chinaza says. Her voice has regained its soft snap, the authority of a woman who is once again the sun in her own solar system.

“Okay, Ma’am.”

Chinaza sinks into her B&B Italia Camaleonda sofa. It looks like a cloud captured and structured by a mathematician, the cold, sleek surface a balm against the memory of that cramped apartment.

Within minutes, a white porcelain cup is placed on a hand-carved obsidian coffee table that holds a single, perfectly bloomed white orchid beside her. The coffee is perfect, exactly 80°C, prepared by hands that don’t expect a thank-you prayer in return.

“Chinaza, thinking you could survive in that place, is the biggest joke you have told yourself this year,” she muses, the steam from the cup fogging her glasses.

After her coffee, Chinaza climbs the floating staircase, the silence of the house wrapping around her like a protective shield.

In the master suite, the air is chilled to a crisp 19°C. There is no budget-friendly mattress here. She finds a custom-made sanctuary instead.

She kicks off her heels, letting them lie wherever they fall, because here, she doesn’t have to clean up after herself. She doesn’t have to be part of a cleaning crew.

She bypasses the bed and heads for the spa wing. A tap on the touchscreen wall starts the sauna. While it heats, she retreats to the bathroom.

She strips off the clothes that now feel common, heavy with the scent of a life she wasn’t built for, and steps into the walk-in rainfall shower.

The rainfall shower is needle-sharp and steaming. She stays there until her skin is flushed, washing away the imaginary scent of shared chores and shared home with two teenagers.

After the soak, she retreats into her private sauna. She sits on the bench, letting the dry heat draw the remaining toxins of normal life out of her pores.

No twins. No chores. No man trying to audit her logic.

She wraps herself in a robe that costs more than Shalem’s monthly salary and walks into her walk-in closet. She runs her hand along the rows of silk, organza, and power suits. Everything is in its place. Everything is silent.

“Wash plates? Live with two teenagers? Survive a disastrous bathroom for a month?” she whispers, catching her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. “And just when she thinks Shalem wasn’t like other men.”

Her phone vibrates, and she checks it; the screen glows, revealing the name she’s seen on her call logs five times a day for four years.

Shalem.

She watches it ring.

Subscribe now

Author’s Note:

Chichi has run away from home 🤣🤣

Wahala no come too much 😂😂

Leave a comment

CHAPTER SIX

The silence in Ikeja is different.

In Ikoyi, the silence was empty. Here, it is dense. It carries the distant, rhythmic thrum of a church vigil, a neighbor’s muffled laughter, and the consistent, domestic vibration of the refrigerator, because the apartment is small enough that every appliance seems to have a voice.

Chinaza sits on the edge of the bed. It’s a standard six-by-six, the one Shalem insisted on providing, refusing her custom Italian import. In this room, the bed is an island. The space is so tight that the wardrobe and vanity seem to huddle together for warmth.

If she’d ever owned a Great Dane, its kennel in Ikoyi would have been larger than this master room.

She smooths the silk of her nightgown—modest by her standards, but in this small room, it feels like translucent armor. She feels visible. Exposed.

A knock on the door.

“Come in.”

Shalem enters. In a simple T-shirt and shorts, his physical presence is overwhelming. He doesn’t look at her with the hungry, predatory eyes of the men who usually try to buy her time. He looks at her with a quiet, observant weight that makes her throat feel tight.

He sits beside her. He doesn’t crowd her; he leaves exactly five inches of neutral territory between them.

“We forgot something,” he says.

Chinaza adjusts her glasses, her pulse kicking against her ribs. “The boundaries? I told you, Shalem, you can’t—”

“Prayer,” he interrupts.

He doesn’t wait for her to argue. He reaches out and takes her hand. His palm is a map of heat and friction, his grip firm enough to ground her.

“Close your eyes, Chinaza.”

Her heart stutters at the sound of her name. It isn’t a request; it’s an invitation into his reality. She wants to snap that she’s too tired for a performance, but the stable calm in his breathing tells her this isn’t for show.

She closes her eyes. The darkness behind her lids feels less lonely with his hand holding hers.

“Lord,” Shalem’s voice is a low, resonant anchor in the small room, “we thank You for this day. We thank You for this union, however it began. We ask for Your peace to fill this home. Give us the wisdom to honor one another, the patience to bridge our differences, and the grace to sleep without anger. Protect our new home. Amen.”

Our home? More like his rented cubicle.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. He waits for the Amen to settle into the walls.

“Goodnight, ma’am,” he says softly.

He stands and walks out, closing the door with a click that echoes in her chest.

Chinaza stays sitting for a long time, staring at the wall. Her hand still feels the heat where his had been.

She is legally his. She is in his house. And as she finally slides under the duvet, pulling it to her chin, she realizes the most frustrating thing of all.

For the first time in ten years, the noise in her head has stopped.

It’s done. She signed. What’s the next phase?

Subscribe now

The morning sun in Ikeja is honest.

In Ikoyi, the light was filtered through expensive tints, polite and distant. Here, it pushes through the white cotton curtains with a loud, golden persistence, accompanied by the wild noise of a neighbor’s car struggling to start.

Chinaza wakes at 5:00 AM. She spends thirty minutes staring at the ceiling, mentally cataloging the tragedy of her new existence. Her wardrobe is a ghost town; sixty percent of her life is still sitting in a large walk-in closet across the bridge.

This bathroom has a working water heater, but it lacks heated floors, which she considers a basic human right.

She steps into the living area an hour later, dressed in high-waisted tailored trousers and a silk blouse. Her heels strike the tiles with a sharp, executive rhythm that insists she is still in charge.

The scent hits her first. Not the sterile, cold air of a private chef’s kitchen, but something warm and grounding. Toasted bread. Seared plantain.

Shalem is in the kitchen.

He’s already dressed for the office: crisp blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal those capable forearms, but an apron is tied over his trousers. He moves with a terrifyingly efficient grace, flipping a slice of plantain while simultaneously pouring tea into two mugs.

“Good morning,” he says. He doesn’t turn, but the tilt of his head proves he’s been tracking her footsteps since she left the bedroom. “The tea is hot.”

Chinaza doesn’t answer. She claims a stool at the kitchen island, a sturdy piece of furniture that, to her, looks like a toy. She slides her iPad onto the counter, her fingers already dancing across the glass.

"I could hear a child crying about school from my bedroom window, Shalem," she states, not looking up. "It’s distracting. Find a solution. Speak to the neighbors or… someone."

She swipes a graph. "And the bathroom is a structural insult. I can't function with one sink. There’s no vanity for my skincare, and the water pressure is a polite, weak stream that takes ten minutes to rinse out shampoo. Call a contractor. I need heated floors, high pressure, and a proper display space."

“I’ve already spent a lot on rent and furnishing of this place,” he says, placing the tea down. “We can’t add such expenses this month.”

"So what? I should continue to live like this?" Chinaza snaps.

"I’ll have it fixed next month," he says calmly.

“I don’t do next month.” She takes a sharp sip of the tea. It’s perfect. Infuriatingly so.

“Chinaza, we agreed to live on what I provide.”

She gestures vaguely at the apartment, her gold bracelet glinting. "I can’t live in these walls. Fix the bathroom, Shalem, and negotiate with the neighbors."

Shalem places a plate in front of her. Two eggs, perfectly seasoned. Fried plantain. A slice of toasted bread.

“Eat first,” he says.

He sits across from her, bows his head for a three-second silent prayer, and begins to eat.

Chinaza treats the meal like a refueling stop. She eats with precise speed, her eyes never leaving the data on her screen. Seven minutes later, she pushes the plate away, leaving a smear of yolk on the white ceramic.

“That was adequate,” she says, standing up and reaching for her designer bag. “Hurry up. It looks unprofessional for the CEO and her assistant to arrive late.”

Shalem’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. He looks at the dirty plate she’s left for him, then lifts his gaze to hers. He isn’t angry. He looks like a man reciting a law he knows by heart.

“The agreement, ma’am,” he says quietly.

Chinaza pauses, her hand tightening on her designer bag. “What about it?”

“We pray together. Every morning.”

Chinaza lets out a long, audible groan that vibrates with unshielded impatience. She checks her Apple Watch. “Shalem, really? We are twenty minutes behind my preferred commute time. God understands productivity.”

Shalem wipes his hands on his apron and stands. He walks around the table, stopping just outside her personal space. He doesn’t reach for her hand, but his presence is an immovable wall.

“God understands commitment,” Shalem says, his voice a low, steadying presence. “One minute. That is the cost of the covenant today.”

Chinaza shifts her weight, her foot tapping a sharp, rapid rhythm on the floor. “Fine. Sixty seconds. Start the clock.”

Shalem ignores the sarcasm. He closes his eyes and lowers his head. Chinaza stays upright, her eyes fixed on her wrist watch, but after a few heartbeats, the silence of the room forces her to be still.

“Father,” Shalem’s voice is a low, grounding force in the small room. “We thank You for this home. We thank You for the work of our hands. We ask for wisdom in our decisions and grace in our speech today. Soften our hearts, and remind us that we serve a Kingdom higher than our own. In Jesus’ name.”

“Amen,” Chinaza mutters, the word sounding more like a dismissal than a devotion.

She doesn’t wait for him to take off the apron. “Ten-minute head start. I’m taking the Range Rover. You take your car.”

As she turns to leave, Shalem reaches out. He doesn’t grab her, but his fingers graze the silk of her sleeve, stopping her. He leans in close—close enough that she can smell the tea and the heat of his skin.

“You missed a spot,” he whispers.

He reaches up, his thumb grazing the corner of her lip to wipe away a stray crumb. The touch is brief, electric, and entirely too personal. He pulls back before she can breathe.

“See you at the office.”

Shalem picks up her discarded plate, his expression unbothered, leaving her standing in the small living room with a pulse that finally matches the chaos of the mainland.

She adjusts her glasses… and realizes her hand is shaking.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

The drive to the office feels like a return to sanity.

Inside the Range Rover, surrounded by the smell of expensive leather and calibrated silence, Chinaza is a queen again. The Ikeja apartment with the white cotton curtains, the smell of toast, the prayer, feels like a fever dream she can finally wake from. As she steps into the elevator of AnchorOak Properties, she feels her armor click into place, joint by silver joint.

She has exactly what she needs: the certificate, the legal affirmation, and the name Mrs. Olanrewaju. Now, it is time for the reclamation. The domestic boundaries were his; the professional boundaries are hers. She will remind him where the assistant ends and the CEO begins.

She strides through the lobby. Doris and Liora offer their usual, reverent “Good morning, ma’am.” Chinaza barely nods, her heels drum-rolling a warning against the marble floors.

At 8:25 AM, Shalem walks into her office.

He is infuriatingly composed. He holds her daily schedule and a fresh manila file as if he hadn’t just watched her eat breakfast in his home two hours ago. He places the file on her desk with precision.

“The team is waiting in the conference room, ma’am,” he says.

Chinaza doesn’t look up from her monitor. “I’ll be there when I’m ready.”

“Understood.”

Ten minutes later, Chinaza stands at the head of the conference table. The laser pointer in her hand moves with clinical steadiness. The Ice Queen is back on her throne, and the temperature in the room has dropped five degrees.

She clicks to a slide of the Westbrook project. “The Lekki Phase II delivery is entering its final thirty-day window,” she says, her voice a cool, crisp blade. “To ensure we hit the launch date, I’ve authorized a budget reallocation. We are diverting funds intended for the gardens and trees to cover the lobby’s finishing costs. The exterior landscaping will be minimal, but the interior will be flawless. Questions?”

The room is a vacuum. No one dares to challenge the math of the Ice Queen.

"Anyone?" she asks, her voice cutting through the silence. "Shalem, you’ve seen the reports. Anything to add?"

Shalem leans forward, his presence suddenly grounding the room. “Ma’am, those gardens aren’t a decorative luxury. We promised the investors a Luxury rating. If we cut the landscaping, we lose that rating. We’re selling a five-star dream with a zero-star entrance.”

The team holds its collective breath. The air is electric with the kind of tension that precedes a lightning strike.

Is he serious? He’s supposed to be my partner, yet he’s standing in the middle of my boardroom, throwing stones at my suggestion. This is my empire. He’s supposed to fall in line.

Chinaza doesn’t blink. A dismissive smile touches her lips. “I’m aware of the rating, Shalem. I’m also aware that a building with a beautiful lawn and no functioning elevators is a liability.”

“It’s a strategic error, ma’am,” Shalem says softly. His voice is a low, calm baritone. He doesn’t look like an employee being difficult; he looks like a man stating that the sun rises in the east. “We should just move the deadline back two weeks. Why are we rushing a masterpiece just to hit a date on a calendar?”

Chinaza feels the heat rise to her neck. This is the danger of their new deal. He is using his new authority to strip away her armor in front of everyone.

She adjusts her glasses, the gold frames glinting like a warning. “Delays are for people who can’t handle the job. We will finish in four weeks. My decision is final.”

Her gaze drifts to the rest of the room. “Anyone else?”

Silence.

“Ma’am, if we decide—” Shalem says, his eyes locking onto hers.

The temperature in the room drops.

“Like I said, my word is final, Shalem.” She cuts in, her voice dropping to a dangerous chill. “I want the reports on my desk by five. Meeting adjourned.”

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

The office door hasn’t even clicked shut before Chinaza turns, her fury a cold, vibrating blade.

“Don’t you ever challenge me in front of my staff again,” she says. Her voice is low, but it cuts through the office air like a wire.

Shalem doesn’t stay by the exit. He walks into the center of the room, reclaiming the space with a slow, deliberate stride. “That’s not accurate. You asked for my input, and I gave my suggestion. There is a difference.”

“You call that a suggestion? You were challenging my decision!” she snaps, her arms crossing tightly over her chest. Her eyes snag on the wedding band on his finger—the only thing in this room that doesn’t fit her narrative. “You signed an agreement to respect professional boundaries. That means when I speak, you fall in line. You don’t get a seat at the table of my logic. You keep quiet.”

Shalem stops. He studies her for a moment, wearing a patience that feels more like a weapon than a virtue.

“You’re misunderstanding me,” he says quietly. “I’ve spent four years learning your rhythm… adjusting to it. I’m not trying to fight you. I’m your husband, Chinaza.”

“You are my employee from nine to five,” she counters, her chin lifting to a dangerous height. “And I have always been this way. Why are you suddenly changing the narrative?”

Shalem takes a step closer. He doesn’t tower over her, but his presence becomes a wall she can’t climb, an atmosphere she can’t ignore.

“I’m not changing anything, Chinaza. I just spent four years using it to protect you… and everything you’ve built.” He tilts his head, his gaze dropping to the gold frames of her glasses. “But if you think this marriage is a lifestyle upgrade where you get to keep the remote control, you didn’t read the fine print of the man you married.”

He gives her a small, almost imperceptible bow: a gesture that is technically respectful but feels like a declaration of independence.

He turns and walks out.

Chinaza stands alone in the silence. Her office feels twice as large and half as warm as it did five minutes ago.

Subscribe now

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

The silence feels like a physical weight, pressing against the sharp lines of her blazer. Chinaza steps in, her heels clicking once against the tiles before she kicks them off with a practiced, weary grace. Her eyes move instantly, scanning the perimeter as if looking for a crack in the foundation.

“Why are the lights dim?”

She drops her bag on the couch. The thud is intentional.

No greeting. No pause. Just assessment.

Shalem is in the kitchen. He’s leaning against the counter, looking so comfortable it feels like a personal invasion. He looks like he’s lived here for a lifetime, not a day.

“I set them that way,” he says. His tone is so gentle it grates against her nerves like sandpaper.

She stalks to the kitchen island, her eyes tracking every detail. The food is plated. Everything is arranged with a symmetry that rivals her architectural blueprints. Her brows knit together.

“Next time, run it by me.”

A beat.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t offer the “Yes, ma’am” she is waiting for.

Then, slowly, he looks at her. Truly looks at her.

“Run it by you?”

Her chin lifts. It’s the same angle she uses when a contractor tries to swap premium marble for ceramic. “Yes. I don’t like my environment altered without my input. If you prefer the living room in low light, you ask. You don’t override my space without my consent.”

For a second, the air tastes like the office—metallic and tense. She waits for him to yield, to apologize, to return to the safety of his job description.

Instead, he pushes off the counter and takes a single step toward her. He isn’t invading; he’s simply occupying his own space in the room.

“You’re home,” he says.

“I’m aware.”

“Then act like it.”

The words hit her center-mass. Her eyes narrow, her vision tunneling on him. She isn’t used to being corrected… not by a man she pays monthly, and certainly not by a man whose bills she could pay ten times over.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says quietly.

That is the part that burns. If he shouted, she could dismiss him as emotional. But this quietness? This is the silence of a man who knows exactly where the leverage is.

She crosses her arms, tightening her defense. “If something is happening in my space, I expect to be informed.”

He watches her, dissecting the woman behind the blazer. “You don’t have to manage everything here, Chinaza.”

“I’m not managing. I’m setting standards.”

“No,” he replies, his voice dropping another octave. “You’re trying to build a cage out of your own habits.”

The word hangs in the air, sharp and unyielding. Her expression hardens into a mask of ice. “Be careful, Shalem.”

There it is. The warning. The one that usually ends the conversation.

He doesn’t flinch.

“I am being careful,” he says. “That’s why I’m saying it now.”

She takes a step closer, the distance between them vanishing until the air is thick, electric, and impossible to breathe. “You seem to be forgetting who you’re talking to.”

Shalem looks down at her, his expression as steady as a mountain. “I know exactly who I’m talking to,” he says, his voice a gravity well that pulls her heart right into her throat.

A pause. Then, softer but with a gravity that makes her heart skip a beat:

“I’m talking to my wife.”

The word hits her like a physical blow.

Not “Ms. Ifeanyi.” Not “Ma’am.” Not a title she can wrap around herself like a mink coat.

My wife.

Chinaza opens her mouth, a sharp retort poised on her tongue, but the words dissolve into the warm, dim air of the apartment. The ground under her designer heels shifts. He isn’t looking at her as an assistant looks at a CEO. He is looking at her as a man looks at a woman he has no intention of losing.

He steps closer. Just enough that she has to tilt her head back, exposing the pulse point jumping in her neck.

“You don’t give me instructions here,” he says. His voice is a low, rhythmic vibration. “You talk to me.”

Her throat tightens. It’s pride. It’s irritation. It’s a heat she refuses to categorize. “I don’t need permission to speak in my own home,” she counters, her voice regaining its edge.

“I didn’t say you did.”

“Then what exactly are you saying, Shalem?”

His voice drops into a rasp. “I’m saying I don’t work for you out here.”

The silence is thick, charged with the kind of electricity that precedes a storm. Chinaza pushes her glasses up and holds his gaze, her jaw set. She refuses to be the first to blink; in her world, blinking is the first step toward bankruptcy.

“And I’m not about to start asking for approval to exist in my living room,” she snaps.

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then stop correcting me.”

“I’ll stop correcting you when you stop treating me like I report to you,” he replies calmly.

Her jaw tightens until it aches. “You do report to me.”

“At work, yes.” He doesn’t blink. “But in this house, Chinaza, we report to God. And I don’t think He’s impressed by your organizational chart.”

The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable. This is the first time she has met a wall she cannot climb, a man she cannot buy, and a logic she cannot rewrite. She exhales a sharp, frustrated breath and turns away, dismissing the moment like a failed merger.

“Fine,” she says, her voice brittle. “Do whatever you want.”

It sounds like victory, but it tastes like surrender. She starts to walk away, but his voice stops her like a hand on her shoulder.

“Speak to me clearly, Chinaza.”

She freezes. “I just did.”

“No ma’am,” he says, his voice dropping to a growl. “You avoided it.”

Her eyes flash with a sudden fire as she pivots back. “You’re pushing your luck, Shalem.”

“And you’re deflecting.” He doesn’t move. He doesn’t shrink. “I don’t want to fight you, but I’m not going to be the man you look down on just so you can feel high.”

The air between them is heavy, impossible to ignore. For the first time since she walked into this Ikeja apartment, Chinaza doesn’t have a script. This isn’t a problem to solve or a contractor to break. It’s a man she cannot move.

“That’s... fair,” she whispers.

Shalem nods once, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

“Let’s not do that again,” he says. “That’s not how I want us to be with each other.”

He walks to the stool and pulls it out for her. “Let’s eat,” he adds.

Chinaza’s breath hitches. Let’s not do that again? more like “Don’t do that again.”

She sits, her mind racing. This is worse than she expected from her assistant. Much worse. He isn’t just her husband on a legal document; he is a presence that is slowly colonizing her peace of mind.

Let’s not do that again. The words ring in her ears like a struck bell.

She stares at the steam rising from her plate, her fingers curling around the silver fork, her appetite gone. She isn’t about to let a man control her, never, not even one who prays like he has a direct line to heaven. If he thinks her standard of living is the only thing that has changed, he is mistaken.

She needs to regain the upper hand. She needs to find his price. But as she lifts her fork, she realizes her hand is still trembling.

Then, a sharp, careful knock at the door shatters the silence.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

Author Note:

“Eii”, in our Keziah Ghanaian tone. 😂😂

How do we sail this ship?

Leave a comment

CHAPTER FIVE

The PDF document on her iPad stares back at her like a live wire.

Three pages. No legal jargon, no flowery fluff. Just statements. Not demands… but positions.

Chinaza swipes to the first page. Her thumb catches on the edge of her iPad. Her face is a mask of executive ice, but her pulse is starting to drum against her collarbone.

“Explain this,” she says, her voice low and dangerous. “Why is there a residency clause? And why are you quoting 1 Timothy 5 at me?”

Shalem stands on the other side of the desk. He isn’t leaning. He isn’t hovering. He is there, hands clasped loosely behind his back, looking like a man who has already won the war and is just waiting for the surrender papers.

“We’ll be living together, ma’am,” he says. “That’s the point.”

“I have a duplex in Ikoyi, Shalem. I don’t share it.”

“I know, ma’am”

Shalem exhales, counting three steady beats internally.

“That’s why you’ll be moving out.”

Chinaza’s head snaps up. Her glasses slide a fraction of an inch down her nose. “Moving? To where?”

“To the home I provide.”

Then she leans back slightly, studying him like she’s waiting for the punchline.

“You’re serious?”

“I am.”

A dry, sharp laugh escapes her. “You do realize I earn more in a quarter than you do in…”

She stops herself. Recalibrates.

“You expect me to downgrade my life for this?”

“We won’t downgrade, ma’am,” Shalem says. “We’ll live on what I can provide.”

“My standard of living is not optional, Shalem.”

“And I’m not a line item,” he replies, just as steady.

The air in the office suddenly feels very thin. Chinaza stares at him, looking for a crack, a wink, a sign that he’s joking. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even shift his weight.

“We do not go to bed angry,” she reads. “Ephesians 4:26.”

She pauses. It’s a practical rule, but seeing it written in a PDF feels intimate—too intimate. Her eyes narrow as she moves to the next bullet point.

“Matthew 19:6… no divorce except—” She stops. Looks up again. “You’re saying I can’t leave?”

“I’m saying I’m not entering something I’m already planning to walk out of,” he says. “If we do this… we stay.”

A pause follows, brief enough that it could be mistaken for breath.

“Not because we’re trapped,” he adds, quieter now, “but because we gave our word to something bigger than our moods.”

“That sounds… restrictive.”

“It’s a commitment, ma’am. It only feels like a restrictive if you’re already planning to leave.”

Chinaza’s jaw tightens. She moves to the final page, her eyes scanning the bullet points until they hit a specific line. She stops. She reads it again. The silence in the room stretches, becoming heavy and thick.

Her finger pauses mid-air.

There’s a small hesitation before she speaks.

“1 Corinthians 7…” Her voice shifts slightly. “If the marriage is consummated… what is this? You said no forced intimacy.”

“I meant that.”

His gaze dips for half a second before returning.

“I’m not forcing anything,” he says. “But if we cross that line… it won’t be by accident.”

She holds his eyes.

“It’ll be because we chose it. Fully.” he adds.

“You’re using scripture to sell this.” she accuses, her throat suddenly dry.

“I’m not trying to… sell anything here, ma’am,” he says, his voice low. “I just… I want to do this properly. Or we don’t do it.”

Chinaza adjusts her glasses, the gold frames cool against her skin. She keeps reading, her eyes darting over the clauses about family. No secrets.

He wants to stand before her parents—the formidable Ifeanyis—without a lie on his tongue. She can live with that; she’d planned to tell them eventually. But the next line makes her pulse jump.

“Joint prayer every morning and night? Family time on Sundays? Date nights without phones every Sunday? Going to church together? Seal the marriage in a local church?”

She lowers the iPad slightly and looks up, a sharp, incredulous laugh escaping her. ‘This is a schedule, Shalem.’

“It’s structure.”

“It’s suffocating.”

“It’s intentional, ma’am.”

Her lips press into a thin line. She scrolls again.

“Financial candor,” she reads. “Explain.”

“It means we don’t hide,” Shalem says, his voice like soft fabric over stone.

A long pause, as if he’s reconsidering his words, careful not to lose her over the weight of his terms.

“No hidden accounts, no secret purchases to manage our moods, and no using your wealth to bypass the budget of the home I provide. If you buy a car, we discuss it. If I buy a tool, you know about it. We are one flesh; we will be financially transparent. No secrecy. No independent decisions that affect the home without agreement.”

Chinaza closes the document with a sharp snap. “This is ridiculous. I’ll pay you three million. Forget the terms. Just sign the civil papers, and we live our lives separately.”

“No,” Shalem says immediately.

That makes her eyes sharpen.

“Five?”

Then, almost imperceptibly, his jaw tightens. A small muscle in his cheek shifts before he stills it again.

“Ten million?”

Shalem finally moves. He takes a step toward the door. “Goodnight, ma’am.”

“Wait,”

The word leaves her mouth before she can authorize it. It sounds desperate—a sound she hasn’t made in a decade.

Shalem stops. He doesn’t turn immediately. He lets the silence settle, letting her sit in the weight of her own outburst. Then, he slowly pivots.

Chinaza picks up her Apple pen. She is used to the market. She is used to people having a price.

He calls it a covenant; I call it a draft. If he thinks a few verses can cage a woman who owns the bars, he hasn't been paying attention. I don't follow blueprints… I rewrite them.

“If you sign this,” he says quietly, “this isn’t an arrangement to me.”

He shifts his weight, barely.

“It’s my marriage.”

Her grip tightens slightly on the pen.

“I don’t take that lightly.”

For a second, just a second, something shifts in her expression.

Then it’s gone.

“Fine,” she says, voice steady again. “We formalize it. But I’m adding my own clauses.”

She leans forward.

“At work, nothing changes. You are my assistant. No blurred lines. No familiarity. Not in public, not in private spaces tied to the firm. You don’t cross that boundary.”

He holds her gaze.

“I’ll respect your authority at work, ma’am,” he says. “You respect mine outside it.”

She taps the pen once.

Then, with a jagged, defiant stroke, she signs the bottom of the third page.

The sound of the stylus on glass is sharper than it should be in the silence.

Shalem watches the movement longer than necessary.

Something in his expression tightens, gone almost immediately, but it is there.

He walks forward. He doesn’t rush. The brief heat of his proximity makes her skin prickle.

“Next week?” he asks.

Chinaza looks up at him, feeling like the floor of her office has just turned into deep water.

“Yes,” she says, her voice breathless. “Next week.”

He gives her a small, respectful nod.

“I’ll see you in the morning, ma’am,” he says softly.

She doesn’t realize until the door clicks shut… She doesn’t understand him.
Worse, she can’t move him.

This didn’t feel like negotiation. It felt like stepping into something she didn’t fully understand… and couldn’t rewrite.

Share

The steam rises from the bowl of eewa aganyin1, the scent of burnt palm oil and spicy peppers filling the small dining area. Austin tears a piece of soft Agege bread, dunking it into the dark sauce before looking up at Shalem.

“So,” Austin says, his voice muffled by the bread. “The Ice Queen finally signed your manifesto?”

Shalem doesn’t rush to answer. He chews slowly. “She signed.”

“And the moving out?”

“Next week. I’ve secured a three-bedroom in Ikeja.”

Austin stops mid-chew, his hand hovering over the table. He shakes his head, a dry laugh escaping him. “You are a strange breed, Shalem. You do realize your wife’s bag collection probably costs more than the annual rent for that entire building? You’re insisting on being the provider for a woman whose petty cash could buy your whole existence.”

Shalem sets his bread down. He leans back, his gaze steady, untroubled by the logic of bank accounts.

“A man who doesn’t provide for his home is worse than an unbeliever, Austin.” He taps the table with a blunt fingernail. “I didn’t marry her to be a guest in her life. I married her to build one.”

“Good luck, then,” Austin mutters, returning to his beans. “You’ll need every bit of it. Most men want a sugar mommy; you’re the only one trying to turn a multi-millionaire into a housewife.”

Shalem leans back, his smile steady and unbothered. It’s the smile of a man who has calculated the risk and decided he likes the odds. “Chinaza is a lioness; I’d be a fool to try and make her a house cat. I’m not changing who she is, Austin. I just want to be the only man she trusts enough to close her eyes around.”

Austin sighs, the humor suddenly draining from his face. He looks around the small, familiar apartment. “I’m going to miss you, man. The place will be too quiet without you preparing breakfast at 6:00 am.”

Shalem nods, his expression softening for a brief, rare second. “I’ll miss you too, man.”

Austin cracks a grin, trying to lighten the weight in the room. “Happy married life, even if I’m giving it six days before she realizes there’s no 24-hour concierge in Ikeja.” He points a finger at Shalem. “If the air-conditioner stops working and she starts looking for your head, you know you still have a room here.”

Shalem stands, picking up his plate. He looks at the empty chair where his life used to be.

“Keep the room empty, Austin. But don’t expect me back.”

A week later

Keziah’s arrival is less of an entry and more of an invasion. She bursts into Chinaza’s duplex living room, the frantic energy of a mother of two clashing violently with the curated silence of Chinaza’s space.

“Why didn’t you stop her?” Keziah demands, turning her fire on Oluwashindara.

Shindara doesn’t flinch. She simply swivels her wine glass, her expression bored. “Stop her? Have you met Chinaza? I’m a designer, Keziah, not an exorcist.”

“She married her assistant, Shindara! In a week! At a registry office!” Keziah’s voice climbs an octave. “It’s a mockery. It’s a marriage of convenience that feels more like a hostage situation.”

“I am in the room,” Chinaza says. Her voice is a cool, level friction that cuts through the noise. She doesn’t look up from her iPad. “And I am not invisible.”

Keziah turns, her hands on her hips. “I am furious at you, Naza. If it wasn’t for the kids’ school run, I would have chained myself to the gates of that registry. What were you thinking?”

Chinaza finally lifts her head. She doesn’t grin. She slowly extends her left hand. The light catches a modest, solid gold band. No pavé, no halo, no distractions.

“It is done,” Chinaza says, her voice flat, a beautiful, bored soprano. “The variable has been managed.”

Shindara leans in, squinting at the ring. Her nose wrinkles as if she’d smelled something sour. “Is that… yellow gold? Where is the rock, Chinaza? Where is the five-carat diamond cut we discussed?”

“Shalem provided the rings,” Chinaza says, her tone suggesting the matter is closed.

“He provided that?” Shindara scoffs, recoiling. “It looks like something from a children’s party raffle. It’s basic, Naza. It’s... budget.”

“It’s gold,” Chinaza corrects. “It serves the purpose.”

Keziah throws her hands up, pacing the polished marble floors. “Will you two stop talking about the ring? We are talking about her soul! Her life!” She stops and stares at Chinaza. “Tell me there is a pre-nup. Tell me you protected your assets.”

“It wasn’t necessary,” Chinaza says, her eyes narrowing as she remembers the office confrontation. “He refused the payout. He counter-offered with his own... architecture.”

Shindara’s interest finally sharpens. “He turned down your money? Who does that? What does he want, your firm?”

“See for yourself.” Chinaza slides a heavy, three-page document across the marble coffee table.

Shindara grabs it first. As she reads, her jaw loses its structural integrity. “Wait. ‘Residence in a home provided by the husband with a scripture reference’? Chinaza, tell me this is a joke.”

Keziah leans over her shoulder, her eyes darting across the bullet points.

“He expects me to move,” Chinaza says, adjusting her glasses, her voice as steady as a ledger. “To an apartment we rent. Funded by his salary.”

“He is out of his mind,” Shindara whispers, horrified. “And you signed this? You, the woman who won’t stay in a hotel with less than five stars?”

Keziah, however, has reached the second page. Her breathing changes. Her eyes soften, moving from panic to a strange, quiet awe. “No divorce... except for sexual immorality?” She looks at Chinaza. “Naza, he’s citing Matthew 19:6.”

“He cited several things,” Chinaza says, leaning back and crossing her legs. “He refused to play-act. He said he doesn’t enter a covenant he’s already planning to leave.”

Shindara is still fuming. “This isn’t a contract. It’s an annexation! He’s taking over! Chinaza, you despise being managed, yet you’ve just handed this guy the keys to your life.”

“He isn’t managing me,” Chinaza says, her Ice Queen mask settling into place. “He’s following a blueprint. He backed every point with scripture. I can’t exactly argue with the CEO of the Universe, can I?”

“And Shalem isn’t the controlling type,” Chinaza adds, her voice dropping into a rare, low note of respect. “He’s simply... competent.”

Keziah sinks into the armchair, a small, triumphant smile breaking across her face. “I like him. I actually like him.”

“Keziah, no!” Shindara snaps.

“Keziah, yes!” she counters, clutching the document to her chest. “He’s a provider. He’s a believer. He’s a man who isn’t intimidated by your bank account, Naza. My God, I’ve been praying for someone to stand up to you for years.”

Shindara shakes her head, looking at Keziah as if she’s joined a cult. “He’s poor, and he’s clearly delusional if he thinks Naza will be living in a rented flat in some suburb. This is a disaster.”

Chinaza watches them from the rim of her glasses, the silent observer of her own life’s drama. She doesn’t join the bickering.

She isn't surrendering control; she was diversifying her risks. Shalem could have the house, but she keeps the keys to the exit.

She didn't sign a covenant; she signed a temporary lease.

She touches the gold band on her finger. It feels heavier than it looks.

“This meeting is adjourned,” Chinaza says, her voice reclaiming the room. “I have a lot of packing to do.”

Share

The walk-in closet of the Ikoyi duplex looks like a crime scene where the victim was a credit card with no limit.

Blouses from Dior, Saint Laurent, and Valentino are draped over chairs like fallen soldiers, their sheen mocking the chaos. Rows of Louboutins flash their red soles like warning lights. On the vanity, a gold Rolex and a diamond-studded Patek Philippe tick with indifferent precision, counting down the minutes until Chinaza has to leave her fortress.

Then there is the perfume: a glittering army of glass. Baccarat Rouge 540 sits next to a trio of Jo Malone, each bottle a version of her she has spent years perfecting.

In the center of the room, three extra-large Samsonite suitcases sit open, their yawning maws swallowing silk, leather, and gold without discrimination. One is already overstuffed, its zipper straining against a rebellion of fabric; another lies half-empty, as if daring her to decide what version of her life is worth taking. The third remains untouched—waiting, patient, and quietly accusatory.

Chinaza stands in the middle of it all, a pair of tailored trousers in one hand and a look of deep, existential crisis on her face.

“It won’t fit,” she whispers to the empty room.

The "home within his means" is a newly built three-bedroom in a gated estate in Ikeja. It is clean. It is respectable. It is also, by her calculations, approximately the size of her current living room.

A sharp knock at the bedroom door breaks her trance.

Shalem stands in the doorway. Today, he’s in a simple black polo and charcoal chinos, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that look far too capable of carrying her entire life in one go.

“The movers are downstairs, ma’am,” he says. He pauses, his gaze scanning the mountain of designer labels. “Are we… making progress?”

Chinaza turns, her eyes snapping to his as she adjusts her glasses. “Progress? Shalem, I have forty-two blazers. The wardrobe in my supposedly assigned room has only two doors. This isn’t progress. This is a mathematical impossibility.”

Shalem enters the room, his presence immediately making the high-ceilinged space feel smaller. He walks over to the racks, his fingers grazing a sequined gown she wore to the Developers’ Gala.

"You’re moving into a home, not a warehouse ma’am," he says, his voice dropping into a low, grounded baritone. "Pick the essentials. Leave the rest here."

“My clothes are my image,” she bristles, stepping into his space. “I don’t leave them behind.”

“Your image is in your head, Chinaza.”

Her name—stripped of its title for the first time in four years, taken without permission, delivered in that steady, grounded baritone—lands like a blow.

Her lungs stall.

For a second, she forgets how to breathe.

He turns to face her, his expression unreadable but intense. "In that house, you aren't the CEO. You're my wife. And I’m not interested in being married to a brand."

Chinaza turns to the windows, looking out at the city she conquered through her glasses. A sudden, sharp prickle of anxiety hits her—the reality of leaving her fortress for a life she can’t fully dictate.

Shalem steps into her line of sight, his shadow falling over her. He reaches out as if to touch her shoulder, but stops. His hand hovers in the charged air between them, close enough for her to feel the heat.

“Chinaza.”

She turns, her expression immediately hardening into her boardroom mask. “I told you, Shalem. In public, and that includes in front of the movers, professional boundaries are absolute. You are my assistant.”

Shalem’s hand drops instantly. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't argue. He simply takes a step back, widening the gap until the intimacy of the moment is cold and dead.

“Understood, ma’am,” he says, his voice losing the intimate warmth and returning to the crisp, neutral tone of the office. “The car is downstairs. After you.”

She studies him for a beat, surprised by how quickly he surrendered. She expected a quip, a “line,” or a challenge to her authority. Instead, he gave her exactly what she asked for: total compliance.

The drive to Ikeja is the longest fifty-five minutes of her life.

Chinaza sits in the rear of the Range Rover, her fingers digging into her palms. As they crest the bridge, leaving the manicured silence of Ikoyi for the unfiltered roar of the mainland, she feels her armor thinning. The high-walled mansions are gone, replaced by the vibrant, messy pulse of the city.

They pull into the estate. It’s respectable: lawns mown, gates painted, children racing bicycles on the sidewalk. It’s a world that doesn't require a security detail, and that is precisely why it feels like a threat.

Shalem parks before a modest block of apartments. He hops out, directing the movers with an efficiency that makes her pulse do an unauthorized skip. When he opens her door, he doesn’t just wait. He offers his hand.

Chinaza looks at it. The palm is broad, the skin calloused from a life she realized she knows nothing about. She takes it.

“Welcome home, ma’am,” he says. His voice is low, steady, and entirely too certain.

Inside, the apartment smells of fresh paint and lavender. It is bright, airy, and completely furnished.

Chinaza stands in the center of the living room like a queen who accidentally stepped onto a film set. She scans the L-shaped couch, the 55-inch TV, and the open-plan kitchen, where a central island doubles as a dining table with four stools. A bowl of fruit sits at its center… deliberate, almost staged.

It is so… domestic. It is terrifying. How would she fit here?

Shalem is in the middle of the space, pointing toward a corner by the balcony. His sleeves are rolled up, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forearms.

“Stop,” she says.

The movers freeze. Shalem turns, a brow lifting. “Ma’am?”

“The bookshelf,” she says, her heels clicking on the tiles as she paces. “If you put it there, you’re murdering the cross-ventilation. This is Ikeja, Shalem. If the power goes out and the AC dies, we’ll bake.”

Shalem looks at the balcony door, calculating. “I was thinking about the light for reading, but... you’re right about the breeze. Move it to the interior wall,” he tells the men.

“No,” Chinaza counters, mapping the floor plan in her head. “If it stays there, the flow to the kitchen is cut off. You’re creating a bottleneck. Put it near the main door. Angle it. It can double as a console for keys. It opens the room.”

She looks at him sharply. “Utility over aesthetics, Shalem. You taught me that in the office. Don’t forget it here.”

Shalem watches her. He doesn’t look annoyed; he looks like he’s watching a master at work. He gives a slow, respectful nod. "Move it," he tells the movers. "She’s right."

Once the movers head back to the truck, the room falls quiet. The tension shifts from logistical to personal.

Shalem leans against a stack of cardboard, his arms folded across a chest that looks broader in the dimming afternoon light.

"You’re good at this," he says, his voice a low vibration. "Seeing the flaws in the floor plan before they become problems."

"I build luxury, Shalem. I can navigate a three-bedroom in Ikeja." Chinaza steps into his space, her Jo Malone colliding with the scent of his skin. She points a manicured finger toward the hallway. "The master is mine. And the third room is my home office. Exclusively."

Shalem’s jaw shifts. "That was supposed to be the guest room. For family."

"The whole plan was based on your logic, not my reality," she counters. "I handle international calls at 2:00 a.m. My productivity isn’t a hobby; it’s the engine that keeps us in luxury. Also, I’ve mapped the signal. The router in the hallway hits that room at full strength. Putting a guest bed there is a waste of high-speed fiber."

Shalem blinks. He hadn’t checked the signal strength. A flicker of genuine respect softens his posture.

“Understood,” he says. “I’ll move the desk in now.”

“Good. And one more thing.” Chinaza gestures toward the balcony. “That is the only place with decent evening light. Order two chairs there; I expect my morning tea there to be a solo event. No chatter. No family unit meetings. I don’t do spontaneous prayer at 5:00 a.m. My brain doesn’t function before caffeine. If you want my participation, we start at 6:00. Not a minute earlier. My comfort is a non-negotiable clause.”

Shalem watches her, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. He takes a step toward her, closing the gap until she has to tilt her head back.

“I told you I wanted a wife, not a shadow,” he says, his voice dropping into that dangerous register. “If the CEO says 6:00, then the heavens will just have to wait for us.”

Chinaza’s pulse skips. She feels the heat of him, a magnetic pull she didn’t budget for. "I’m serious, Shalem. I am not a trophy you can just slot into a routine."

"A trophy is something you put on a shelf and forget," he says, his eyes darkening as they lock onto hers. "You’re a flame, Chinaza. I’m not here to put you out, I’m just the man making sure we don’t burn the world down before we're ready."

She tilts her chin up, refusing to let the fluttering in her chest show. "Good. Because I may be living in your house, but I am still the chair of this board."

“You can own the board, Chinaza,” Shalem says, the words warm and intentional. “I’m just here to make sure the floor you stand on never shakes.”

“Lastly.” She straightens her shoulders. “This apartment is my sanctuary. No unannounced visitors. No friends or family dropping by because they were in the neighborhood. If they want to see you, you tell me first.”

Shalem assesses the iron in her tone. In his world, family is an open door, but he sees the flicker of insecurity in her eyes…. the need to own at least this one boundary.

"Understood," he says, his voice low and sincere. "My family stays at the gate until you open it. I’m the head of this house, but you are the gatekeeper. Nothing crosses that threshold without your signature."

Chinaza exhales, a small win settling in her chest. It feels good to see him pivot for her.

“Good,” she says, a tiny, playful smirk tugging at her lips. “Now, put that box in my office.”

Shalem chuckles, a deep sound that vibrates in the small space. He picks up the box effortlessly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, walking past her.

Chinaza watches him go, feeling the power shift. He is providing the structure, but she is the one deciding how they live inside it, and she loves it.

“I’ll handle lunch,” he calls from the office. “What do you want?”

“Anything,” she says, her voice sounding smaller than she intended.

“Good,” he replies, his shadow lengthening across the hallway. “Let me prepare something.”

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

Author’s Note:

Happy Sunday Lovestackers 🤍

Chinaza is now legally Shalem’s. 🤓

Let the chaos love begin.

Leave a comment

CHAPTER FOUR

Austin stares at the chessboard, his brow furrowed as if he can solve the problem of Shalem through the reddish-brown pieces.

“Are you actually serious, Shalem?” Austin asks, his voice dropping into that register of disbelief reserved for friends and fools.

Shalem doesn’t look up. He studies the board, his fingers hovering inches above his queen. “About the Sicilian Defense? Always.”

Austin exhales a sharp, impatient breath. “About Ms. Ifeanyi, man. Your boss is basically handing you the keys to her kingdom on a silver platter. Compensation in millions just to sign some papers and walk her to court? It’s a ghost-gig. You could do it in your sleep.”

Shalem moves a pawn. The click against the wood is final. “I don’t want her money.”

Austin lets out a dry, incredulous laugh. “That’s the most expensive thing I’ve ever heard a broke man say.”

“I’m not that broke, Austin. I’m also not for sale.” Shalem finally lifts his gaze. His eyes are steady, the deep, unhurried brown of a man who has already seen the end of the script.

“You’re missing the point,” Austin says, leaning forward, his shadow falling across the board. “She’s offering you a life. A contract that gives stability. Why are you making this difficult?”

Shalem leans back, crossing his arms. “I don’t want a contract dressed up as a life. I want the life.”

Austin blinks, the amusement draining from his face. “You’re talking about romance. In this economy?”

“I’m talking about choice,” Shalem corrects quietly. “I don’t want her to pick me because the paperwork makes sense. I want her to choose me when it doesn’t make sense at all.”

Austin shakes his head, gesturing wildly at the apartment, the board, the world outside. “That’s not being smart, Shalem. That’s being greedy. She’s giving you a fish, and you’re demanding the whole pond.”

Shalem doesn’t blink. He reaches out, his fingers brushing a knight, sliding it into a position that cuts off Austin’s king.

“I have no use for a fish,” Shalem says, his voice low. “I’m taking the pond, or I’m staying thirsty.”

Austin stares at him, then at the board. He searches for a rebuttal, a joke, anything to break the weight of Shalem’s conviction. He finds nothing. He moves a bishop, a desperate, defensive play.

“You’re insane,” Austin mutters. “Someone like her is going to eat you alive.”

Shalem’s mouth tilts, not quite a smile, but something sharper. “Then at least I’ll know what I taste like to her.”

He slides his queen across the board. The movement is smooth and perfectly timed.

“Checkmate.”

Austin freezes. He scans the board, his eyes darting between the pieces, looking for the escape hatch that isn’t there. He groans, leaning back until his chair creaks.

“Every time,” Austin mutters, pushing the board away. “It’s not even a game anymore. You play like you’re at war.”

Shalem begins to reset the pieces, his movements methodical and calm.

“It’s only a game if you’re okay with losing,” Shalem says lightly. “I stopped being okay with that a long time ago.”

Austin snorts, standing up to clear his mug, but he pauses, looking back at his friend. Shalem is already setting the board for a game no one else is playing yet.

“Good luck, Romeo,” Austin says. “Just remember, if you jump into that pond, make sure you can swim.”

Shalem pauses for a beat. His voice comes quieter and more certain.

“I’m not trying to be chosen because it’s convenient,” he says. “And I’m not trying to take advantage of her either.”

Austin raises a brow.

Shalem places the final piece carefully, aligning it with the rest.

“If I ever stand in front of her,” he continues, “it won’t be because she offered me a contract… or because I saw an opportunity.”

Austin goes still.

“It will be because I believe she is worth building something real with. Even if she doesn’t know how to see that yet.”

Shalem finally looks up.

“And if she never gets there,” he adds softly, “then I stay where I am. Because I don’t confuse access with purpose.”

Austin lets out a slow breath, shaking his head like he’s trying to reset reality.

“…You’re finished,” he mutters. “Properly finished.”

Shalem doesn’t answer. He just sets the white king in its place and waits for the next move.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

Chinaza sits at the head of the table. She looks perfect, but inside, she is distracted. Her mind keeps replaying Shalem’s voice: “My faith doesn’t permit me to treat a covenant like a contract.”

Across from her, the team is sweating.

“Ma’am, the Ikorodu project is stalled,” Tunde says, wiping his forehead. “The community leaders at the new site are blocking the trucks. They say the previous surveyor didn’t mark the boundaries correctly. If we don’t move the tractors by tomorrow, we lose the morning slot.”

Chinaza taps her gold pen. “Then pay the permit fee again and get a new surveyor. We don’t have time for a boundary dispute.”

“It’s not just the money, ma’am,” Bashir, the Finance Lead, says quietly. “The budget is tight. If we pay for a second survey and another permit, we will go into the red for that project. We can’t just keep throwing cash at every roadblock.”

Amaka, Head of Sales, leans forward. “And my clients are calling. They heard about the delay. If they think the land is in dispute, they will pull their deposits. I have three buyers waiting to sign today. I can’t tell them the community is blocking the gate.”

The room falls into a heavy, frustrated silence.

Chinaza feels the pressure rising. She looks at her team—experts she pays six figures—and for the first time, they all look small. None of them has a solution that doesn’t involve losing money or losing face.

She glances at Shalem.

He is sitting in his usual spot, at her right. He is currently typing notes on his tablet, his face as calm as a lake at dawn. He hasn’t said a word.

She has worked with him for over four years and knows how brilliant he is—a brilliance he often hides in silence until she asks for it. He is the only person in this room who doesn’t scramble to impress her.

“Shalem,” Chinaza says, her voice a sharp command. “What do you think the community leaders actually want?”

Shalem doesn’t look up from the tablet immediately. He finishes his sentence, then looks at Tunde.

“Tunde, did the community leaders mention the ancestral path?” Shalem asks. His voice is low, but it cuts through the tension.

Tunde blinks. “Uh, yes. Something about a path to the water. But that’s not on the map.”

“The surveyor followed the legal grid,” Shalem explains. “But the local community has used this specific strip for fifty years to move their boats to the lagoon. If we fence it off, we kill their livelihood. That’s why they are angry.”

Kemi, the Legal Advisor, frowns. “If it’s not on the deed, they have no right to it.”

“Legal right isn’t the same as peace, Kemi,” Shalem says softly. He looks at Chinaza. “Ma’am, we don’t need a new survey. And we don’t need to pay a bribe.”

“Then what do we do?” Chinaza asks. She finds herself leaning in, her heart doing a strange, rhythmic dance.

“We don’t build a wall,” Shalem says. “We build a bridge. We turn their ancestral path into a Private Resident Boardwalk. We pave it, light it, and give the community a key to the gate for their boats. The value of our property doubles because we now have a cultural landmark and a managed waterfront, and we’ve also bought the one thing money usually can’t buy: their loyalty. The community becomes our security team because we protect their history.”

The room goes dead silent.

Bashir checks his calculator. “The cost of a boardwalk is sixty percent less than the legal fees for a boundary lawsuit.”

Amaka’s eyes light up. “I can sell and upsell that. ‘Exclusive Heritage Waterfront Access.’ It sounds luxurious, not like a compromise.”

Chinaza watches Shalem. He isn’t gloating. He isn’t looking for a round of applause. He simply leans back, picks up his tablet, and goes back to taking notes. He has just saved her firm millions of naira and a PR disaster, and he did it without making anyone else feel stupid.

He didn’t just find a business solution; he found a human one.

Chinaza looks down at her pen. She realizes she isn’t thinking about the Ikorodu project anymore. She is thinking about the man sitting beside her.

I want someone like him as a husband variable, she thinks. Someone competent, loyal, firm, and who understood boundaries.

She clears her throat, trying to regain her executive ice.

“Tunde, do exactly what Shalem said,” Chinaza orders. “Amaka, draft the Exclusive Heritage Waterfront angle for the buyers. Meeting adjourned.”

The team files out, whispering in excitement. Shalem stays behind to pack his things.

“That was... adequate, Shalem,” she says.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he replies.

He is already at the door. He looks at her—not as a subordinate, but with that same steady, unshakeable gaze that refused her money and offer.

“Will that be all, ma’am?”

Chinaza looks at him, and for the first time in her life, she doesn’t have a script.

“Yes,” she whispers. “That will be all.”

As he leaves, Chinaza realizes the truth: She tried to buy him because she thought he was a tool she could use. But today she realized he is the foundation she didn’t know she was missing.

She doesn’t just need an assistant. She needs him. And for a woman who always gets what she wants, the fact that he is the one thing she can’t buy makes her want him even more than she should.

“Good evening, Biggest Bro!”

Hadassah’s face fills the frame, blurred and beaming, as she wrestles the phone away from her twin.

Shalem props his phone against a water glass as he navigates a plate of white rice and spicy tomato stew.

Shalem’s expression softens, melting into a genuine smile. “Rọra, Haddie. Tó o bá fọ fóònù, báwo ni wàá ṣe pè mí láti gba owó lọ́wọ́ mi1?”

“Inú mi dùn, ẹ̀gbọ́n mi!2” Hadassah says, her energy vibrating through the speaker. “Guess what, biggest bro? Guess!”

Shalem chews slowly, mirroring her grin. “You finally learned how to catch the hens without chasing them for hours?”

“No! Our JAMB results are out. I got 223!” She pauses for dramatic effect, her eyes dancing. “And Deborah got 319.”

Shalem sets his spoon down. The numbers settle in the air—proof of a future he’s been subsidizing one textbook at a time. “319? That’s not a score, that’s a statement.” He leans into the camera. “You both did well. I never doubted the brains in that house; I only worry about your noise level.”

“Let me see the genius,” Shalem says.

The camera pans to Deborah. She’s the quiet half of the soul, observant, sharp-eyed behind her glasses, and currently wearing a modest, triumphant smile. She waves a shy hand. “Hello, Big Brother.”

“Debbie,” Shalem’s voice drops to a warm, grounding register. “319. You’re already halfway to the High Court. Bawo ni?3”

“I’m fine,” she says quietly, her eyes searching his face through the screen. “Are you eating well? You look… different.”

Hadassah yanks the phone back before he can answer. “So, what’s the plan, Mini-Dad? Unilag is calling my name!”

Shalem laughs, the sound rich and relaxed. “Unilag is a jealous lover, Haddie. She only takes the ones who work for it. You want Theatre Arts, and Debbie wants Law?”

“Yes, biggest bro!”

“Great,” Shalem says, his tone shifting. It’s the voice of a man who makes moves in silence so his sisters can scream with joy. “You’ll both stay with me during your post-UTME.”

“Yes! Yes! You’d take us out to Lagos beaches, restaurants, and all those fun places!” Hadassah’s eyes widen with happiness.

“Is Dad around?” he asks.

“No, he’s at the back of the house picking corn and snails for dinner,” Hadassah explains in Yoruba.

Shalem nods, a pang of nostalgia hitting him. He sees his mother’s face in the twins’ eyes—a silent promise kept. “I’m sending something to your accounts now. Treat yourselves. Take one hen from the backyard and cook it for dinner.”

“Thank you, Mini Dad!” Hadassah salutes happily.

“Stay on your books and pray,” he warns, his finger hovering over the end-call button. “JAMB was the introduction. There are more exams to come. I don’t pay for almost admitted.”

“We know! Bye, Biggest Brother!”

The screen goes black.

Share

A month later

Shalem Olarenwaju.

The name alone is a slow-burning tension in her mind.

It has been over a month since she laid the offer out like a feast. Most men in Lagos would have choked on their own greed trying to say yes fast enough. But Shalem? He hadn’t argued. He hadn’t tried to squeeze her for a larger percentage or a better offer.

He had looked her in the eye, said no, and gone back to his job.

The silence that followed was worse than a shouting match. No follow-up. No lingering glances. Just a clean, surgical extraction of the topic, as if the conversation had never happened.

Chinaza leans back in her leather chair, her thumb tracing the cool edge of her iPad. It unsettles her. People don’t just ignore a life-changing amount of money—especially not men who still live average lifestyles.

What is he waiting for? she wonders. Or worse, what does he think I’m worth?

She thinks of the alternative she’s endured over the last few weeks.

Her father’s recommendation. Noble Calloway. Noble, who treated the waitstaff like background noise and spoke to her as if his presence were a charitable donation to her life. He was loud, volatile, and carried the heavy, sour scent of inherited ego.

Compared to that, Shalem’s silence is a luxury.

Her posture shifts, her spine realigning into the rigid grace of a woman who has stopped guessing and started calculating. She had treated the proposal like a transaction—bait on a hook. But Shalem isn’t a fish; he’s the deep water.

Four years. She has watched him move through her world for forty-eight months. He is never careless. He is never loud. He is the only man in her orbit who doesn’t lean in too far.

He isn’t the type to respond to a bribe, but everyone responds to the right kind of leverage.

It is time to stop offering. It is time to re-negotiate. And this time, she won’t lead with her checkbook. She’ll lead with the one thing she knows he can’t ignore: his own terms.

She picks up her pen and clicks it once. The sound is final.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

“I’ve been dissecting our last conversation,” Chinaza says, her voice cutting through the hum of the Range Rover’s engine.

She locks her iPad with a soft click. Through the rearview mirror, she tracks the steady movement of Shalem’s eyes as he navigates the Lagos traffic.

“The marriage arrangement. You declined the financial package,” she continues, her gaze sharpening. “But you didn’t counter the offer, either. Which suggests your price isn’t a number. You don’t want my money, Shalem. You want something much more expensive?”

Shalem says nothing. He keeps his hands at ten and two on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, his focus fixed on the road leading toward the property inspection site.

Chinaza leans forward, invading the air between the front and back seats. “Tell me your figure. Every structure has a breaking point, and every man has a price. What’s yours?”

Shalem exhales—three slow, deliberate beats. When he speaks, his voice is a calm, low baritone that seems to vibrate in the floorboards.

“I’ll agree to the marriage, ma’am. But not for the money.”

Chinaza’s brow lifts. Her lips press into a thin, intrigued line. It isn’t a smile, but it’s the closest thing to one he’s seen all week.

“Your terms,” she repeats, the words tasting like a foreign currency. “What could an assistant possibly offer me that a bank transfer doesn’t solve?”

“Everything is not a line item, ma’am,” Shalem says. He shifts his grip on the wheel and then, with a deliberate slowness, he looks up. His eyes lock onto hers in the rearview mirror—heavy, warm brown, and refusing to yield.

The car goes vacuum-silent. For a fleeting second, Chinaza’s composure flickers—an invisible stillness in her hands, a sudden hitch in her breathing she hopes he didn’t hear.

“Everything is a transaction,” she says, though the conviction in her voice has lost its edge.

“A transaction is about what you can get.” He pauses, his gaze remaining steady in the reflection. “A covenant is about what you’re willing to give. If we do this, we do it my way. I will draft the agreement. If you can accept the terms, we proceed, ma’am.”

Chinaza holds his gaze in the mirror, searching for the ‘tell’…. the sign that he’s bluffing. She finds nothing but a terrifyingly resolved calm.

“And if I can’t accept them?” she asks.

“Then you can find another man to play the part,” he says.

She sighs, looking down at her iPad, but the screen remains dark. She realizes, with a surge of irritation, that she has lost her place in the data.

She looks up again, her voice stripped of the CEO’s bark.

“Shalem.”

“Ma’am?”

“Send it to my private email.”

And for the first time in her life, Chinaza realized she might have just agreed to something she wouldn’t be able to undo.

Author’s Note

Okay… let’s talk Lovestackers 🤍

Because next chapter… we’re opening the PDF document.

Yes… Shalem’s terms. 👀

And something tells me this isn’t the kind of agreement you skim and sign.

So tell me… what do you think he wrote?
Soft husband rules… or something that will shake Chinaza completely?

We’ll be back next week when Chinaza realizes money won’t save her this time… unless you decide otherwise.

If this chapter hits 200 likes + 50 restacks (with comments too 👀),
I’ll release a bonus chapter 🤗

Quick question to my Lovestackers:

If you were Shalem, what is the ONE non-negotiable rule you would put in that contract that would challenge someone like Chinaza? 🤔

Leave a comment

CHAPTER THREE

Chinaza doesn’t slow as she steps into the foyer.

Her heels strike the marble in careful, deliberate steps. The sound climbs the double-volume walls, claiming the air before she even speaks. She doesn’t turn to face her client. Not yet. Power, she’s learned, is often a matter of who waits for whom.

She lets Mrs. Ogedengbe take it in first, ripening into awe.

Then…

“The main living area,” Chinaza says with a slight gesture. “Double-volume ceilings. Integrated climate control. Recessed acoustics. The entrance door is reinforced; soundproof, waterproof, bullet-resistant.”

Mrs. Ogedengbe’s eyes move slowly across the space, her smile widening in quiet approval.

Chinaza doesn’t watch the room. She watches the woman’s pupils. In this business, the house is just the stage; the client is the only real architecture.

Behind her, Shalem keeps pace without crowding. Tablet in one hand, binder tucked under his arm, steps quietly against the floor.

He doesn’t look at the walls. He looks at the nape of Chinaza’s neck. He tracks the micro-shifts in her posture, the exact millisecond her breath hitches before a pitch.

Mrs. Ogedengbe turns back. “I’ve seen enough common areas. Show me where I’ll sleep.”

Chinaza tilts her head, a ghost of a smile appearing. “I planned for the kitchens next. The dry and the wet. But luxury is nothing if not adaptable.”

She pivots toward the grand staircase. They follow.

The structure curves upward in a sweep of polished oak and glass—a literal stairway to heaven for the right price. Chinaza takes the first three steps with her usual iron grace.

Her pace remains even until it doesn’t.

The edge of her heel catches. She doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t flail. She begins to vanish into the pull of gravity.

Before the tilt even registers in her inner ear, a palm anchors against the small of her back.

It’s firm. Warm. A solid, immovable weight that resets her center of gravity before her pulse can even spike.

Chinaza freezes.

She doesn’t pull away. She can’t. The air in the stairwell has suddenly turned to high-test honey: thick and impossible to breathe. She slowly lifts her gaze.

Shalem is already there, looking down at her. He isn’t startled. He isn’t flustered. His expression is a terrifying calm, as if he’d calculated the exact trajectory of her fall three rooms ago.

His hand lingers a second longer, and then it’s gone.

Chinaza straightens quickly, as if it didn’t happen.

“Thank you.”

She smoothes her skirt, her fingers traitorously brushing the exact spot where his heat had been.

Below them, Mrs. Ogedengbe lets out a low, musical chuckle. The kind of laugh that says she’s seen this movie before and she’s already bought the soundtrack.

“Ah-ah. Good reflex.”

Her eyes flick between them, amused.

“And very attentive too. Your boyfriend didn’t even think twice.”

Chinaza’s spine goes rigid. Her professional mask slips back into place, cold and seamless.

“He is my assistant, Ma,” she says, her voice a flat line. “Not my boyfriend.”

Mrs. Ogedengbe waves a manicured hand, her smile widening like she doesn’t believe a word of it.

“Mmm. If you say so, o. But the eyes do not lie as well as the tongue.”

Chinaza doesn’t respond. She resumes the climb, her steps now hyper-conscious, the silence between her and Shalem ringing like a struck bell.

She is painfully aware of him now. The way he occupies the space behind her without crowding it. The way he hadn’t asked for permission to save her.

Worst of all, Shalem is already back to his notes. He flips a page with a casual flick of his thumb, his face unreadable, his breathing steady.

As if saving her from a fall was just another line item on a Tuesday.

As if it cost him nothing.

Share

Chinaza sits across from her third date within a month and knows within seconds that she shouldn’t have come.

The restaurant is soft-lit, all polished wood and quiet conversations, the kind of place that tries too hard to feel important. He doesn’t belong here. Neither does this moment.

She smooths the front of her blazer anyway. Composure first. Always.

Three dates. Three disappointments.

The first had leaned forward before the waiter even left, studying her like she was already his.

“You’ll make a good wife,” he’d said. “I want four children. I don’t joke with my food, fresh meals, morning and night.”

She had smiled and finished her drink. Left before the main course arrived.

The second had been worse.

He’d laughed too loudly, talked with his mouth full, and halfway through the meal, slid a finger into his nose like he was alone in his bedroom. No shame. No awareness. Just comfort in his own filth.

When he sneezed over the table - over her plate - and kept talking like nothing had happened, she stood up without a word and walked out.

Now this one.

Fola - or whatever his name is, they’ve reached the stage of the night where names cease to matter - is leaning back, radiating the kind of unearned confidence that usually requires a trust fund.

She watches as the waiter begins setting down plates. Snail sautéed in pepper. Truffle pasta. A ribeye dripping in butter.

Chinaza’s brow twitches. She hasn’t opened her menu yet.

“I didn’t order these,” she says, her voice a low, melodic friction.

Fola doesn’t look at the waiter. He looks at her, his gaze tracking the movement of her throat. “I like to order for my woman. It saves time.”

Of course you do.

He says it like he’s handing her a gift, not a sentence.

Chinaza lets the silence stretch. She doesn’t fill it. She let it sit there until it suffocated him.

She watches him instead, noticing the way he handles his wine glass—too tight, like he’s afraid it might try to escape.

“Eat,” he says, gesturing with a blunt chin. “I don’t like my woman earning more than me, so you’ll have to step down from that firm of yours eventually. I prefer a traditional woman. Quiet and predictable.”

There’s a pause, brief, deliberate.

“And my mother comes first, just like yours. You’ll also need to clear your expenses through me. It’s for your own protection.”

There it is.

Not even hidden. Not even dressed up.

Chinaza feels it then… not surprise, not anger. Just a quiet, tightening pull in her stomach. Familiar.

A pattern.

She studies him for a moment longer, as if confirming something to herself. Then she reaches for her bag and stands.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice even, controlled. “We’re not compatible.”

He doesn’t look surprised. If anything, he looks amused.

“The reason you’re still single at thirty, Chinaza, is because you don’t know how to be small. You’re too loud even when you’re sitting still.”

I’m not single because I’m difficult; I’m single because I have a low tolerance for mediocre men who mistake their ego for a personality.

The words hang there, waiting.

Chinaza doesn’t give him anything to land on.

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend herself. Doesn’t explain.

Men like him feed on reaction. She refuses to offer it.

Instead, she turns and walks away, heels steady against the floor, back straight, pace unhurried.

By the time she steps out into the night air, the irritation has already begun to fade, replaced by something colder. Sharper.

Discernment.

Three dates. Three lessons.

Next time, she won’t need a full evening to know.

Subscribe now

“I’ve had enough for one year, Shindara.”

Chinaza doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to. The finality in her tone is a clean blade, severing the conversation before it can bleed.

The café is busy: the clink of cups, the faint burn of roasted beans in the air. Outside, Lagos traffic drags past in slow impatience.

Oluwashindara studies her over the rim of her cup. “You won’t give up.”

It isn’t encouragement. It sounds more like a verdict.

Chinaza leans back, the leather of the chair cool against her skin. She lets out a breath that tastes like caffeine and cynicism. “I’m not saying I’ll give up. I’m saying I’m tired.”

“Tired is where mistakes start,” Oluwashindara says, setting her drink down carefully. “Finding a man in this city isn’t an Olympic sport, but it should be. You know the stakes.”

“I know,” Chinaza’s fingers trace the rim of her black coffee. “I just didn’t expect it to feel like labor.”

Like compromise. Like settling dressed up as maturity.

“I’ve seen enough,” she adds. “More than enough.”

Oluwashindara tilts her head, watching her. “Then maybe the problem isn’t them.”

Chinaza’s gaze lifts - sharp, direct.

“Maybe,” Oluwashindara continues, unbothered, “you need to bend your rules. This man you’ve engineered in your head? He doesn’t exist.”

Chinaza lets that sit. Not because she’s considering it, but because she wants Oluwashindara to hear how quiet rejection sounds.

“If I bend,” she says finally, carefully, “it will be because it makes sense. Not because I’m exhausted.”

A beat.

“Because what I’ve seen so far? It’s not even a negotiation. One wants a live-in cook he can legally call a wife. Another is already married to his mother—he just hasn't filed the paperwork yet. And the last one…” She pauses, her throat tightening. “Let’s just say his etiquette was an act of violence.”

Oluwashindara laughs, a bright, knowing sound. “You’re dramatic.”

“I’m observant.”

“Well,” Oluwashindara says lightly, “the others are clearly hopeless. But the one with bad etiquette—”

Chinaza looks at her. Really looks at her. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m saying,” Oluwashindara continues, unfazed, “he’s fixable.”

“Fixed?” Chinaza repeats the word flat on her tongue. “Am I a rehabilitation center?”

Oluwashindara laughs again, but there’s a knowing look in her eyes now. “With you? It might not be a bad idea.”

Chinaza reaches for her coffee this time and takes a slow sip, letting the bitterness settle.

“I’m not raising anybody’s son,” she says.

That ends that.

Oluwashindara lifts her hands in surrender, still smiling. “Fine. Keep your standards. Just don’t complain when the good ones avoid you.”

Chinaza doesn’t rise to it. She rarely does.

“Anyway,” Oluwashindara says, leaning forward now, her tone shifting, “that’s not why I asked you to come.”

Chinaza’s eyes narrow slightly. “No?”

“I have something better.” A small smile curves at Oluwashindara’s lips. “Someone, actually.”

Chinaza says nothing, but her attention sharpens.

“My husband’s friend’s cousin is looking to meet someone,” Oluwashindara says. “And I mentioned you.”

Chinaza blinks once. “That is too many degrees of separation. That’s a stranger, Shindara.”

“It’s called an introduction,” Oluwashindara replies smoothly, pulling out her phone. “And you should be grateful I thought of you.”

Chinaza leans forward despite herself, adjusting her glasses as the screen is turned toward her.

Chinaza expects a caricature. Instead, she finds a man who looks like he owns the air he breathes. Clean lines. A tailored fit. Intentional. He isn’t smiling at the camera; he’s challenging it.

There’s a quiet confidence in the way he holds himself, even in a still image. Not loud.

Chinaza’s expression doesn’t change much, but something shifts - small, precise.

“He looks… adequate,” she says.

Oluwashindara snorts. “That’s high praise from the Ice Queen.”

“What does he do?” Chinaza asks, still studying the photo.

“Fashion designer.”

Chinaza glances up. That, she didn’t expect.

“I met him at a runway show two weeks ago,” Oluwashindara adds. “We spoke briefly. He’s not…” she searches for the word, then settles on, “… difficult.”

That earns her a look.

“Which puts him miles ahead of the guy with the bad etiquette and the mama’s boy.”

Chinaza leans back, folding her arms. She isn’t hopeful. Hope is dangerous. But she isn't looking away.

“Alright,” she says after a moment.

Oluwashindara’s smile widens, satisfied. “I’ll tell him to call you.”

Chinaza reaches for her cup again, lifting it slightly in acknowledgment. “Do that.”

There’s a pause, then…

“Thank you.”

Oluwashindara waves it off, pleased with herself. “You’ll thank me properly later.”

Chinaza doesn’t respond.

But this time, when she takes a sip, the coffee doesn’t taste as bitter.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

“You look even better in person,” Andrew says, his smile easy, too easy. It’s the smile of a man who has never been told no by anything he truly wanted.

Chinaza lets the compliment hang in the air, a trophy he’s offered that she isn’t quite ready to polish. She nods once, the movement sharp and economical. “Thank you.”

She turns her attention to the steak. Her knife slides through the medium-rare center with surgical precision.

Across from her, Andrew doesn’t just sit; he inhabits the space. He fits the room like he owns the deed. Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled twice to reveal a watch that whispers "old money" rather than screams it. His posture is relaxed, yet there’s a stillness to him—no fidgeting, no performative glancing at his phone.

For the first time this month, she doesn’t feel the urge to leave within five minutes.

Maybe Oluwashindara finally got one thing right.

“You’re welcome,” he says. He doesn't look away. He watches the way she eats, his gaze heavy enough to feel like a physical weight against her skin. He reaches for his wine, but his eyes stay locked on hers. “Shindara mentioned you’re in real estate. A property developer?”

Chinaza sets her knife down, meeting his gaze. “Among other things. I’m a broker. I manage properties too. And I do market analytics.”

There’s a slight shift in his expression… interest, sharpened.

“That’s impressive,” he murmurs. “I’ve always had a weakness for women who build their own empires.”

Not bad.

“Careful, Andrew,” she says, leaning back. Her pulse does a quick, traitorous flutter against her throat, but her face remains a mask of cool composure. “Building an empire is easy. Keeping it is where people get hurt.”

“I’m not afraid of a little friction,” he replies. A corner of his mouth tugs upward. “I imagine you don’t do ‘small’ in any area of your life.”

“I don’t,” she says, her voice dropping an octave. “Small is for people who are afraid of the view.”

For a moment, the conversation settles into something easy and comfortable.

“So,” Andrew says, resting his arms on the table, “what do you do when you’re not closing deals?”

“My schedule doesn’t have 'down,'” she admits, almost amused by his optimism. “It has 'brief pauses.' Property inspections, meetings, client or staff dinners, and the occasional hour where I turn off my phone and disappear into a bath long enough to forget my own name.”

Andrew nods slowly. His gaze drops to her lips, then back to her eyes. It’s a deliberate, scorching trail. “I’m a busy man, Chinaza. But when I choose to spend my time, I make it count. I like taking care of my woman. Properly.”

My woman.

The phrase hits her like a low-frequency bass note—vibrating in her chest. She doesn't flinch. Instead, she reaches up, slowly adjusting the bridge of her glasses, her fingers steady.

“As long as the care isn’t a performance for the gallery,” she says.

“I don’t play to the gallery,” he counters, his voice dropping to a rasp. “I play for the person in the front row.”

He’s brilliant

She lets the silence stretch, thick and sweet.

Then, he tilts his head, his focus intensifying. “What are you looking for, then? In a man who wants that front-row seat.”

He’s direct

Chinaza considers him. She weighs the confidence in his shoulders against the intensity in his eyes.

“Someone secure,” she says finally. “Someone who isn’t intimidated by a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing. And someone who understands that partnership isn’t a synonym for ownership.”

Andrew nods, a look of quiet finality crossing his features. “I think I check those boxes.”

“Boxes are easy to check,” she says, her voice a soft challenge. “It’s the fine print that usually trips people up.”

He smiles, but the warmth doesn’t reach his eyes this time. He leans forward, lowering his voice until it’s just for her—a secret shared in a room full of people.

“Speaking of fine print that trips people up,” he says, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. “Have you ever done anything… unconventional?”

Chinaza’s eyes lift to his, sharp now. “Define ‘unconventional’.”

His smile shifts. It goes from charming to predatory in the space of a breath. “Something outside the tired, traditional expectations. A lifestyle with more… breathing room. An open arrangement.”

He says it with the same casual tone he’d use to describe a business merger.

“I see other women. You see other men,” he continues, his gaze searching hers for a crack. “Full transparency. And sometimes… we involve each other. We watch. We explore the edges.”

The "heart-racing tension" that had been building for the last hour curdles instantly. The heat in her face isn't a blush anymore; it’s a flash of cold, hard clarity.

Chinaza doesn’t blink. She doesn’t hesitate. She leans back, the “empire builder” returning to the front of her mind, locking the doors and bolting the gates.

“No,” she says, the word landing like a gavel. “I don’t share.”

She holds his gaze for three long, icy seconds.

“Anything.”

She picks up her bag. “We’re done here.”

Keziah’s laughter is a bright, loud thing that tears through the MacBook speakers.

"Eii! I guess the first three dates are just the appetizer," she gasps, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "An open relationship where you both explore and watch? Naza, you attract the most creative species of madness."

Chinaza doesn’t smile.

She sits perfectly still, one leg crossed over the other, her gaze a flat line on the screen. She looks less like a woman who just survived a disastrous date and more like a CEO reviewing a failing quarterly report.

On the split screen, Oluwashindara looks like she’s sucked a lemon. "I’m actually disappointed. Andrew had no right to say something like that to you."

Keziah’s humor vanishes behind a scoff. "You’re disappointed in Andrew? Shindara, please. I’m disappointed in you for thinking you could find Naza a decent man."

"Excuse me?" Shindara sits up, her defensive reflex kicking in. "How was I supposed to know he was a closeted exhibitionist? I was trying to help."

"Help isn't throwing her into a pit of nonsense and hoping she grows wings," Keziah counters. Her tone softens, turning toward Chinaza. "Naza, how many times have I told you? You don’t force these things. You wait. For God’s timing."

"Maybe," Chinaza murmurs. It isn't an agreement; it’s a dismissal.

A sharp, insistent cry pierces Keziah’s audio. She glances off-camera, the Mom mask snapping into place. “I have to go. The boss is awake.” She points a warning finger at the camera. “And Shindara, end the call. The moment I leave, you’ll start defending that man.”

“I will not—”

“Bye, Naza,” Keziah cuts in, and her box goes black.

Shindara lingers for a heartbeat, her sigh rattling the speakers. "I’m sorry, Naza. I really thought he was... different."

Chinaza says nothing.

“I’ll deal with him when I see him,” Oluwashindara adds, irritation slipping through now. “That was completely out of line.”

“Bye, Chinaza.”

"Goodbye, Shindara."

The call ends.

The silence that follows is thick enough to swallow the room. Chinaza exhales, a slow, controlled release of air.

Four dates. Four men. Four variations of the same genetic disappointment.

Her fingers ghost over the armrest. Then they still.

Unbidden, a face slides into her mind. Not a date. Not a mistake.

Shalem.

It wasn't the first time a client had assumed he was hers. They’d see him standing three paces behind her, watchful, and offer that knowing, oily smile.

Your boyfriend is very attentive, Ms. Ifeanyi.

Usually, she corrects it once, if at all, and moves on. It has never been worth her attention.

But Shalem... Shalem was consistent. He was the only thing in her life that didn’t require a status update. He anticipated the friction before it touched her skin. He resolved crises with a quiet, lethal efficiency, then dissolved back into the shadows without waiting for a ‘thank you.’

Rare. Useful.

Her pulse gives a single, erratic thud against her ribs. The solution forms with the cold precision of a contract.

Marriage.

Not the romantic tragedy her mother and friends prayed for. A structure. An arrangement.

A ring would be a silencer. It would end the clients’ wandering eyes and her parents’ relentless interrogations. She leaned back, dissecting the idea. Shalem didn’t overstep. He understood boundaries. He lived within the lines.

And everyone has a price. The only question was whether his was reasonable.

She stood, her heels clicking against the marble floor, the sound of a gavel bringing the room to order.

No wedding. Just the paperwork. A diamond large enough to blind her critics, bought with her own money.

Public perception: Married. Private reality: Untouchable.

A marriage that is defined, contained, and temporary.

Her parents would complain, but they would adjust. They always did when she presented them with a finished result rather than a choice.

Shalem was the only variable that made sense. He didn't try to control her. In a world of men trying to be the sun, he was comfortable being the gravity.

Share

Oluwashindara is the first to crack.

“Tell me you’re not serious,” she says, her voice a flat line. She tracks the space between Chinaza and Keziah, waiting for the punchline that isn't coming. “This is a prank. A skit. Where is the camera?”

Chinaza doesn’t blink. She’s leaned back into the couch, ankles crossed, looking less like a woman discussing her wedding and more like a CEO reviewing a merger.

“I am perfectly serious.”

Keziah lets out a short chuckle, leaning forward until her elbows dig into her knees. “No, wait. Slow down. When you say ‘marriage on paper,’ what is the actual translation? Because in your country, Nigeria, paper burns.”

“It’s a strategic architecture,” Chinaza says, her gaze fixed on a point just past Keziah’s shoulder. “Terms. Duration. Exit velocity. We register at the Ikoyi registry, we keep the families quiet, and then we dissolve it when the objective is met.”

Keziah stares at her, then laughs, but it doesn’t land properly. It falls somewhere between disbelief and concern.

“Naza, look at me. You are a Christian. No version of the Holy Spirit signs off on a subscription-based marriage.”

Chinaza finally turns, her expression as unreadable as a sealed tomb. “I am aware of the theology, Keziah. I’m also aware of the necessity.”

“Necessity?” Keziah’s voice rises. “You’re planning the funeral before the first dance!”

Chinaza adjusts the bridge of her glasses, the gold frame catching the light. “Some endings are built into the structure. That doesn’t make the building less functional while it stands.”

Shindara exhales, scrubbing a hand over her face. She looks tired. “Forget the Bible and theology for a second. Why him? Why your assistant?”

The room goes vacuum-silent.

“Don’t,” Keziah snaps at Shindara. “Don’t even validate the choice. The person isn’t the point, the insanity is the point.”

“The person is exactly the point,” Shindara counters, her eyes locked on Chinaza. “If you’re going to be this cold-blooded, you choose someone who operates at your altitude. Not the man who manages your calendar.”

A ghost of a smirk brushes Chinaza’s lips. It’s gone before it can be called a smile. “He understands the altitude.”

“Your assistant?” Shindara’s brow furrows. “Chinaza, the guy is—”

“He is competent,” Chinaza cuts in. The temperature in the room drops five degrees. “He understands structure. He knows where the lines are drawn. And most importantly…” She pauses, her fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the armrest. “He doesn’t try to occupy spaces that weren’t built for him.”

Shindara tilts her head, studying her friend like a difficult riddle. “So this is just a high-stakes power play. It’s about control.”

“It’s about alignment,” Chinaza corrects softly.

“Alignment?” Keziah scoffs. “You’re headhunting a husband like you’re filling a vacancy in Marketing.”

Chinaza’s eyes flick to her, dark and steady. “If I were hiring, the vetting process would be significantly more rigorous.”

Shindara leans in. “Naza, listen to yourself. If it’s just for the show, you know you can buy a five-carat diamond without a marriage certificate, right? You have the money. Buy the rock and tell everyone he’s ‘away on business’.”

“I don’t need a rock.” Chinaza looks at Shindara, her gaze dark and impossibly steady. “I need a legal point. I’m looking for an identity update and a paper trail that says I’m officially married. A ring is just jewelry; a marriage certificate is leverage.”

Keziah flings her hands up. “This is not normal, Naza! It’s not right.”

“It’s effective,” Chinaza says, her tone final. “That’s better than right.”

“Have you even asked the poor man?” Shindara asks.

“Not yet.”

“Of course not,” Keziah mutters. “Because why consult the sacrifice?”

Chinaza ignores the bite. “I’ll speak to him tomorrow.”

“And if he says no? If he actually has a shred of dignity left?” Keziah counters.

“He won’t.”

“You’re very sure of your grip on him,” Keziah whispers.

Chinaza’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“I don’t present offers that are designed to be dismissed.”

Shindara sinks back into the cushions. “And what exactly are you offering him, Naza? What’s the price of a man’s last name?”

“Everything he didn’t know he was allowed to want.”

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

Shalem doesn’t sit until she does.

Even then, he takes the chair opposite her desk like it’s a tactical position, not a comfort. Back straight, tablet balanced against his palm, shoulders squared like a man who doesn’t waste posture.

Chinaza keeps her eyes on the document in front of her. The only sound in the office is the expensive scratch of her fountain pen against vellum. She finishes signing, slides the document into a perfect alignment with the edge of the desk, and finally lifts her gaze.

“I need you to consider something.”

Shalem meets her eyes, his expression a vault. “Alright, ma’am.”

The air in the room thickens, heavy with the scent of her Jo Malone and the unspoken hierarchy between them.

“I want us to get married.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty; it’s weighted. Chinaza doesn’t shift. No hesitation softens the sharp lines of her face. Across from her, Shalem doesn’t blink. He searches her eyes for a glitch in the logic, a tremor of emotion.

He finds only a polished surface.

“No, ma’am.”

The word lands like a stone in a deep well. Quiet. Final.

Chinaza’s fingers still against the desk. Not frozen… just paused, like a predator recalibrating.

“I can’t,” he adds, his voice dropping an octave, more deliberate.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk, locking him in place. “Before you refuse, listen. It’s a structured arrangement. Mutually beneficial.” She leans back, crossing one leg over the other, the silk of her trousers whispering. “You’ve noticed how often clients assume we’re involved.”

“I have.”

“I don’t correct it unless it interferes with a deal. Repetition is inefficient.” Her tone is as flat as a bank statement. “I prefer to remove the variable entirely.”

Shalem’s brow shifts a fraction of a millimeter. “By getting married?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t flinch. “If it’s formal, the assumptions stop. My family steps back. High-stakes clients focus. It creates clarity.”

She’s pitching a merger, not a life.

“It would be private. No ceremony. Just registration,” she continues. “Professionally, nothing changes. Personally, nothing begins. When it stops being useful, we end it.”

Shalem watches her. His gaze is a slow burn, assessing the woman who thinks she can buy the one thing that isn’t for sale.

“Why me?”

“You’re already in position,” she replies, the words coming fast, practiced. “Minimal disruption. You understand my schedule, my standards. And you don’t complicate things.” A heartbeat of a pause. “That matters.”

His thumb taps once against the edge of his tablet. A contained, rhythmic motion.

“My answer is still no, ma’am.”

“With compensation.” Her eyes are hard. “You will be settled appropriately. Your discretion is assumed.”

Shalem leans back now, the movement slow and predatory. His gaze stays on her, but it’s sharper, stripping away the CEO veneer.

“You’ve thought this through, ma’am.”

“I don’t bring you incomplete decisions.”

Something flickers in his eyes: a spark of dry, dangerous amusement. “And the boundaries?”

“No interference. No expectations. No disruption to work.” Her voice lowers, gaining a sudden, firm gravity. “Control remains where it belongs.”

The silence that follows tests the structural integrity of the room.

Shalem exhales through his nose, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to her eyes.

“I would respectfully decline, ma’am.”

Chinaza leans forward again, her patience fraying into something sharper. “How much do you want? Name your price. You won’t be required to do anything beyond the legal process. We file, we sign, we separate.”

Shalem doesn’t flinch. His expression settles into something terrifyingly resolved.

“It’s not about the money.” He holds her gaze, and for the first time, she feels the heat of it. “I don’t enter a marriage without intention. And I don’t leave one casually.”

He stands up, the height of him suddenly dominating the space.

“My faith doesn’t permit me to treat a covenant like a contract.”

Chinaza’s fingers tap the desk, a rhythmic signal of her rising frustration. “But this isn’t a real marriage. It’s a formality.”

“It will be real to me.” He looks at her, not as an assistant, not as a subordinate, but as a man looking at a woman who has finally met a wall she cannot climb. “And that’s a variable you can’t afford, ma’am.”

For the first time, Chinaza really looks at him. She sees the breadth of his shoulders, the unyielding set of his jaw, his warm brown eyes, the quiet power she’s been using to build her empire without ever acknowledging its source.

“You’re refusing the money,” she says, her voice barely a whisper.

“I’m refusing the terms.” He turns toward the door. “You’ll need to find someone else, ma’am.”

The door closes with a soft, definitive click.

Chinaza doesn’t move. She stays anchored in the silence he left behind. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t negotiate. And somehow, that’s the part that burns.

Her fingers press lightly against the desk once. Controlled, but for the first time in years, her pulse is out of her command.

And for the first time, she’s not sure she wants it back.

Subscribe now

Author’s Note:

I love Chinaza! I finally get to write a woman with my kind of personality 🤭🤭. I love Shalem too. I love a man who knows what he wants and doesn’t bend his rules, even in desperation! 🥹🥹

I love that Shalem is not too calm like Elion 😩, and not too loud, my perfect kind of man! 😆😆

I’m considering moving Legally Shalem to Saturdays, as Sundays are reserved for worship and rest. What do we think?

Leave a comment

CHAPTER TWO

Chinaza sits cross-legged in her chair, gaze steady on the screen in front of her.

The couple appears side by side, framed neatly in their camera, close enough to touch. The woman’s hand rests over her husband’s, her diamond solitaire catching the light every few seconds. It’s a bright, glittering reminder of the one thing Chinaza supposedly lacks.

“You came highly recommended for properties in Lagos,” Mr. Derele says, his voice carrying the practiced bass of a man who likes to be heard.

Chinaza inclines her head. A queen acknowledging a tithe. “Recommendation is the only currency I trust, Mr. Derele.”

“We’re interested in the four-bedroom fully detached duplex,” the woman adds, smiling.

“It’s a solid choice, Mrs. Derele.” Chinaza’s voice is smooth and careful.

“All rooms are en-suite. Private perimeter. Ample parking. The finishing is imported, clean, and durable. Maintenance is minimal.”

She doesn't rush. Silence is a sales tactic, and she owns the clock. “I’ll also send the 360-degree virtual tour after this call.”

The couple nods, already leaning in.

“There is solar power, right?” Mr. Derele asks.

“Yes. Fully installed,” Chinaza replies. “Dedicated line. No load issues. You’re looking at up to twenty-two hours of electricity daily, with solar backup.”

Mr. Derele nods, his ego visibly stroked by the efficiency.

“If you’d like post-purchase customization, that can be arranged before handover,” she adds.

Mrs. Derele smiles. “Of course.”

A beat.

“The house is beautiful. It checks our non-negotiables,” she interjects, her head tilting in a way that feels like a pre-emptive strike. “Although… I do have a concern about the master bedroom closet.”

Chinaza straightens slightly and attentively.

“What’s your concern?”

“It’s a bit… compact. For a master suite of that caliber, it feels limited.” She pauses, her smile widening just a fraction. “For two people.”

Chinaza doesn’t blink. She lets the implication hang—the subtle dig at her own solitary life—before she reaches for the metaphorical scalpel.

“The design prioritizes architectural intent over mindless excess, Mrs. Derele. But if your wardrobe requires more oxygen, the adjoining study can be absorbed into the layout before handover.”

Mrs. Derele’s hand squeezes her husband’s shoulder. A gesture of ownership. “Are you married, Ms. Ifeanyi?”

The question isn’t a detour; it’s a heat-seeking missile.

Chinaza holds the woman’s gaze through the lens. The silence in the office grows heavy, the air-conditioning unit providing a rhythmic, mechanical heartbeat.

“No,” Chinaza says. The word is a period, not a comma.

Mrs. Derele’s smile softens into something condescendingly maternal. “That makes sense. You probably wouldn’t notice these things otherwise. The master closet is where the negotiation of a marriage happens. It matters more when you’re actually sharing a life.”

Chinaza folds her hands on the desk. Still and composed.

Clients like this always find their way there, past the property, into her life, as if it’s part of the package.

When she speaks, her voice doesn’t shift.

“I design and sell properties for a living, Mrs. Derele,” Chinaza says, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous silk. “I notice everything. I don’t need to share a closet to understand the price of space.”

Silence stretches, thin and taut as a wire.

Mr. Derele clears his throat, the sound loud in the quiet room. “I think it works. We can modify the cabinetry. It’s a non-issue.”

Mrs. Derele’s eyes don’t leave Chinaza’s, but she nods. “Of course. If my husband is satisfied, then so am I.”

“I’ll forward the documents to your legal team,” Chinaza says, already moving her cursor. “Direct any further technicalities to my assistant. I only step back in for the signature.”

“It’s been a pleasure,” Mr. Derele says.

“Likewise.”

Chinaza ends the call. The screen turns into a black mirror.

For a moment, the office is quiet again.

Chinaza leans back in her chair, eyes still on the blank monitor.

It’s her birthday.

And somehow, everyone has decided that’s an invitation.

Not for celebration. For relationship status inspection.

Share

Dahlia sets her cutlery down with a soft, deliberate clink. Her gaze lifts, sharp and steady across the table.

“What do you mean you’re not interested in marriage?”

The question lands heavy, like it’s been waiting all evening.

Chinaza shifts in her seat, fingers brushing the edge of her napkin. She tries a smile, but it doesn’t quite hold.

"Mom... I’m building a firm. My focus is on the portfolio right now."

A pause.

Dahlia leans back slightly, studying her. “You’ve been focusing on your portfolio for nine years, Chinaza. Since you left university.” Her tone is calm, but it presses. "At what point do you decide to build a life that can’t be liquidated?"

Chinaza exhales through her nose, gaze dropping briefly to her plate.

"I have a life. It just happens to have an ROI."

Eamon clears his throat, folding his hands on the table like he’s stepping into a meeting.

“Your mother has a point.” He glances between them. “In fact, I spoke to Calloway last week. His son is back in Lagos. I think it would be good for you two to meet.”

Chinaza’s head snaps up. “You mean Noble?”

There’s already resistance in her voice.

Eamon nods, satisfied. “Yes. Noble Calloway.”

Of course.

A tight feeling coils low in her stomach.

She’s met Noble. Not properly, just enough to know.

Enough to stay away.

“Dad…” She lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “No.”

Eamon’s brows lift. “No?”

“I don’t want anything to do with Noble.” Her tone firms. “You know what he’s like.”

A flicker of impatience crosses his face. "Everyone has flaws, Chinaza. You, for instance, are currently being impossible."

"This isn’t about flaws. It's about character." She leans in, her voice dropping. "He treats the world like it’s his personal waiting room. He’s rude, he’s volatile, and he speaks to people as if they’re inconveniencing him by existing."

She shakes her head. “He’s not my kind of person.”

Dahlia arches a brow, folding her arms. “And what exactly is your kind of person?”

Chinaza lets out a dry laugh. “Not someone who barks at waiters and argues with drivers like it’s a hobby.”

Eamon waves a hand. “Those are small things.”

“They’re not small,” she says quietly. “They show who he is.”

Dahlia tilts her head, unimpressed. “And you don’t have your own… habits?”

Chinaza blinks. “I do, but I don’t go around picking fights with strangers.”

Dahlia shrugs, a hint of amusement slipping through. "Sounds like balance to me. You’re both too stubborn for your own good. You’ll either challenge each other or be the only two people left on earth who can tolerate the other’s ego."

"Or we’ll burn the city down," Chinaza mutters.

Dahlia smiles, unfazed. “Then at least there would be some heat in your life. If you’re so sure he’s not right for you, then find someone who is.”

Chinaza leans back, crossing her arms. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. In my own time.”

“Oh?” Dahlia’s lips curve. “And how is that going for you so far?”

There it is.

Chinaza’s jaw tightens.

Dahlia reaches for her glass, voice light but pointed. “Maybe you can order the perfect man on Amazon. One who won’t boss you around.”

Chinaza frowns. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” Dahlia says, setting her glass down, “you seem to want a man who will never lead, never challenge you, never disagree with you.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what it sounds like.”

Chinaza looks from her mother to her father, something sinking deeper in her chest.

This again.

Always this.

If it’s not her business, it’s her glasses.
If it’s not her glasses, it’s her attitude.
If it’s not her attitude…

It’s her being single.

“Chinaza,” Dahlia says, softer now, but no less firm. “You’re our only child.”

That tone.

“Why are you wasting your life?”

Chinaza’s head lifts slowly.

Wasting.

“We want to celebrate you,” Dahlia continues. “Not just your awards or properties. A wedding. A family. Children.”

Chinaza lets out a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“Is that what this is about?”

Dahlia doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to.

“Look at your friends,” she adds. “They’ve all moved forward. You’re the only one still… ”

“Still what?” Chinaza cuts in.

Dahlia’s pause says everything.

Chinaza nods slowly, her chest tightening.

“Still alone, right?”

“No one said that—” Eamon starts.

"But that’s the subtext, isn't it?" she says, her voice rising despite herself. “Every time.”

She pushes her chair back slightly, the legs scraping against the floor.

"I have more success by thirty than most of those women will have in a lifetime, but because I don't have a man's name attached to mine, I’m 'stagnant'?"

“That’s not the point,” Dahlia says.

“Then what is the point?” Chinaza shoots back.

Silence. It snaps something.

Chinaza lets out a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around her bag.

“Today is my birthday.”

The words land more quietly this time.

Neither of them speaks.

She laughs again, softer, more tired.

“Has anyone actually said ‘happy birthday’ to me? Properly?”

She laughs, a small, broken sound. "Without a 'but' or a 'when'? All I’ve heard today is a list of my deficiencies. From my staff, my clients, my friends... and now here."

No one moves.

“I just wanted one peaceful dinner.”

“Fine.” She nods, once. “If my happiness is a commodity you need to trade, I’ll find someone. I’ll go on the dates. I’ll settle down."

Her voice cracks, and she hates herself for it. "I’ll find a man to play the part, so you can finally stop treating my success like a consolation prize."

Dahlia opens her mouth, but for once, the perfect retort isn't there.

"Coming here was a mistake," Chinaza says, her voice regaining its lethal, icy edge.

She doesn’t wait for a response.

Doesn’t trust herself to.

She turns and walks out, her steps quick, until the door closes behind her.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

“Another bracelet for the ice queen?”

Austin drags a comb through his hair, eyes fixed on his reflection in the full-length mirror. He adjusts his collar, then glances at the couch.

Shalem doesn’t look up. His laptop rests open on his thighs, fingers moving, steady, focused.

“You’re spending a lot of money on a woman who thinks you’re part of the office furniture, Shalem.”

“It’s a birthday gift, Austin. Don't make it a tragedy.”

The keys keep tapping.

“She deserves it.”

Austin pauses mid-stroke, comb hovering. He turns slowly.

“Deserves it?” A short laugh. “Shalem, she’s treated you like an assistant for four years.”

No response.

“You should be in sales by now. Or heading a team. Not…” he gestures vaguely, “…running errands.”

Shalem scrolls, calm, unfazed. “She pays the salary that pays this rent. I’d say the return on investment is just fine.”

Austin exhales through his nose and turns fully, leaning against the dresser.

“I expect you to stop acting like… ” he hesitates, searching, “… like this is normal.”

Silence stretches. The only sound is the soft clicking of keys.

Austin’s voice lowers. “You know I’ve been watching this, right?”

That gets nothing from Shalem.

“For two years,” Austin continues, “you’ve been buying her things. Watches, shoes, notebooks, a phone stand, pens, and now bracelets.” He shakes his head. “Every kobo you don’t spend on bills goes back to her. It would almost be poetic if she actually knew your last name.”

Shalem’s fingers pause just for a second, then continue.

“She knows my name,” Shalem says, his voice dropping low. “She just doesn't use it for things that don't matter.”

“And you think you matter to her?” Austin pushes off the dresser, stepping into Shalem’s space. “Shalem, be real. A woman like Chinaza Ifeanyi doesn’t look down. She only looks at the horizon.”

That earns a quiet huff of amusement.

“I don't need her to look down,” Shalem says

“So why are you spending like you do?”

Shalem closes one tab. Opens another.

“I’m not complaining, Austin.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is to me.”

Austin studies him, jaw tightening.

“And does she even appreciate it?” he asks.

This time, Shalem looks up.

“Aren’t you going out?”

Austin scoffs under his breath. “Of course. Deflecting, huh?”

He grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Shalem, listen to yourself. This company has taken your ideas, your time, your energy, everything. And what do you have to show for it?”

“You even turned down Eden Oasis offer.” Austin points at him. “A senior realtor role. Commission that would have bought you your own SUV in six months.”

A muscle in Shalem’s jaw pulses once. “The timing wasn’t right.”

“The timing is never right when you’re waiting for a miracle that doesn’t want to happen.” Austin reaches the door, his hand on the handle. He looks back, his expression softening into something pitying. “You’re wasting the best years of your life acting like a pedestal for a woman who doesn't even know she’s standing on you.”

The words land heavily.

Shalem shuts his laptop a little harder than necessary.

“That’s harsh.”

“Yeah,” Austin says, already heading for the door. “Sometimes that’s the only thing that works.”

He pulls it open, then pauses.

“Just think about it.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

The apartment goes quiet.

Shalem leans back into the couch, exhaling slowly, gaze drifting to the ceiling.

Austin’s words linger longer than he’d like.

The better roles and offers he has gotten.

He’s seen them. Opened the emails. Read through the benefits.

But every time he comes close to leaving, something pulls him back.

Her.

Not the sharp tone. Not the long hours.

Something else.

He’s seen it - brief, unguarded moments she never repeats.

A pause before she speaks.

The way her voice lowers when she’s tired.

The rare, quiet “thank you” that almost sounds like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Shalem exhales, rubbing a hand over his face.

He knows how she is.

Everyone does.

But not like he does.

Not the parts she keeps locked away.

Subscribe now

The lobby of AnchorOak Properties smells of expensive air conditioning and the faint, citrusy anxiety of its employees.

“Doris, good morning.” Liora leans over the reception desk, her smile easy, practiced.

Doris doesn’t return it fully. She glances up from the register, lips twitching.

“Another battle morning with your boss. God help your spirit, Liora.”

Liora lets out a soft laugh as she reaches for the sign-in sheet. She bends closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “That woman isn't a boss. She’s a declaration of war.”

Doris huffs, leaning in until their foreheads almost touch. “Is that why the men in this Lagos keep running? Nobody wants to marry a battlefield.”

The click of the pen against the desk sounds like a small bone snapping.

“You both are gossiping again this early morning?”

Femi’s voice cuts in as he steps through the glass doors, adjusting his cufflink. He grins as he reaches the desk, extending a hand to Doris.

“You don’t want Ms. Ifeanyi catching you here, Liora. She doesn't fire people; she un-exists them.”

“I’m already on my way up,” Liora says, straightening her blazer. She offers Femi a firm, pitying hand. “Good luck, our 'able' Head of Marketing. I hear the board meeting is at ten.”

Femi exhales a breath that tastes like black coffee and dread. “I’ll need more than luck. I’ll need an intercessor.”

He reaches for the register.

Doris nods slowly. “With the way she’s going, she will—”

She stops.

Her gaze shifts past the glass doors.

Outside, a Toyota Camry pulls in smoothly.

Doris nudges her chin toward it. “Madam’s right hand.”

Femi glances over his shoulder. “Ah. The only man who has survived her for four years.”

“I heard three other firms tried to poach him last month,” Liora adds, her voice taking on a different texture. “Headhunters are practically living in his LinkedIn DMs. He doesn't even move.”

he glass doors hiss open.

Shalem walks in. He doesn’t just enter a room; he recalibrates it. He moves with a terrifying kind of stillness—a man who knows exactly how much space he occupies and exactly how much he’s worth.

“Doris. Liora.”

His voice is low, a smooth baritone that seems to vibrate in the floorboards. He turns to Femi, offering a brief, masculine nod. “Femi. You look like you’re preparing for an execution.”

“Man of God, Shalem!” Femi grips his hand, the handshake lingering with the desperate energy of a soldier talking to a general. “Help us talk to Ms Ifeanyi today. The marketing budget is a crime scene.”

Shalem picks up the pen. He signs his name in one fluid stroke without looking at the paper.

“Good morning, Shalem,” Doris says, her voice suddenly much softer.

“Morning,” he replies.

Liora lingers. “Let’s go up together? I have those files you asked for.”

He nods once, dropping the pen back into place.

They walk toward the elevator side by side.

Femi watches them go, a grin tugging at his mouth. “When will those two finally stop pretending and just date?”

Doris snorts softly. “You should worry about getting to your department before the CEO comes.”

Femi waves her off, already moving. “Later, Doris. Hold the front.”

Shalem drops into the seat beside Liora.

She turns, her smile immediate, playful. “Hey, Shalem.”

He offers a lazy, side-eyed glance. "You good?"

"I’m always good when you’re in my line of sight." Her gaze does that slow, heavy crawl over his face—the kind of look that isn't an accident. "And you?"

“I’m fine.” He leans back slightly. “Is Ms. Ifeanyi in?”

“She’s not.” Liora shifts closer, lowering her voice. "The way you’re always tracking her coordinates... anyone would think you’re interested, or maybe you just have a thing for bossy women."

A slow, dangerous smile pulls at the corner of Shalem’s mouth. "You caught me. I’ve always been a fan of high stakes."

Liora laughs, nudging his arm. "You joke too much. Someone like you needs a 'soft life' girl. Someone sweet. Someone who knows how to say 'sorry' without a corporate memo." She gestures vaguely toward the heavy doors of the inner office. "Not... that one."

“That one?” he repeats.

"Strict. Bossy. A 'my way or the highway' type of woman. She’s high blood pressure in a pencil skirt."

Shalem exhales a quiet, dry laugh. "Funny. I think Ms. Ifeanyi is very sweet."

Liora stares at him as if he’s just admitted to a felony. “You’re not normal, Shalem.”

“Noted.”

But his smile fades as he looks ahead.

Four years.

That’s how long the secret has been sitting in his chest—a quiet, uninvited tenant that refused to be evicted. If anyone found out, they’d call it a hustle. They’d assume he was looking for a shortcut to a board seat and a Range Rover.

Of course, he wants her. But the tragedy is that he doesn't want her for the money. He wants her for the fire that everyone else is too afraid to touch.

The elevator chimes. The air in the lobby instantly re-pressurizes.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Liora chirps, her spine snapping to a vertical.

Chinaza Ifeanyi blurs past them. Her heels are a rhythmic assault on the marble—click, click, click—moving with the urgency of a woman who is already ten minutes into tomorrow.

“Morning, Liora.” She doesn’t slow down.

"Good morning, ma'am," Shalem adds, his voice steady.

She reaches her office door, her fingers fumbling—a rare, microscopic glitch in her perfection. A bag slips, a stack of files tilts, and her iPad begins a slow, treacherous slide toward the floor.

“Shalem.”

He’s already moving before his name leaves her lips.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Door.”

He steps in, his hand catching the heavy brass handle, pushing the door open just as the files threaten to cascade. She sweeps past him, dropping the load onto her desk in one controlled, frustrated motion.

She turns to face him. She doesn’t look at the files. She looks at him.

“Do you know any good dating apps?”

The world stops for exactly one heartbeat. Shalem doesn’t blink. He just stands there, recalibrating his entire reality.

“...Ma’am?”

"A dating app," she repeats, her tone crisp, as if she were asking for a tax filing. "A reliable one. For meeting someone... serious."

His gaze rests on her a second longer than the professional limit. He isn’t confused; he’s studying the way her pulse is jumping in the hollow of her throat.

“I don’t use them, ma’am.”

A flicker of something—disappointment, or perhaps just the sting of a dead end—crosses her face. "Hmm." She adjusts her glasses, her eyes scanning him with clinical detachment. "I assumed you might. You’re a man. You’re... presentable."

Presentable.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Clearly.” She waves it off, already reaching for a seat and pen. “Forget it. Schedule a meeting with the Ogedengbes. I’ll do the inspection myself.”

“Alright, ma’am.” He hesitates. The silence stretches, taut as a wire. Then, softly: “Why do you need one?”

She freezes. Slowly, she looks up at him. "No reason." Then, with a casualness that is far too brittle: "I want to find a man and settle down. I’d like to order one online if possible. Less paperwork."

A quiet breath leaves him—the ghost of a laugh he can’t quite suppress.

Her eyes sharpen. “Is something funny, Shalem?”

“A little, ma’am,” he says, stepping closer to the desk. “Love doesn’t come with a ‘one-click’ delivery. Not if you actually want something real.”

Her gaze narrows. “You think I wouldn’t be chosen?”

There it is. The challenge. The fire.

“That’s not what I said.”

A brief pause.

“You’re beautiful.”

The word sits there longer than he intends.

Her expression doesn’t change.

But something in the room does.

“I’m saying,” he continues, more careful now, “those platforms aren’t built for what you’re looking for.”

Chinaza exhales, her posture sagging just a fraction. "I don’t care if I like him," she says, her voice quiet, flat. She isn't looking at him anymore. "Anyone is fine. As long as he agrees to the terms."

“To what?”

“A marriage on paper.” She says it like a contract clause. “He minds his business. I mind mine. I wear a ring, and everyone in Lagos stops talking.” A pause. A breath. “I just want some peace.”

That one lands differently.

She seems to realize it immediately.

Her posture straightens.

The wall snaps back into place.

“Never mind.”

She picks up her pen, already dismissing the moment. “You can go.”

Shalem nods. Of course.

He steps out, closing the door softly behind him.

Then he pauses.

Just for a second.

A marriage on paper. A “dummy” husband.

His jaw tightens… barely.

Then he walks on.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

Author’s Note:

What do we think? 🤭🤭

Leave a comment

CHAPTER ONE

Meet Chinaza Ifeanyi

The air in the conference room doesn’t just chill when Chinaza enters; it thins.

Conversations die in throats. Six staff snap to attention, spines aligning with the harsh angle of their MacBooks. Chinaza doesn't offer a greeting—she doesn't believe in freely giving things people should pay for. She reaches the head of the table, the sharp clack of her iPad against the glass sounding like an order.

She sits. To her right, her executive assistant mirrors the movement. He doesn't look at the room. He doesn't have to. He is the shadow to her eclipse.

"Start," Chinaza says.

Tunde clears his throat. He’s been a Project Manager for five years, but under Chinaza’s steady gaze, he always feels like he’s defending a deposition.

“Ma’am, this is the PurpleView Heights project update. Structural work is 70% complete. Next phase is finishing and—”

Chinaza lifts a single finger. Tunde’s jaw locks mid-syllable.

“Timeline.”

Tunde shifts, his chair giving a traitorous squeak. "Six weeks to keys-in-hand."

A single nod. Her pen taps once against the table.

“And sales?”

Femi, the Marketing Head, leans into the line of fire. "We’ve moved 40% off-plan. The campaign is hitting the right demographics, but the feedback on pricing is... consistent."

"Translate 'consistent' for me, Femi."

"They say we’re pricing above the Lagos market average for that LGA."

Chinaza leans back, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose just enough for her to look over the rims. She surveys them like a bored queen counting her peasants.

“Then the market needs to catch up.”

Silence settles.

“We’re not reducing price,” she continues. “We positioned it as premium from day one. We don’t panic-adjust because buyers hesitate.”

Femi swallows. “Understood, ma’am.”

Chinaza’s focus pivots. “Exposure, Bashir?”

“Risk is negligible at this velocity,” the Finance lead says, though his fingers are white-knuckling his pen. “But if we don’t hit 60% before completion, cash flow tightens.”

“Define ‘tightens’.”

"A bottleneck for the Lekki Phase II acquisition."

She leans forward slightly.

"Then we stop selling a building and start selling a legacy. No discounts. No 'flexible payment' euphemisms. If they have to ask the price, they aren't our people."

She turns to Tunde. "Five weeks. I want the site cleared and the ribbons cut in five weeks."

Tunde blinks, a bead of sweat tracing the line of his sideburn. “Ma’am, five is... the interior fittings alone—”

“I didn’t ask for a list of your anxieties, Tunde. I asked for a result.”

The room goes vacuum-silent. Tunde’s throat hitches. “Yes, ma’am.”

Chinaza reaches for her iPad, her thumb hovering over the sleep button.

“We’re done—”

“Ma’am.”

The interruption lands softly… but it lands.

Chinaza’s hand freezes. The air in the room shifts—not a chill this time, but a sudden, localized heat. She turns her head slowly toward her assistant.

He isn't looking at his tablet. He’s looking at her. His expression is a masterpiece of professional restraint, but there is a flicker in his warm brown eyes—something that looks dangerously like a challenge.

"If we compress to five weeks without recalibrating the freight schedules," her assistant says, his voice steady, "you’ll have a finished shell with empty sockets."

Her fingers pause on the screen.

He doesn’t interrupt often.

Chinaza’s eyes narrow. The rest of the board has gone invisible; the world has shrunk to the twelve inches of wood between her and her assistant.

“I’m aware of the timeline and supply chain.”

“I know, ma’am.” her assistant doesn’t blink, "The Italian fixtures arrive in four weeks. Installation is a ten-day cycle. You can't cheat the drying time of adhesive."

Across the table, Amaka is suddenly very interested in his cuticles. Tunde is holding his breath.

"Are you suggesting I overlooked the logistics?" Chinaza’s voice is a dangerous silk.

“No, ma’am.”

A beat.

“I’m saying the timeline doesn’t align with the supply chain.”

A tiny, sharp intake of breath leaves her. It’s almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. She stares at him, searching for the crack in his composure. She finds nothing but steady, maddening competence.

She leans slightly toward him, elbows brushing the table.

"The cost of expediting the freight?" she asks, her voice dropping a pitch frequency.

“Eighteen percent premium.”

“Is it necessary?”

“If you want the Block B penthouse to look like the brochure? Yes, ma’am.”

Chinaza studies him for a long, agonizing beat. She watches the way his pulse thrums at the base of his neck.

"Fine," she says, leaning back. The tension in the room snaps like a rubber band. “Adjust the budget. And Shalem?”

"Ma'am?"

"Flag the friction before I take the stage next time. I dislike surprises."

“Noted, ma’am.”

She turns back to the room, her face a mask of ice once more.

"Update the cost implications. I want the revised projections by 3:00 p.m. Tunde, a new schedule on my desk today."

"Yes, ma'am," the room choruses in relief.

“Meeting adjourned.”

She stands, picks up her iPad, and walks out.

Her assistant follows, one step behind, exactly where he belongs—and exactly where he can watch her back.

Meet Shalem Olanrewaju

As he follows Chinaza out of the meeting room, one step behind as always, the thought comes quietly - how far he has come.

And just like that, his mind slips back.

Four years earlier…

The sound of the Bolt door shutting still lingers in his memory.

For a second, he just stood there.

AnchorOak Properties rose in front of him; tall, concrete, and quietly intimidating.

Shalem rolled his shoulders once, fingers brushing the strap of his backpack, then exhaled through his nose.

This was it.

Not another interview room.
Not another polite rejection email.

He had traveled over four hundred kilometers to get here, earned his degree in Lagos, and started building a life in a place he loved.

His family was back home, but Lagos was where he had chosen.

He started toward the entrance.

A black SUV glided to the curb, slick as an oil slick.

The door swung open, and she stepped out.

She was smaller than the car, yet she seemed to own the entire street. Every movement was a curated economy of motion—no wasted breath, no second-guessing. As she brushed past him, the scent of her hit him like a physical blow: something cold, expensive, and impossibly clean.

Shalem’s gaze trailed after her, unbidden. His chest tightened, a sharp, sudden knot of oxygen and adrenaline.

Concentrate, he told himself, forcing his jaw to set. You’re here for a paycheck, not a heart attack.

Stepping inside, he approached the receptionist with a warm smile.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said.

The receptionist, Doris, smiled back. “Good morning! How can I help you?”

“I’m the new intern for the administrative assistant position,” Shalem explained, still smiling.

“Welcome. You can head to the fourth floor. The secretary there will lead you to Ms. Ifeanyi, our CEO,” Doris replied, her expression brightening.

“Thank you,” he said, his eyes lighting up with gratitude.

Adjusting his backpack, he stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the fourth floor.

The doors opened to a spacious office with a large reception desk at the far end, where another young woman sat, typing quickly, her focus fixed on the screen.

Shalem approached her, his smile firmly in place.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Shalem said.

Liora looked up. Her fingers froze. Her eyes did a slow, involuntary lap of his face before she sat up straighter, smoothing her hair.

“I’m the intern,” he prompted, his smile steady.

“Oh. Right.” She grabbed the desk phone as if it were a life raft. “Ms. Ifeanyi? He’s here.” She hung up, her gaze lingering a beat too long on the curve of his mouth. “You can go in, Mr...?”

“Shalem is fine.”

“Shalem,” she repeated, the name sounding like a secret on her tongue. A faint flush crept up her neck. “You have a very... distracting smile.”

“Thank you,” he cut in gently, still smiling, though his fingers tapped once against his thigh before going still.

He moved past her before she could breathe again. He knocked once—firm, deliberate—and pushed the door open.

The air in the office was five degrees colder.

She sat behind a desk of dark, polished wood. The woman from the SUV. She didn’t look up immediately; she finished what she was writing, her braids gathered in a severe, efficient tail.

His pulse kicked against his ribs. Hard.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, bringing the smile back to the front lines.

She leaned back, her eyes sliding over him like a cold blade over silk. She peered over the rims of her glasses, unimpressed by the charm that had just paralyzed her receptionist.

“What exactly is ‘good’ about it?” Her voice was flat, a beautiful, bored soprano. “You’re five minutes late.”

Shalem’s smile didn’t drop, but the warmth retreated from it, leaving something sharper behind. “My apologies, ma’am.”

"Apologies are for people who can't manage their watches, Mr...?"

“Olanrewaju. Shalem Olanrewaju.”

"Shalem." She tested the name, then dismissed it with a flick of her wrist. “If you intend to survive AnchorOak, you’ll be on time. You’ll stay on your toes. And you’ll do exactly what is required of you.”

“You are here to assist. Not to be managed. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He held her gaze steadily.

She was tough… like she had everything under control. He guessed she was about twenty-five, maybe twenty-six… young, but commanding.

“Sit with Liora outside. She’ll brief you.”

Just like that, he was dismissed.

“Shalem.”

Her voice cuts through the memory.

The hallway sharpens back into place. Chinaza is already halfway down the corridor, her heels striking the floor in a steady, unhurried rhythm.

He straightens and falls in step behind her.

Four years later… and now, he walks beside her.

“Ma’am?” he says.

She doesn’t respond.

They reach her office. She walks in first. He follows, stopping just inside the door.

Chinaza sets her iPad on the desk, then turns.

"Your points were valid," she says, her tone even, professional. "However, I don't pay you to contradict me in meetings."

“It was urgent, the timeline—”

"I don't like being interrupted."

Shalem nods once.

Then, softer - almost like it belongs to a different conversation…

“Happy birthday, ma’am.”

A pause.

Chinaza’s expression shifts just slightly. She gives a small nod, already turning away.

“You can go.”

Shalem inclines his head and steps out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

The office door swings open without a knock.

“Happy birthday, girlfriend!”

Chinaza looks up just as Oluwashindara breezes in, carefully balancing a small cake in one hand and a large gift bag in the other. Keziah slips in behind her, already smiling.

Chinaza pushes back her chair, her glasses sliding slightly down her nose. “Girls—”

She doesn’t finish it. Oluwashindara is already pulling her into a hug, careful not to tilt the cake.

“Thirty looks good on you,” Oluwashindara murmurs against her shoulder.

Keziah wraps them both in a graceful flank, her embrace steady and warm. "Happy birthday, Naza."

Chinaza exhales softly, something in her chest loosening as she hugs them back tightly and briefly.

“Thank you,” she says, stepping away. She adjusts her glasses again, buying herself a second before the moment settles too deeply.

“I hope this is the year you finally get serious about relationships.”

“Dara!” Keziah says, nudging her with a warning glare.

“What? I’m the friend who tells the truth, not the one who hides it in a prayer point. She’s thirty! The clock isn't just ticking; it’s screaming.”

Chinaza huffs out a quiet laugh and moves toward the couch, lowering herself into it. “Getting married isn't on my Q3 projections, Dara. I’m busy building a skyline.”

Oluwashindara places the cake and gift bag on the coffee table in front of them, then settles down.

“Naza’s right,” Keziah chimes in, taking a seat beside her. “We shouldn’t push her into marriage.”

Oluwashindara rolls her eyes. “Come on, Keziah. You’re too diplomatic. We’re both married; you even have two kids! Why act like marriage isn’t important?”

Chinaza raises her hands in playful surrender. “Ladies, is this a birthday or a tribunal?”

She glances between them, amused. It’s always been this way: three friends with wildly different personalities, yet somehow they’ve managed to stay close for over half a decade.

Dark-skinned Keziah, Ghanaian, tall and graceful, is the ever-patient peacemaker. A true believer, she’s careful with her words, always aiming to uplift and never hurt, a quality Oluwashindara likes to call “too diplomatic.”

Then there’s Oluwashindara, petite like Chinaza, unapologetically Yoruba, and blunt. Words tumble out of her mouth without a second thought, often leaving a sting. She’s gorgeous and bold, with a daring sense of fashion that stands in contrast to Keziah’s modesty.

And then, there’s herself, Chinaza Ifeanyi. The only Igbo woman in the trio, small like Oluwashindara but softer-spoken… or at least, some of the time.

She’s somewhere between Oluwashindara’s brash honesty and Keziah’s faith-driven kindness. Chinaza believes in God but isn’t as firm in her faith as Keziah, which leaves her in a strange middle ground. Most say she’s rude and a little too authoritative, but she just calls it self-assurance.

“Chinaza, you need a man,” Oluwashindara says, leaning forward.

“How do you even handle... you know, your urges?”

“Shindara!” Keziah warns, her face flushing with mild horror.

Keziah sighs. “There’s nothing wrong with being single, you know.” Her voice softens. “Paul even said it. If you have self-control, it’s okay to remain unmarried,” she says, giving Oluwashindara a pointed look.

Oluwashindara laughs, turning to Chinaza. “Well, I don’t think Chinaza has that kind of self-control.”

“Oluwashindara!” Keziah says, more firmly this time.

Chinaza just rolls her eyes and smirks. “Excuse me, I actually do have self-control. Not everyone’s like you, Shindara.”

“Hey, I never claimed to have it! I couldn’t control myself, and that’s why I’m married,” Oluwashindara jokes, laughing at herself.

"Anyway, let’s focus," Keziah says, her voice a soothing balm. "This is Naza’s day."

“Thank you, Keziah,” Chinaza replies, her eyes twinkling.

“So, how are we celebrating today?” Oluwashindara asks, leaning forward with excitement.

Chinaza shrugs, adjusting her glasses. “Nothing too special, really. Mom and Dad called and want me over for dinner, but you know how they can be. I’m not exactly looking forward to it, but I don’t have much of a choice.”

Keziah nods in understanding. “I’d love to stay longer,” she says, standing up, “but I left my kids with the nanny, and she’s charging by the hour.”

Keziah smiles warmly. “But I’ll come over to your place this weekend, okay? Promise.”

“Thanks, Keziah.” Chinaza returns the smile.

“You’re welcome.” Keziah walks over, gives Chinaza a quick peck on the cheek, and then heads out of the office.

The door barely closes before Oluwashindara shifts closer, one leg tucked under her, eyes already sharp with interest.

“So,” she says, lowering her voice, “what’s going on with Keith?”

Chinaza glances at her. “What about him?”

“Your last boyfriend?” Oluwashindara tilts her head. “Or have you forgotten?”

Chinaza sighs. "He’s a historical figure, Dara. Why are we excavating?"

“Because he was stable,” Oluwashindara says quickly. “A good guy and fine.” She leans in. "Call him. A little birthday 'hello' might fix whatever you broke."

Chinaza’s spine stiffens. "Call him? To say what? 'I’m sorry I’m the CEO and you’re a footnote'?"

"He ended it, Naza, but—"

"Exactly. He ended it." Chinaza’s gaze is flat. "I don't chase men, Dara. I don't even chase the bus. If it’s leaving, it wasn't for me."

Oluwashindara folds her arms. “You’re not getting any younger, Chinaza.”

Chinaza looks away briefly, her fingers brushing the edge of her glasses again.

Oluwashindara folds her arms. “He said you were bossy. That you wouldn’t let him lead.”

“He didn’t want to lead,” Chinaza snaps, her voice like cold silk. “He wanted to manage. There’s a difference. I’m not a project that needs a supervisor; I’m a woman who needs a peer. If he was intimidated by my light, he should have bought better sunglasses.”

Oluwashindara studies her, then exhales, defeated but not convinced. "Fine. Is there someone else then? Someone new?"

Chinaza shakes her head. “If there is, you and Keziah will be the first to know.”

Oluwashindara leans back, unconvinced. “You want to stay single forever?”

Chinaza lets out a small laugh. “Relax.”

“What about those rich clients that come to your office?”

“Most of them are married.”

“And the single ones?”

Chinaza tilts her head. “Either taken… or not interested.”

Oluwashindara’s lips twitch. “Or intimidated. They walk in here expecting a flower and find a thorn.”

Chinaza’s gaze lifts to hers.

“Men want to be the sun, Naza. They don’t want a woman who shines just as bright.”

Chinaza’s gaze locks onto hers, firm and unapologetic. “Then they can stay in the dark. I’m not dimming myself to make a man feel luminous.”

Dara throws her hands up. “God help the man who finally catches you.”

“He won’t catch me,” Chinaza grins. “He’ll have to keep up.”

Oluwashindara lets out a resigned sigh. “Fine, suit yourself.”

After a pause, she perks up. “Should we go out for lunch? It’s your birthday, after all!”

Chinaza shakes her head. “I wish I could, but I’ve got a virtual meeting this afternoon with a client in Alaska. He’s looking to buy property here in Lagos.”

Oluwashindara stands, giving Chinaza a quick smile. “Alright. I’ll come by your place this weekend with Keziah.”

She wraps Chinaza in a warm hug before heading out, leaving Chinaza with a smile.

Another knock lands on the door. Chinaza glances up.

"Come in," she says, her voice regaining its executive flint as she slides her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

The door opens.

Shalem enters. He has a way of moving that suggests he is careful not to take up too much space, yet the room feels suddenly, impossibly smaller the moment he’s inside.

“Happy birthday once again, ma’am.”

Chinaza offers a nod, her lips curving into a ghost of a smile she usually reserves for closed-door victories.

He hesitates just slightly at the threshold, then moves in.

“I intended to come earlier,” he says, adjusting the gift bag in his hand, “but your friends were here. I thought I should wait.”

Chinaza leans back in her chair. “You didn’t have to wait.”

His eyes flick to hers, then away again. “It felt… appropriate.”

A small pause.

He raises the bag slightly. “For you, ma’am.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“I know.” He says it gently, like he’s heard it before.

Chinaza studies him for a beat, then nods toward the desk. “Drop it there.”

He crosses the room and sets it down with care, not hurried, not showy. Then he gives a small nod, almost a bow, and turns to leave.

“Shalem.”

He stops. He doesn't turn back fully, just enough for her to see the sharp, clean line of his jaw. "Yes, ma’am?"

“Thank you.”

Now he turns properly. The smile arrives then—the real one, the one that makes the air in the room feel thin. "You’re welcome, ma’am."

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut.

Chinaza exhales slowly through her nose, eyes dropping to the bag on her desk.

She walks to her desk, sits, and opens it.

Inside: a small jewelry box.

Her fingers pause for half a second before she opens it.

A delicate bracelet… its chain dotted with tiny, evenly spaced beads that catch the light in soft glints. At the center, a small teardrop pendant hangs - the kind that doesn’t shout, but still holds attention.

Her fingers hover before she touches it.

A quiet breath slips out before she can stop it.

He always does this.

The soft pashmina he left on her chair when she had that lingering cold last month. The blush-pink sneakers that appeared under her desk after that disastrous site visit in Ikoyi, when her five-inch heels had almost crippled her. He’d never asked for her size. He’d never even mentioned them. He just... noticed.

Chinaza leans back slightly in her chair, bracelet still between her fingers.

Her gaze drifts toward the closed door.

He doesn’t miss things.

At construction sites, he’s always a step ahead. A helmet already in his hand before she even thought to ask. A quiet “ma’am, careful” before she steps where she shouldn’t.

Always there. Never loud. Just… present.

Her thumb brushes the edge of the bracelet again.

It shouldn’t feel like anything.

But it does.

She shuts the box halfway.

Then fully. A soft click.

Silence settles in the room again.

And still, one thought lingers longer than she likes to admit…

How is someone like Shalem still alone?

Four years.

No gossip. No rumours of office romance. No sight of him with anyone at office parties, client dinners, anywhere.

Even Liora, with all her smiling and lingering glances, has never pulled anything more than a polite distance from him.

Chinaza exhales through her nose, almost amused at herself.

Calm. Brilliant. That easy smile that makes people soften without noticing.

Dimples that show up only when he actually means it.

And warm brown eyes, lined with regal lashes, that stay… steady. Like they’re always listening.

She closes the drawer gently, as if that settles the thought with it.

It doesn’t.

Because for the first time, she’s not wondering why Shalem is still alone.

She’s wondering…

Why does that thought bother her?

New chapter every Sunday

Share

Acknowledgement:

I got our Shalem’s face description from , thank you for the inspiration 🤍🤍.

Author’s Note:

Happy Sunday, Lovestackers 🤍🤍

Based on your votes (and whew, you people did not come to play 😭), we’re officially moving forward with Legally Shalem.

What do we think about Bossy Lady Chinaza and her executive assistant, Shalem?