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.
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
Acknowledgement:
I got our Shalem’s face description from The Healing Pen, 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.
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