CHAPTER SIX - WHAT THE F**K IS GOING ON?
898 Words
CHAPTER SIX
SHANGRI-LA HOTEL, PARIS
MIN HO
The Eiffel tower stands tall and proud in the distance. The side of my head is pounding; I can feel a migraine coming. This has got to be a joke. This bloody fool has to be joking.
“Tell me again,” I say with a cold voice and an even colder smile. The security chief swallows. My smile doesn’t move, and he knows me well enough to know that it’s a bad sign.
“The CCTV footage cuts out at 11:00 PM,” he says, his voice tight.
“And after that?” I ask. I can feel my patience wearing thin.
“Nothing. It’s like... like he... he disappeared.”
I don’t reply. I simply turn, slow and deliberate, letting the quiet stretch between us, giving him time to take his words back.
“Sir...”
“Nothing?”
“No, sir.”
I take a step forward. He instinctively takes a half-step back. Another step forward. He takes another backward. Another step forward. He takes another and freezes. His back is glued to the wall. He swallows hard. My smile remains. I lean forward, bringing my face to his, so close that he can hear me breathe. He’s trembling now. Good.
“You’re telling me that a man who is almost seven feet tall disappeared without a trace? Hmmm.”
“Sir, I swear on my mother’s grave. The footage is all we have. He retired to his suite after he left the gala and he stayed indoors. He never left. I... I don’t know how this is possible.”
I let out a short laugh. This moron has to be joking.
“ You had one f*****g job! You bloody i***t!”
“Sir... I—”
“I am going to ask you this for the last time. Where the f**k is my friend?”
“Sir, we are doing everything we can. We’ve contacted Interpol and they’re on it and...”
My phone vibrates. An unknown number. I answer immediately.
“Yes?”
For a moment, there’s only static. Then a woman’s voice—soft, calm, and unfamiliar.
“The river has chosen.”
“Who are you, and where are you keeping my friend?”
The line disconnects.
“Get Interpol on the phone and have them track this f*****g number right now!”
“Yes, sir,” he says as he scurries away.
What the f**k is going on?
KEHINDE
LAGOS
7:00am
I don’t trust people who look good in the morning. It’s not natural. Nobody should be this attractive at seven in the morning. Especially not after drowning in someone’s swimming pool. Yet here he is. Sitting at my dining table. Hair still slightly damp from the shower. Wearing one of my ex’s oversized university T-shirts that is somehow small for him. It’s so tight, I can see the outline of his pecs and they are...glorious. And for that, I am very offended. Deeply offended. Assholes should not look this good. I place a steaming plate of dodo and fried eggs in front of him. He looks down. Then back up at me. Then down again. Why does he look suspicious?
“It’s food,” I say slowly.
“You know, the thing you eat.”
“I can see that.”
“You say that like you’re worried.”
His gaze lingers on the plate.
“Should I be?”
I put a hand over my heart.
“Wow.”
“I’m asking a reasonable question.”
“No, you’re insulting my cooking.”
“I haven’t even tasted it.”
“The implication was there.”
A long pause.
Then, calmly:
“You are being dramatic.”
I gasp.
This man has been in my house for less than twelve hours and he already thinks he knows me. The audacity is breath-taking.
He picks up a fork.
“I hope you choke on your eggs.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say.” He says almost smiling.
“Eat.”
He does and everything changes. He freezes and lifts his eyes slowly.
I fold my arms. I can already feel a smirk coming on.
“Well?”
Nothing.
He takes another bite.
Then another.
Then another.
I finally smirk. The smirk grows into a smile. The smile grows into a grin. A grin of victory.
“You like it.”
Silence.
“Don’t do this.”
“You like it.”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You literally just inhaled half the plate.”
His jaw tightens. The corner of my mouth twitches. Victory feels amazing. Especially after the week I’ve had. Eventually, he puts the fork down.
“It’s good.”
I blink.
That’s it?
That’s all?
“It’s good?”
He nods.
I stare.
“That’s your review?”
“What else do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
I throw my hands up in frustration.
“Maybe some enthusiasm.”
His expression remains completely serious.
“This is enthusiasm.”
I look at him.
Then at the plate.
Then back at him.
“You know what?”
“What?”
“You’re the worst.”
He smiles. A small smile. A genuine smile. A very beautiful smile.
Cheeky bastard. I’ll spit in his food next time.
- Writer
