CHAPTER FOUR.
1395 Words
The penthouse was quiet when Banks walked in—too quiet.
He kicked off his shoes, dropped his blazer onto the arm of the couch, and headed straight for the bar.
Ice clinked as he poured himself a drink, amber liquid catching the city lights through floor-to-ceiling windows.
He sank into the couch, resting the glass on his thigh.
And then, it hit him all over again.
The kiss.
Her fingers were clutching his shirt.
The way her breath hitched before their lips met.
The taste of caution… and curiosity.
But what stayed with him most was how she walked away without a word.
No flirt. No giggle. No trace.
“Damn.”
He downed the drink in one go and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling like it had answers.
He barely noticed the sound of the elevator dinging.
“You’re drinking alone? This’s serious,” came the teasing voice of Toju, his long-time friend and business strategist.
Banks didn’t move. “I’m not in the mood.”
Toju smirked as he walked in, grabbing his own glass and pouring.
“You’re never in the mood for anything unless it has profit margins or cleavage.”
Banks shot him a look. “I met someone.”
Toju paused mid-pour. “…And she’s not here? That’s new.”
Banks ignored the jab.
“We kissed.”
Toju’s brow lifted. “Oh? And then?”
“She walked away.”
Silence.
Then Toju burst out laughing. “Wait. What?”
“She kissed me,” Banks repeated, “and then left. Didn’t say her name. Didn’t ask for my number. Nothing.”
Toju shook his head in disbelief.
“You—Banks Nsa—got ghosted by a woman who doesn’t even know she kissed a billionaire?”
“She knew,” Banks muttered. “She just didn’t care.”
Toju sipped his drink, trying to stifle his grin. “Bro, I should throw a party for her. She’s my new hero.”
Banks scowled. “I’m serious.”
“I know. That’s what makes it hilarious. You’ve had models, actresses, heiresses, all climbing over themselves for a wink from you. But the quiet one who dipped? Now you’re losing sleep?”
Banks rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tightening. “She was… different.”
Toju raised a brow. “Define ‘different.’”
Banks didn’t answer right away.
“She didn’t try to impress me. She wasn’t trying to be sexy. She didn’t even speak like she had something to prove. She just… was.”
Toju studied him for a moment, the grin fading. “So, what now? You gonna pretend to forget her or actually do something?”
Banks looked out at the glittering skyline. “I thought about asking Amara.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He hesitated. “Pride.”
“Pride,” Toju repeated, unimpressed.
“Bro, you’re rich. You get paid to swallow your pride in boardrooms every damn day. Now’s not the time to get shy.”
Banks narrowed his eyes. “I’m not shy.”
“No, you’re wounded. That girl touched something real, and you don’t know what to do with that.”
Banks said nothing. He just reached for the bottle again.
Toju leaned forward, placing his glass down.
“Let me say this clearly. If you felt something real, then be a man about it. Reach out. Don’t be the guy who lets the best thing that ever happened to him walk away because of a bruised ego.”
Banks stared into his glass.
“She’s my cousin’s boss. I could get her number.”
Toju smirked. “Then get it. And when you do—don’t talk business. Don’t talk strategy. Just talk to her.”
Banks let out a breath, slow and shaky.
Talk to her..Not chase. Not conquer. Just… talk.
“I’ll think about it,” he said finally.
Toju clapped him on the shoulder. “Nah. Don’t think. Do.”
Monday came like a slap.
The buzz of machines, the rustle of fabric, the clatter of beads spilling into trays—everything that usually soothed Kemfon’s mind only grated her nerves today.
She sat behind her desk in her studio, sketchpad open, pencil in hand—but the page remained blank.
Focus.
She whispered it to herself, clenched her jaw, and began to draw a line. But instead of a sleeve curve, she drew the angle of a jawline… his jawline.
She snapped the pencil in half.
All weekend she had buried it—the kiss, the garden, the man with the quiet smile and bold gaze.
She cleaned the house like a woman possessed, drowned herself in two seasons of a French fashion docuseries, and even cooked for Seima—twice.
But now, in the stillness of her workspace, everything came rushing back like heat to skin.
“Ma, should we go with the gold tassels for the sleeve detailing?” her manager, Olama, asked, holding up a swatch.
Kemfon blinked. “Yes. No. Wait, what?”
The workers glanced at each other.
“You said silver earlier,” Olama said gently.
“I did?” Kemfon asked, her voice light and confused.
“Yes, ma,” Shalewa added, a little too carefully.
Kemfon pressed her lips together. “Just… follow whatever Olama said.”
They nodded and left her alone again.
She hated this. This floating, this disconnect. This wasn’t who she was. She was the detail freak.
The organized tyrant who supervised every stitch and questioned every bead placement.
But today?
She felt like she was moving through fog.
And she knew why.
I kissed a man I just met. Like a teenager. Like a reckless girl with no self-respect.
Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: “Women who are too forward are never taken seriously.”
He probably thinks I’m cheap. Easy. One of those party girls who throw kisses like confetti.
But even in her guilt, she couldn’t erase the way his hands had rested on her waist—not greedy, not rough. Just firm.
Like he didn’t want to let her go.
Her cheeks flamed at the memory.
She stood abruptly and walked into the main studio where Olama and two tailors were adjusting a new piece.
“Where’s Amara?” she asked.
“She’s on the way. She called—said she’d be here by noon,” Olama replied.
Of course. The model. The cousin.
Kemfon’s stomach turned. How would she keep her face straight? Would Amara bring him? Did Amara know? She doubted it.
Still, the idea of seeing someone who shared blood with him made her throat dry.
By noon, Amara arrived in her usual whirlwind of beauty, energy, and tiny clothes.
The cameras were set up. The outfit was stunning—bold crimson, structured shoulders, gold embroidery.
It should’ve made Kemfon proud.
But she couldn’t even look Amara in the eye.
She gave brief instructions, then retreated to her office, watching from a window as Olama directed the shoot.
A few minutes later, Shalewa knocked. “Ma, Olama says we need you to approve the third look.”
“I trust your judgment,” Kemfon called out, voice dull.
There was a pause. “Are you okay, ma?”
Silence.
“Yes,” she lied. “Just a headache.”
But it wasn’t her head that hurt. It was her chest. That ache of wanting and regretting at the same time.
By 2 PM, she had had enough. She packed up and was ready to go.
“Wrap up early today. Y’all have done amazing,” she said as she took her leave.
They were surprised—she never left work for home before six o’clock.
But no one questioned her.
She met Amara at the parking lot.
“You sure you’re alright, Kem? You look like you’re lost on another planet.”
Kemfon gave her a tight smile. “Just a rough morning.”
Amara tilted her head. “You sure it’s not love?”
Kemfon’s heart stalled.
“What?” she said too quickly.
Amara laughed. “I’m kidding. You’re too uptight for love.”
Kemfon let out a breath and opened her car as Amara drove out.
Maybe I am. Why did one kiss feel like she fell off a cliff and never landed?
- Writer
