Chapter 8: The Rooftop
1834 Words
Lagos. Midnight.
The rooftop of Kairo’s penthouse.
No staff. No cameras.
Just wind, city lights, and the contract they were pretending not to feel.
Day 22 of 90.
She told herself she came up here for air.
That was a lie.
The air in her room was fine.
Her thoughts weren’t.
He was already there.
Kairo.
Jacket gone. Shirt sleeves pushed up.
Wind messing with his hair.
He didn’t look at her.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“You’re here,” she answered.
Silence.
Lagos roared below them. Cars. Clubs. Chaos.
Up here it was quiet. Too quiet.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“Same.”
Two words. From him. That was a lot.
She kept her distance. Three feet. Contract-safe.
“Why me?” she asked suddenly.
“Out of every woman in Lagos, why sign me to this?”
“Business.”
“Bullshit.”
His head snapped toward her.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” She stepped closer. One foot.
“You don’t look at a contract like you looked at my hand on that plane.”
“You don’t give someone your time at midnight if it’s only business.”
He didn’t deny it.
That was worse.
“I don’t do this,” he said. Voice rough.
“I don’t… feel things. Not for fake.”
“Then stop calling it fake.”
The wind hit her dress.
Her skin went cold.
He saw it.
And without a word, he took off his blazer.
Walked to her.
Draped it over her shoulders.
It was warm. Smelled like him. Wood. Smoke. Power.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He didn’t move back.
From his pocket he pulled out a key.
Old. Silver. Worn at the edges.
“My mother’s,” he said.
“She told me, ‘Give this to the one you’d trust with your door.’”
He held it out.
Not to a room. To her.
Her chest tightened.
Day 22. 68 days left.
Taking it meant crossing a line the contract didn’t cover.
“My agency called today,” she said instead.
“They’re suing. 2.4 million. Breach.”
Kairo’s expression went flat. Dangerous.
“You’re not paying it.”
“I can’t pay rent, Kairo.”
“Then I will.”
“What?”
“Every cent. Gone. Today.”
His eyes locked on hers.
“You don’t owe them. You don’t owe anyone. Not while you’re with me.”
With me.
Not ‘under contract’.
With me.
Her hand lifted.
Shook.
She took the key.
Cold metal in her palm.
But his fingers were warm.
He didn’t let go right away.
68 days left.
But right now, it felt like one.
“Come inside,” he said. Voice lower now.
“Before I forget the rules.”
“What rules?”
“The ones that say I can’t kiss you.”
She froze.
He let go. Stepped back.
Ran a hand through his hair like he was furious at himself.
“Inside. Now.”
She followed.Key in her fist.
His blazer on her shoulders.
The rooftop door closed behind them.
And the lie cracked open a little more.
It wasn’t fake.
Not all of it.
Maybe not anymore.
Day 22.
68 days to goLagos. Midnight.
The rooftop of Kairo’s penthouse.
No staff. No cameras.
Just wind, city lights, and the contract they were pretending not to feel.
Day 22 of 90.
She told herself she came up here for air.
That was a lie.
The air in her room was fine.
Her thoughts weren’t.
He was already there.
Kairo.
Jacket gone. Shirt sleeves pushed up.
Wind messing with his hair.
He didn’t look at her.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“You’re here,” she answered.
Silence.
Lagos roared below them. Cars. Clubs. Chaos.
Up here it was quiet. Too quiet.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“Same.”
Two words. From him. That was a lot.
She kept her distance. Three feet. Contract-safe.
“Why me?” she asked suddenly.
“Out of every woman in Lagos, why sign me to this?”
“Business.”
“Bullshit.”
His head snapped toward her.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” She stepped closer. One foot.
“You don’t look at a contract like you looked at my hand on that plane.”
“You don’t give someone your time at midnight if it’s only business.”
He didn’t deny it.
That was worse.
“I don’t do this,” he said. Voice rough.
“I don’t… feel things. Not for fake.”
“Then stop calling it fake.”
The wind hLagos. Midnight.
The rooftop of Kairo’s penthouse.
No staff. No cameras.
Just wind, city lights, and the contract they were pretending not to feel.
Day 22 of 90.
She told herself she came up here for air.
That was a lie.
The air in her room was fine.
Her thoughts weren’t.
He was already there.
Kairo.
Jacket gone. Shirt sleeves pushed up.
Wind messing with his hair.
He didn’t look at her.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“You’re here,” she answered.
Silence.
Lagos roared below them. Cars. Clubs. Chaos.
Up here it was quiet. Too quiet.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“Same.”
Two words. From him. That was a lot.
She kept her distance. Three feet. Contract-safe.
“Why me?” she asked suddenly.
“Out of every woman in Lagos, why sign me to this?”
“Business.”
“Bullshit.”
His head snapped toward her.
“Excuse me it her dress.Lagos. Midnight.
The rooftop of Kairo’s penthouse.
No staff. No cameras.
Just wind, city lights, and the contract they were pretending not to feel.
Day 22 of 90.
She told herself she came up here for air.
That was a lie.
The air in her room was fine.
Her thoughts weren’t.
He was already there.
Kairo.
Jacket gone. Shirt sleeves pushed up.
Wind messing with his hairLagos. Midnight.
The rooftop of Kairo’s penthouse.
No staff. No cameras.
Just wind, city lights, and the contract they were pretending not to feel.
Day 22 of 90.
She told herself she came up here for air.
That was a lie.
The air in her room was fine.
Her thoughts weren’t.
He was already there.
Kairo.
Jacket gone. Shirt sleeves pushed up.
Wind messing with his hair.
He didn’t look at her.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“You’re here,” she answered.
Silence.
Lagos roared below them. Cars. Clubs. Chaos.
Up here it was quiet. Too quiet.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“Same.”
Two words. From him. That was a lot.
She kept her distance. Three feet. Contract-safe.
“Why me?” she asked suddenly.
“Out of every woman in Lagos, why sign me to this?”
“Business.”
“Bullshit.”
His head snapped toward her.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” She stepped closer. One foot.
“You don’t look at a contract like you looked at my hand on that plane.”
“You don’t give someone your time at midnight if it’s only business.”
He didn’t deny it.
That was worse.
“I don’t do this,” he said. Voice rough.
“I don’t… feel things. Not for fake.”
“Then stop calling it fake.”
The wind hit her dress.
Her skin went cold.
He saw it.
And without a word, he took off his blazer.
Walked to her.
Draped it over her shoulders.Lagos. Midnight.
The rooftop of Kairo’s penthouse.
No staff. No cameras.
Just wind, city lights, and the contract they were pretending not to feel.
Day 22 of 90.
She told herself she came up here for air.
That was a lie.
The air in her room was fine.
Her thoughts weren’t.
He was already there.
Kairo.
Jacket gone. Shirt sleeves pushed up.
Wind messing with his hair.
He didn’t look at her.
“You shouldn’t be here,
Her“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“You’re here,” she answered.
Silence.
Lagos roared below them. Cars. Clubs. Chaos.
Up here it was quiet. Too quiet.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“Same.”
Two words. From him. That was a lot.
She kept her distance. Three feet. Contract-safe.
“Why me?” she asked suddenly.
“Out of every woman in Lagos, why sign me to this?”
“Business.”
“Bullshit.”
His head snapped toward her.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” She stepped closer. One foot.
“You don’t look at a contract like you looked at my hand on that plane.”
“You don’t give someone your time at midnight if it’s only business.”
He didn’t deny it.
That was worse.
“I don’t do this,” he said. Voice rough.
“I don’t… feel things. Not for fake.”
“Then stop calling it fake.”
The wind hit her dress.
Her skin went cold.
He saw it.
And without a word, he took off his blazer.
Walked to her.
Draped it over her shoulders.
It was warm. Smelled like him. Wood. Smoke. Power.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He didn’t move back.
From his pocket he pulled out a key.
Old. Silver. Worn at the edges.
“My mother’s,” he said.
“She told me, ‘Give this to the one you’d trust with your door.’”
He held it out.
Not to a room. To her.
Her chest tightened.
Day 22. 68 days left.
Taking it meant crossing a line the contract didn’t cover.
“My agency called today,” she said instead.
“They’re suing. 2.4 million. Breach.”
Kairo’s expression went flat. Dangerous.
“You’re not paying it.”
“I can’t pay rent, Kairo.”
“Then I will.”
“What?”
“Every cent. Gone. Today.”
His eyes locked on hers.
“You don’t owe them. You don’t owe anyone. Not while you’re
With me.
Not ‘under contract’.
With me.
Her hand lifted.
Shook.
She took the key.
Cold metal in her palm.
But his fingers were warm.
He didn’t let go right away.
68 days left.
But right now, it felt like one.
“Come inside,” he said. Voice lower now.
“Before I forget the rules.”
“What rules?”
“The ones that say I can’t kiss you.”
She froze.
He let go. Stepped back.
Ran a hand through his hair like he was furious at himself.
“Inside. Now.”
She followed.
Key in her fist.
His blazer on her shoulders.
The rooftop door closed behind them.
And the lie cracked open a little more.
It wasn’t fake.
Not all of it.
Maybe not anymore.
Day 22.
68 days to go.[End Of Chapter 8]
- Writer
