CRUSH AND LUST

CHAPTER ONE The sun sat high and bright, giving the sky a crystal clarity that turned every rooftop in the estate gold. It was the kind of day that pulled people outdoors, but Zara wouldn’t have known. The blinds in her writing room had been shut since morning, and the only light she cared about was the glow of her laptop screen. She sat in her usual spot, fingers hammering the keyboard in a rapid, clicking rhythm she had long stopped noticing. Her pink headphones sat loosely over her ears, leaving the edges exposed, and she nodded her head slowly to the beat of a song she had replayed so many times she could hum every gap between the lyrics. A plate of cookies lay half finished beside her, crumbs scattered across the table where she’d abandoned them mid-bite, her attention locked entirely on the cursor blinking across the screen. She didn’t hear the door. She didn’t hear the second knock, or the third, or the dozen after that. What she heard, eventually, was the door being shoved open hard enough to bang against the wall. Pemisire marched in, heels striking the floor in sharp, deliberate steps, and crossed the room before Zara could even lift her head. She reached out and yanked the headphones clean off Zara’s ears. “You give more attention to your laptop than you give me,” Pemisire snapped. It wasn’t the first time Zara had been caught this deep in her own world, but the suddenness of it still made her flinch. She startled, nearly losing her balance on the high stool, her foot slipping off the rung where she’d had it propped. “You scared me,” Zara said, pulling her foot down and planting it flat on the floor. “I wouldn’t have scared you if you picked your calls, or answered your messages, or at least opened the door when I knocked.” Pemisire’s voice carried the particular edge of someone who had rehearsed this complaint on the drive over. Zara, unbothered, slid off the stool and reached for her mug. It had gone cold hours ago, but she drank from it anyway as she padded across the room in search of herflip-flops, the picture of a woman with nowhere urgent to be. “You have a spare key, Pemisire,” she said, almost lazily, as though that settled the matter. Pemisire’s foot came down hard against the floor, the sound sharp enough to make Zara pause mid-step. She turned, giving her a look that said what now, and Pemisire matched it without blinking. “I need an explanation.” “It’s not like I’m your man,” Zara said, rolling her eyes before she set the mug down on the centre table with a soft clack. “You called me when my phone was confiscated. You know exactly when to reach me and when not to, and you still decided to give me nine missed calls. For what?” Her voice rose on the last word, sharp enough that it filled the room Pemisire knew, somewhere underneath her irritation, that this was fair. She still refused to let it show. “What if it had been an emergency, Zara?” “But it wasn’t.” The reply came instantly, flat and certain. “You know what, Pemisire.” Zara’s jaw tightened. “Let’s restrict you to being only my editor. Let your company handle my publishing. I’ll go find myself a new manager too, because clearly you’ve decided you can manage without me.” Zara said it calmly, the kind of calm that was its own kind of provocation, and lowered herself onto the sofa, stretching her legs out across the centre table. “Oh, so now you’re trying to turn the table on me. Trying to make yourself the victim.” Pemisire’s voice cracked with disbelief. “Fine. Good luck finding a new manager.” Zara only smirked, unimpressed by the threat. “We both know this isn’t the first time,” she said. “You know me well enough to know I hate being disturbed when I’m writing, but ever since you became, as my friends like to call you, my all in all, you’ve taken it as permission to overstep. What you did today is exactly what tipped it over. I’m only staying calm because I keep reminding myself you’re older than me.” “I’ll gladly stop being your manager, Zara, because I am sick and tired of your spoiled brat attitude. Best of luck finding someone who’ll put up with you.” Pemisire spun toward the door, already halfway into her exit, when Zara’s voice stopped her cold. “The spare key.” Pemisire froze. The calm in Zara’s voice, the sheer indifference of it, seemed to irritate her more than the shouting ever could. She dug into her small purse with sharp, frustrated movements and dropped the key onto the table hard enough that it skidded, as if the table itself were responsible for her bad morning. “And I hope your organization still wants to keep you,” Zara added, “once they find out you’re no longer working with me.” Her tone was light, almost playful, which made it land harder. Pemisire hesitated at the door, her hand on the frame. She knew Zara was right that this entire fight had started because she had crossed a line she knew existed. But her pride wouldn’t let her turn around and say so. She stormed out instead, slamming the door behind her with enough force to rattle the picture frames on the wall. Zara exhaled, long and slow, sinking back into the cushions. She already knew how this would end. Pemisire would be back within the week, probably with a peace offering disguised as paperwork, the same way she always came back after every one of their fights. This wasn’t their first war, and it wouldn’t be their last. “You and your all in all are at it again." Tomade strolled in without knocking, her tripod raised above her head like a trophy before she lowered it and set it against the wall. “I greeted her at the gate, and she snubbed me. Like, completely ignored me.” “I fired her,” Zara said. “From what, all her work?” “No, as my manager. She’s overdoing it.” “Wawu, this should be like the tenth time.” Tomade let out a soft laugh, dropping into the chair across from her. “This is the final one. I’m not going back on my word this time. She gives me an attitude I can’t deal with anymore, and I want to prove I can manage just fine without her. Two weeks, and I’ll be used to someone new.” "But we both know you’re used to her specifically.” “That doesn’t mean I can’t do without her.” “Says the woman who’d rather hide in her writing cave for weeks at a time,” Tomade said, smirking. “Whatever.” Zara rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “But that girl has no morals at all. Her bad behaviour isn’t even from here.” Tomade shifted in her seat, settling in for gossip. “What does your fight even have to do with me that she had to snub me at the gate? How she’s managed to keep a husband, only God understands.” Zara burst out laughing. “Abi na,” they said together, and the laughter carried between them until Zara’s expression shifted, something crossing her face like she’d just remembered something she’d rather not have. Tomade caught it instantly and understood exactly where Zara’s mind had gone. hy are you really here, Tomade?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “What do you mean?” Tomade folded her tripod stick back down, feigning innocence. “Be sincere with me.” “Wow. I’m here because I love you.” “We both know you’re lying.” “That I love you?” Tomade pressed a hand to her chest, dramatic. “Drop the act, Tomade. You know me better than that. I hate you.” “I won’t even mind that because you’ve just hurt my feelings, and yet I still cared enough about my lonely best friend to pay her a visit. With my camera.” “First of all, you are not stepping into my changing room, my wardrobe, or my writing room. Take your camera somewhere else. Go visit Ayishat, or your man.”