Not our choice

ChapterTwo

Matilda's POV

Veronica's cozy apartment felt like a haven after the long shift—dim lights, the hum of the AC, and the scent of jollof rice wafting from the kitchen. We were sprawled on her worn couch, bowls of steaming rice and fried plantain in our laps, a half-eaten bag of popcorn between us for good measure. Our favorite show, that dramatic romance series with the over-the-top plot twists, played on the TV, but we were too busy chatting to pay full attention.

"Pause it, pause it!" Veronica said, waving her spoon dramatically as the heroine confessed her undying love for the fifth time. "Girl, these shows are getting predictable.

But okay, listen to this—today at work was wild. You missed the drama by like an hour."

I scooped a bite of rice, raising an eyebrow. "Spill. What happened?"

She set her bowl down, eyes lighting up like she was on stage. "So, this lady rolls in—gorgeous, all blinged out, with her sugar daddy trailing behind like a lost puppy. She's trying on wigs, right? Picks the most expensive one—$1,000 lace front, full frontal, baby hairs laid. Sugar daddy pays without blinking, swipes his card, done. They leave happy.”Veronica was mid-story, fork waving like a conductor’s baton.

I took a slow bite, listening.

“Twenty minutes later, she storms back in. Alone. No sugar daddy. Comes straight to my counter, smiling like we’re besties. ‘Sweetheart,’ she says, ‘I need a refund. Keep the wig, just give me the cash. I’ll even give you something for yourself if you make it quick.’”

I raised an eyebrow. “She tried to bribe you?”

“Exactly! I’m standing there like, ma’am, this is already processed. The system won’t let me refund cash on a card payment for custom merchandise. Policy.”

Veronica leaned forward, eyes wide, reenacting the woman’s outrage.

I could picture it—Veronica behind the counter, polite but firm, the woman escalating.

"What did she do?"

Veronica threw her hands up, mimicking the woman's outrage. "She flips! Starts yelling, ‘Do you know who my man is? He’ll have this place shut down! You small girls think you can disrespect me?’ Security had to come. She’s clutching the wig bag like it’s her last meal, screaming all the way out. Turns out, sugar daddy probably ghosted her mid-appointment. Needed quick cash.”

She laughed—full, belly-deep—but I only managed a small, tight smile. I poked at my rice.

Veronica noticed immediately. “Tilda… you’re not laughing.”

I shrugged. “It’s funny in a way. But mostly sad. Imagine depending on someone like that, then having to beg for your own money back. It’s… humiliating.”

She set her bowl down, expression softening. “Yeah. When you say it like that, it is. I was laughing at the drama, not her pain.”

I faked another small smile, trying to lighten it. “It’s okay. You tell stories like a Nollywood actress. I love it.”

She studied me for a second, then reached over and squeezed my knee. “You don’t have to fake smiles with me, you know. If it hits close to home, say so.”

“It doesn’t. Not really.” I exhaled. “Just reminds me how fast things can fall apart.”

She nodded slowly. “They can. But look at us—we’re still here. Rice in our bowls, roof over our heads, each other. That’s not falling apart. That’s holding on.”

I met her eyes, and this time the smile wasn’t forced. “You always know what to say.”

“Only because I love you, fool.” She nudged me. “Now eat before it gets cold. And unpause the show—I need to see if this man is finally going to propose or keep wasting our time.”

We laughed—quieter this time, warmer—and the heaviness lifted, little by little.

Alexander POV

My phone buzzed on the coffee table, pulling me out of the zone mid-beat. I snatched it up without checking the caller ID, irritation bubbling. "What? I'm busy."

A pause on the other end, then a familiar laugh—light, teasing. "Wow, Alex. Rude much? It's Lucy."

Shit. Lucy Sinclair, my childhood friend, the one my parents keep pushing as the "perfect match" for some business alliance. She's sweet, beautiful, but the feelings aren't there. Never have been.

She’d been out of the country for almost a year—some fancy internship in London, then traveling Europe with friends. We’d texted sporadically, but hearing her now felt… sudden.

"Sorry, Luce. Thought it was a spam call. What's up?" When did you get back?”

“Last week. Surprise.” She sounded amused. “I’m in Lagos for good now. Thought I’d drop by your place tonight. Catch up properly. We haven't caught up in forever. Be there at ten?”

"Uh, now? Kinda in the middle of something."

"Too bad. Already on my way. See you soon!" Click. She hung up.

My stomach twisted. I stared at the phone.“Shit.”

I called Jace. He picked up on the second ring.

“Yo.”

“Emergency,” I said. “Lucy’s back. She’s coming over. Right now.”

A pause. Then: “Wait—Lucy Sinclair? She’s back from Europe?”

“Yeah. And she’s on her way. I need an out, man. Parents are still pushing this. I can’t do the whole ‘catching up’ thing tonight.”

Jace exhaled. “Alright. I’m coming over. Give me fifteen. We’ll figure it out together.”

He arrived looking calm, carrying two cold bottles of chapman like always. We sat on the couch, me pacing, him thinking.

“She’s been gone for a year,” I said. “Probably think things are different now. I don’t want to hurt her, but I also don’t want… this.”

Jace nodded slowly. “You never really wanted it. Even before she left.”

I rubbed my face. “No. Never. She’s amazing. Just not for me.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, almost under his breath: “I’ve always liked her, you know.”

I froze. “What?”

Jace looked up, sheepish. “Since secondary school. Family trips, dinners, all of it. She was always laughing at your jokes, but I was the one who actually listened when she talked about books or her dreams. I never said anything because… well, you’re Alexander Peterson. I’m just Jace.”

I stared at him. “You never told me.”

“It felt pathetic. Competing with you? No thanks.”

I let out a slow breath. “This changes everything.”

He frowned. “How?”

“Because we can flip it. I’ll be the distant, flaky artist tonight. Talk about music, check my phone, act uninterested. You be you—attentive, funny, real. If she’s been gone a year, maybe she’ll see you differently. And if she does… I’m off the hook. You get the girl you’ve always wanted.”

Jace’s eyes widened. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. But we have to play it naturally. No forcing it.”

Before he could answer, the intercom buzzed. Lucy.

I hit the button. “Come up.”

She walked in minutes later—tanned from European summers, hair shorter, smile bright and familiar. “Alex! Jace? Oh—double surprise.”

I forced a grin. “Hey, Luce. Welcome back.”

She hugged me lightly, then turned to Jace with genuine warmth. “Jace! It's been a long time.”

He smiled—easy, real. “Too long. You look good.”

We sat. I started rambling about the track I was working on—technical details, mixing issues—checking my phone every few seconds. Jace asked about her trip, her favorite cities, and really listened.

My phone “rang” (timer). I stood. “Damn—label emergency. Gotta jump on this call. You two catch up. I’ll be back.”

“Alex, I just got here,” she said, voice low and edged with irritation, eyes locking on mine without blinking.

I rubbed the back of my neck, guilt hitting like a punch.

“I know,” I said quietly, stepping close. “And I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you—I promise.”

I moved closer and pulled her into a quick, firm hug—nothing lingering, just the kind of apology hug between friends.

I gave Jace a quick look—*go for it*—then slipped out to the balcony, closing the glass door behind me.

Through the glass I saw them laugh at something she said. Saw her lean in a little closer.

I exhaled, leaning on the railing.

Sometimes the best plans are the ones that slip out on their own.

Matilda's POV

The Peterson Luxe Complex never slept, but at 11:47 p.m. it came closest to quiet. The flagship boutique on the ground floor had dimmed its spotlights, the Italian marble floors reflecting only the soft glow of emergency lights. Upstairs, The Saffron Room's kitchen staff had long gone home, leaving behind the faint scent of saffron and grilled plantain. The private event spaces were dark, the members-only lounge locked. And somewhere in the upper levels, the Peterson family's private wing waited like a vault.

I pushed my cleaning cart through the service corridor, the wheels whispering against the polished concrete. My shift ran from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m.—the "ghost hours," we called them. Fewer eyes, lower pay rate, but I liked the solitude. No one micromanaging how I folded towels or wiped fingerprints off glass. Just me, my playlist on low volume, and the kind of silence that let my thoughts breathe.

Tonight, though, the roster had me assigned to the restricted upper wing. The note from the supervisor was clipped to my clipboard: "Private studio suite – light clean only. Do not touch equipment. Access code: 7842#."

I knew the rumors. Alexander Peterson—the son who refused the throne—had turned one of the old meeting rooms into his personal music playground. Soundproofed walls, mixing boards, guitars nobody else was allowed near. The family tolerated it the way rich people tolerate a child's tantrum: with gritted teeth and closed doors.

I punched in the code. The door clicked open to a dimly lit space that smelled like sandalwood incense and fresh electronics. A baby grand piano sat in one corner, sleek black. Microphones on stands. Cables coiled like sleeping snakes. In the center, a workstation with three monitors, still glowing faintly.

I started with the obvious: dusting the shelves, emptying the small bin, wiping down the glass table. I kept my eyes away from the equipment as instructed. Mostly.

But curiosity is a stubborn thing.

I paused near the mixing desk, just looking. The faders, the knobs labeled in neat white tape. It looked expensive.

Important. Like it belonged to someone who thought the world should listen when he spoke.

I didn't touch anything.

That's when the door opened behind me.