Just for you

Chapter seven

Jonathan’s pov

The pub on the corner of High Street was everything a typical British local was at six in the evening. The air smelled of stale ale, sticky cider-stained carpets, and damp coats left over from the rain. Golden dim lights hung low over dark wood panelling, while a muted murmur of after-work chatter drifted from the leather booths. Tucked away in the corner, the jukebox was playing a slow, heavy R&B track—SZA’s voice oozing softly through the speakers, her rich, lingering vocals cutting straight through the hum of the pub and matching the suffocating weight in my chest.

I sat at a small round table in the darkest corner of the room, my fingers wrapped so tightly around a pint of lager that my knuckles turned pale. The condensation dripped steadily down the side of the glass, pooling on the cardboard coaster below.

Every time the heavy front door swung open, bringing in a sharp gust of cold evening air, my eyes snapped to the entrance.

When Favour finally walked in, he looked like a man heading to an execution. His tie was loosened, his jacket unbuttoned, and his eyes were dark with a mixture of dread and sheer exhaustion. Even under the stress, the guy looked disgustingly put-together. He had a neatly lined, fully trimmed beard framing his jawline, very dark, intense eyes, and thick, seamless unicorn brows that gave his face an effortlessly sharp edge. His tailored shirt fitted right into his body so perfectly, clinging to his shoulders like he’d spent his entire life training to be the hottest boy in the country.

Looking at him, a bitter, intrusive thought flashed through my mind: Was this what made Joanna fall for him in the first place? Was it this effortless, annoying charm?

He didn't even stop at the bar to order. He just spotted me, took a slow breath, and walked straight over to my table.

He slid into the booth across from me, the dark wood creaking under his weight. For a long, agonizing moment, neither of us said a word. SZA’s voice floated above us, singing about lingering regrets and toxic ties, making the silence between us feel twice as loud.

"You're late," I said, my voice low, dropping below the music.

Favour rubbed a heavy hand over his face, sighing sharply. "Traffic was a nightmare. And Maya... Maya kept asking why I wasn't coming straight home."

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the sticky table, cutting right through his excuses.

"I don't care about the traffic, Favour," I whispered, the rage from my phone call with my mother burning fresh in my mind. "I called Mum this morning. I asked her why Joanna really came back to the UK."

Favour froze. The color drained from his face so fast it was like someone had pulled a plug.

"Nathan, look—"

"She told me to ask you," I cut in, my voice shaking with a cold, sharp intensity. "She said you and Joanna are the only ones who can tell me the truth. So look me in the eye right now and tell me what the hell happened between you two in Nigeria."

I could see the thick, suffocating hesitation swimming in Favour’s dark eyes. He looked down at his glass, his jaw working as he tried to construct a lie, but the hesitation gave him away. He was trapped, and he knew it.

Before I could slam my hands on the sticky wood and force it out of him, Favour ran a shaky hand over his beard, his dark eyes completely unable to hold my gaze.

"I was drunk because of Maya, Nathan!" Favour blurted out, his hands trembling as he gestured between us. "We had this massive, stupid argument eight months ago right before I flew to Lagos. I went out to a lounge in Lagos, hurting, angry, and drank until I couldn't see straight. My head just went back to the past."

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head as if trying to erase the memory.

"I picked up the phone and dialed her number from that lounge in Lagos. I didn't even mean to call her, Nathan. The words just came spilling out—saying I missed her, talking about how things used to be. I was out of my mind! I swear to you, I didn't mean a single word of it. It was the alcohol and the fight with my wife talking."

I sat back against the leather booth, the cold reality sinking into my bones like lead as I stared at him.

"She built an entire fantasy around a drunk mistake," I whispered, a bitter, dangerous laugh threatening to escape my throat. "You had a fight with your wife, got plastered at a lounge in Lagos, called my sister, and told her you missed her. And she took that single call, fed on it for eight months, and booked a flight back here believing you were waiting for her."

Favour looked like he was about to throw up. He leaned forward, resting his forehead in his hands as SZA's voice continued to filter softly through the pub's speakers.

"Nathan, I swear to God... I was out of my mind that night. I didn't mean a single word of it. I woke up the next morning feeling sick, and I spent the last eight months burying it, trying to be the perfect husband to Maya. I had no idea Joanna was clinging to those words. I had no idea she’d pack up her life and come back for me."

"You led her on!" I roared, my voice exploding across the dim pub like a thunderclap.

I slammed my fist onto the sticky round table, making the pint glasses rattle violently. "You got drunk, had a spat with your wife, and threw a lit match straight into my sister's head! You led her on, Favour!"

The entire pub instantly froze. The low murmur of after-work chatter died dead in its tracks. The bartender paused mid-pour, glass in hand, and three old men at the counter turned around on their stools to stare. Even the soft R&B melody hummed in the background like an awkward witness to my outburst.

Favour’s dark eyes widened in sheer horror. A deep, burning flush crept up his neck, sweeping past his neatly trimmed beard as the humiliation settled in. He winced, ducking his head slightly under the sudden weight of every eye in the room.

"Nathan, please..." Favour murmured, his voice dropping into an agonizingly calm, desperate whisper. He held his hands up, palms out, pleading with me to lower my volume. "Keep your voice down. Please."

I was breathing heavily, my chest heaving, but the sudden stillness of the room forced me to bite my tongue. I sank back into the leather booth, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached.

Favour adjusted his cuffs, leaning across the table until his face was inches from mine, his dark eyes wide with urgent composure.

"Look at me," Favour whispered calmly, though the sweat glistening on his forehead gave away his terror. "We can sort this out. Okay? We can fix this before it completely destroys everything."

"Sort it out?" I hissed back under my breath. "How, Favour? She's currently at the bank with your wife, transferring deposit money for your family's shop!"

"I'll handle the lease, and we will talk to her together," Favour said firmly, his voice steadying as he tried to regain control of the situation. "We sit Joanna down—just you, me, and her. No Maya, no Melody. I will look her in the eye and tell her straight that the phone call was a drunk mistake, that I love my wife, and that there is nothing here for her. We shut this down before Maya asks another question."

I stared at him, shaking my head as a bitter, humorless laugh slipped past my lips.

"No, Favour," I said, my voice cold and absolute. "You're sorting this out on your own."

Favour’s dark eyes widened in sudden panic. "Nathan, what? No, we need to—"

"If I'm in that room," I cut him off, leaning forward so my words landed like lead, "she won't hear a single word coming out of your mouth. The moment I open my mouth, Joanna will instantly convince herself that I forced you into saying it. She'll think I bullied you, or blackmailed you, or got in your head just like she believes I did seven years ago."

Favour swallowed hard, the color draining from his face once again.

"She needs to hear it directly from you," I continued, pointing a finger at his chest. "Just you and her. No middleman. No brother to blame. You look her in the eye and tell her to her face that it was a drunk mistake, that you love Maya, and that there is zero future for whatever fantasy she's clinging to."

Favour rubbed a hand over his face, his breathing shallow as the reality of standing alone in front of Joanna set in.

"Fine," Favour murmured, his voice strained. "Fine. But you and I... we need to keep talking about how we navigate this once I do. You and I meet up after I talk to her."

I held his gaze for a long moment before giving him a single, rigid nod. "Deal. You handle your mistake, and then you and I sit down and make sure my family doesn't get dragged into the wreckage."

I reached for my glass, wrapping my fingers around the cold, sweat-slicked glass, and lifted it to my lips. Favour did the same, taking a heavy, deliberate sip of his own drink.

The roaring tension between us slowly settled into a heavy, suffocating silence. Around us, the pub’s low evening chatter gradually resumed its steady murmur, washing over our table like distant waves. Tucked away in the corner, the jukebox drifted smoothly into another slow R&B track, the rich bass pulsing softly against the dark wood panelling.

Neither of us spoke. There was nothing left to roar about, no more panic-driven excuses to hurl across the sticky table. The truth was out in the open—stark, messy, and ugly.

I stared into my pint, watching the amber liquid settle, reflecting on every word that had just hung between us. Eight months of a quiet, unseen fuse burning all the way from a drunk, careless phone call in Lagos to a girl sitting in Nigeria, building her entire reality around three empty words: I miss you.

Across from me, Favour sat back, staring blankly at the far wall. The confident, polished exterior he wore like armor felt thin, chipped by the sheer gravity of what he now had to face alone. He was a man staring directly into the barrel of his own past, knowing that in a matter of hours, he would have to look Joanna in the eye and shatter the illusion he had accidentally handed her.

We just sat there in the dim golden light, two brothers-in-law bound by a shared secret, quietly drinking as the weight of the coming storm settled over the table.

Joanna’s pov

The moment I stepped inside my room, I tossed the signed lease documents onto the dresser and let out a long, ragged exhale. The deposit transaction at the bank had gone through without a hitch, the High Street shop space was officially mine, and yet my body felt completely spent.

I unbuttoned my coat, kicked off my heels, and began undressing, letting the heavy layers of winter clothing drop to the carpet. Standing in the cool room in just my undergarments, I felt the sheer adrenaline of the morning finally begin to bleed out of me.

Before I could even reach for a comfortable oversized shirt, my phone on the nightstand vibrated violently, its high-pitched chime echoing off the walls. I leaned over, picked it up, and saw Mum’s name glowing on the screen.

"Hello, Mum," I murmured, sliding the button to answer and collapsing onto the edge of the bed.

"Joanna," Mum’s voice came through the speaker, crisp and loaded with maternal concern. "You haven't called me properly since you landed. You haven't told me how your journey went, how you settled in, or what is happening over there!"

"I'm sorry, Mum," I sighed, running a hand over my face, resting my elbow on my knee. "Everything has just happened so fast since I got off that plane. Between getting settled, dealing with Nathan, and securing the High Street shop... I haven't even had a second to breathe."

"Speaking of Nathan," Mum’s voice dropped into a deliberate, heavy tone, "he called me earlier today, Joanna. He was shouting, asking me why I let you return to the UK. He wants to know why you suddenly packed up your life and came back."

I stiffened, my fingers tightening around the phone. "And what did you tell him?"

"I told him to ask you," Mum said simply. "Or to ask Favour."

Before I could process her words, a loud beep sounded in my ear—an incoming call interrupting our line. I pulled the phone away from my face to check the screen.

Unknown Number.

A strange, prickling sensation bloomed across the back of my neck.

"Mum, hold on," I said quickly into the mic. "An unknown call is coming through. Let me hang up and take this."

"Joanna, wait—"

I didn't let her finish. I tapped the red button, ending the call with my mother, and immediately swiped green to accept the incoming line.

I brought the phone back to my ear, remaining completely silent, waiting for the caller to identify themselves.

"We need to talk," a voice rasped through the receiver.

It was just four words, but the deep, velvety tone was instantly recognizable. That dangerously familiar voice sent a wave of ice-cold chills cascading straight down my spine, making every hair on my arms stand on end.

It was Favour.