Night
1101 Words
Zina jolted upright in her bed, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her skin drenched in sweat. The dream had been so vivid—more like a memory than fantasy.
She had been standing in the study again.
Only this time, the portrait had turned its head to look at her.
And spoken.
"You were mine once… and you will be again."
She clutched her blanket tighter. Her heart wouldn't stop pounding. It was just a dream. A side effect of exhaustion and too much imagination.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something in that room had… awakened.
---
By the time she arrived at Cole Global that morning, Zina looked worse than she felt. Her usual tidy appearance was dulled by shadows under her eyes, and her blouse clung to her damp back from Lagos’s relentless humidity.
Marcus raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Damien, as usual, didn't glance at her when he walked in.
She worked in silence, grateful for the routine. She had almost convinced herself that yesterday had been a misunderstanding.
Until she noticed the cameras.
Three small, blinking security lenses had been installed overnight. One directly above her desk. Another above the west wing hallway. A third just outside Damien’s office door.
Had they always been there?
No.
Zina bit her lip. She knew it wasn’t about security.
It was about her.
---
By noon, she couldn’t take the tension anymore. She waited until Damien was in a call with the French investor, then slipped over to Marcus's desk.
“Marcus,” she whispered, “do you know anything about that portrait in the west wing?”
He looked up slowly.
“The one of Damien?”
She nodded.
Marcus hesitated. “You shouldn't ask questions like that.”
“I need to know.”
He leaned closer. His voice dropped. “That painting’s over a hundred years old. But it’s been restored so many times, no one’s sure when it was made. I heard... his grandfather commissioned it. But it’s Damien in the picture.”
“That’s not possible.”
“No,” Marcus agreed. “It’s not.”
Then he straightened as Damien’s voice echoed from the office.
“Zina. My office. Now.”
Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t even heard the call end.
She turned to Marcus, eyes wide.
He mouthed, be careful.
---
Damien sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, eyes unreadable.
“I’m moving a trip up,” he said. “Tomorrow. We leave for Obudu by helicopter.”
Zina blinked. “We?”
“I have a private estate there. A business associate is threatening to leak confidential information unless we meet off-record. You’re my assistant. You come.”
She opened her mouth, unsure how to respond.
“Is that a problem?”
“No, sir. I just… I wasn’t expecting to travel.”
“Neither was I,” he said sharply. Then softer, “But when things from your past rise again, you don’t wait.”
Zina nodded. “Understood.”
He stood and walked to the window. “Pack only what you need. Three days. No contact with outside press or agencies. Do you understand?”
“Press?” she echoed.
He turned, expression colder than she’d ever seen. “There are people who would kill to know who I really am.”
Her blood turned to ice.
---
That night, Zina dreamed again.
But this time, she wasn’t alone in the study.
A woman stood beside the fireplace, dressed in a velvet gown, her face hidden by a veil.
When Zina approached, the woman whispered, “He cursed us all. Don’t let him do it again.”
Then she turned.
And Zina gasped—because the woman wore her face.
---
The next morning, Zina barely spoke as she packed a weekend bag. Lara, over the phone, was full of panic and conspiracy.
“Girl, you barely started working and now you’re going on a secret trip with your billionaire boss? That’s either a dream or the start of a Netflix horror series.”
“It’s work,” Zina mumbled.
“Do you even know where Obudu is?”
“Somewhere in Cross River. He has a house there.”
“Do you have life insurance?”
Zina hung up.
---
The helicopter ride was quiet.
Damien sat beside her, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, arms folded. His phone was off. The sky was cloudy.
Zina watched the world shrink below them—buildings, trees, roads—until they reached a sea of green mountains and mist.
Obudu.
The estate was breathtaking. Colonial-style mansion, white with blue accents, nestled in fog like a secret.
As they landed, Zina spotted three staff waiting: a tall woman with braided hair, a silent man in black, and an older groundskeeper holding a lantern—despite it being daytime.
“This is my assistant,” Damien said as they entered.
The woman nodded. “She looks like her.”
Zina froze. “Like who?”
The woman smiled faintly. “No one.”
Inside, the house was filled with old portraits, creaking floors, and furniture too heavy to move. Zina’s room was beautiful, but cold. The windows refused to open. The mirror above the dresser was slightly cracked.
She felt watched.
---
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
So she wandered.
The house was quiet.
Until she reached the library and heard voices.
Damien.
And someone else.
“You know it’s happening again,” the other man said.
“I won’t let it,” Damien replied.
“She remembers. That’s why she found the painting.”
“Then I’ll stop her before she goes too far.”
Zina stepped back, heart pounding. A floorboard creaked under her heel.
Silence.
The door opened. Damien stood there.
He looked at her, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I… I was just—”
“You're not just anything,” he said darkly. “You're part of this. Whether you understand it or not.”
She backed away.
“I need to know the truth,” she whispered.
Damien stared at her. For a long, heavy moment.
Then he stepped closer.
“You want the truth?” he murmured.
She nodded.
“Then I’ll show you.”
He reached out and touched her wrist.
The second his fingers touched her skin, the world exploded into light—
—and suddenly, she wasn’t in the library anymore.
She was in the past.
Wearing a velvet gown.
And standing at an altar… marrying Damien.
---
Shall I begin?
- Writer
