Chapter Nine: The Edge of the Knife
809 Words
The air in Zeema’s flat felt thinner than usual, like the walls had moved in overnight. She sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open but untouched. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as Ifeoma’s voice filled the room through the phone speaker.
“…and I told him, if he wanted someone passive, he should date a potted plant.”
Zeema smiled weakly. “You’re wild.”
“No, babe, I’m tired. Lagos men will stretch your patience and shrink your self-worth.”
Zeema’s smile faded.
“Speaking of,” Ifeoma continued, voice shifting, “Mr Ray asked if you.”
That made Zeema sit up straighter. “What?”
“Just once. Yesterday. Said he was worried. That he’d tried you and got nothing.”
“I didn’t ask him to do that,” Zeema muttered.
“He didn’t seem upset. More… confused.”
That made two of them.
Zeema rubbed her temples. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Ife. I slept with him. And now I can’t breathe without thinking about it.”
“Because it mattered.”
“It shouldn’t have.”
“Then why do you sound like your lungs are full of concrete?”
Zeema didn’t answer.
There was a soft beep — another call coming in. She glanced at the screen. Unknown Number.
She let it ring out.
---
The week moved like molasses. Danielle was colder than usual, her silences more loaded. Zeema noticed the lingering looks in meetings, the sudden exclusion from key emails. The chill was spreading.
On Thursday morning, HR summoned her.
“Routine review,” they said.
Zeema didn’t believe them.
Her knees bounced as she sat in the glass conference room, flanked by a tight-smiled rep and a senior manager she barely knew.
“We’ve received some concerns,” one of them said.
“Concerns?” Her voice cracked.
“About boundaries with a client.”
Zeema’s blood froze. “What client?”
They didn’t say.
But she knew.
Ray.
The rest was a blur of thinly veiled warnings and polite threats. She was to maintain professionalism. Any deviation would be documented. Her record was “still clean,” but “patterned behavior” would be taken seriously.
She walked out of the room shaking.
And standing just outside, waiting like a specter summoned by her worst fears, was Danielle.
“That went well?” she asked sweetly.
Zeema stared. “You did this.”
Danielle’s smile was acid. “Oh, I simply raised a flag. HR did the rest.”
Zeema felt her heart hammering. “Why?”
“Because, darling,” Danielle leaned in, voice low and deadly, “you forgot your place. You thought attention made you indispensable. It doesn’t. It makes you visible.”
Then she turned on her heel and walked away.
---
Zeema didn’t go straight home after work.
Instead, she found herself standing outside a quiet jazz bar on the mainland, one of Ray’s recommendations from weeks ago. The music drifted out the open doors, soft and aching. Her phone was in her hand before she could talk herself out of it.
Zeema:
Are you free?
The reply came almost immediately.
Ray:
Tell me where.
---
He arrived fifteen minutes later, in jeans and a grey shirt that clung to his frame like memory. When he saw her, he didn’t smile—just walked straight to her and cupped her face gently.
“Are you okay?”
She wanted to say yes. Instead, she whispered, “No.”
He didn’t ask questions. Just led her inside, ordered them whiskey sours, and found a shadowed booth where the music could cover silence.
“I might get fired,” she said finally.
Ray’s jaw tightened. “Danielle?”
Zeema nodded. “HR said there were concerns. She’s painting me as… inappropriate. Like I’m using you.”
“She’s threatened by you.”
“She’s dangerous, Ray. I’ve seen her ruin people.”
Ray was quiet for a moment. Then: “Then let me help.”
Zeema looked at him. “You already have. That night… it was the first time in a long time I didn’t feel small.”
He took her hand. “You’re not small, Zeema. You just work for someone who needs you to be.”
They sat in silence, fingers laced, until the music changed.
And then, quietly, he said, “Come back with me.”
She didn’t answer right away. But she didn’t pull her hand away either.
---
Late that night, Zeema stood by Ray’s window, city lights glowing behind her. He came up behind her slowly, arms wrapping around her waist.
“You don’t have to run alone anymore,” he whispered.
Zeema leaned into him, heart aching from too many collisions.
Maybe she didn’t.
But she still didn’t know what it would cost.
---
- Writer
