CHAPTER 2 : THE BENEATH THE GLASS
1275 Words
CHAPTER 2: THE c***k BENEATH THE GLASS
By 7:15 a.m., the beautiful city of Balii was fully awake.
From the thirty-first floor of the Savannah Hotel, Sharon watched the morning traffic thicken like blood flowing through impatient veins. Hawkers arranged their goods. Civil servants hurried toward their offices. Construction workers rushing towards half-built structures/buildings that would, one day, bear Madam Precision's signature.
She liked knowing that parts of the city rose because she willed it so. She was drunk in herself.
Her phone rang again.
“Madam Precision,” her operations manager, Castro, said cautiously as soon as she answered. “The Limbe port committee wants confirmation on the vessel acquisition timeline.”
“I already sent projections,” she replied, walking toward the washing machine around the bathroom door. “If they read what I sent, they wouldn’t be calling....”
....pause....
“They’re worried about competition,” Castro added. “Another logistics firm is showing interest.”
Her lips tightened, eyes smacked
“There is no competition,” she said with a straight face as though Castro was standing right there. “There are participants, and there are winners. My company is NOT a participant.”
She ended the call before Castro could respond.
Then pause...Calculated steps to take...
She then moved through her suite with technical elegance. Every step is calculated. Every decision is pre-decided. Control was not something she practised; it was something she embodied.
But as she stood before the mirror, applying layers of foundatlion thicker than necessary, something flickered behind her eyes.
The makeup artist she once hired had suggested lighter tones.
“Soft glam would complement your features,” the makeup artist had said gently.
Sharon had fired her the week before.
Soft was for women who needed approval.
She preferred bold.
Deep contour. Heavy lashes. Crimson lips. That would be too loud, but she didn't care.
If people stare, let them stare.
She mistook intensity for admiration.
At 9:00 a.m., she entered the headquarters of Aura Real Estate & Logistics.
The glass doors parted automatically. Staff straightened instinctively.
“Good morning, ma.”
“Morning, madam.”
She acknowledged them with a short nod, heels striking the marble floor like punctuation marks edging a soft tale.
Her office sat on the top floor of the building, of course it did. Floor-to-ceiling glass again. Height again. Distance again. Dominance at its finest.
Castro followed her inside with a tablet.
“The Dubai investors want a virtual meeting tonight,” he said. “They’re impressed with the 31% profit margin.”
“They should be,” she replied, dropping her handbag on her desk. “I don’t do average.”
He hesitated before speaking again.
“There’s… one more thing.”
She looked up.
“Mr Jojo, your ex-husband was seen in town yesterday.”
The air shifted for half a second, as if dead things had been resurrected
“So?” she said calmly.
“He was driving a taxi. Someone said he looked… happy.”
Sharon laughed lightly, almost musically.
“Happiness is cheap,” she said. “Stability is expensive.”
Castro nodded, though he wasn’t convinced.
After he left, she stood very still...
The shoe mender from Tibo.
She had elevated him. Refined him. Taught him how to dress, how to speak, and how to hold a fork properly. She had imagined unveiling him at events like a finished project.
Instead, he had filed for divorce.
Not loudly. Not angrily.
Quietly.
The humiliation had not been in the separation.
It had been the reason stated...
“I need peace.”
Peace.
As if she were a storm.
She shook off the memory and opened her laptop.
Numbers made sense. Feelings did not.
Peer pressure had driven her to Tibo, where she sighted Mr Jojo, a happy shoe mender, and she got married to him. Out of desperation, he succumbed to the marriage, hoping his life would be turned around for good.
He had to file for divorce after being marginalised, disrespected, turned into a driver, and used as a s*x toy.
His chauvinistic prowess undermined, mental health deteriorating...peace cost a fortune after just a year and a half...his final words " I need peace "
That evening, Sharon attended a private networking dinner at an upscale lounge,Delta Pop.
Her friends were already seated.
Ella. Kelly. Marina is the lone introvert.
Women who admired her success and dissected her life when she wasn’t present.
“Look who finally came down from her tower,” Ella teased as Sharon approached.
Sharon smiled confidently. “Someone has to keep this city funded.”
They laughed.
Champagne flowed. Music played softly. " Who's this guy?" Sharon asked
"Nee Wiz, he just won a Grammy for this track," Marina quickly told her the artist. The city lights glittered through wide windows.
At a nearby table, two men whispered while glancing occasionally in Sharon’s direction.
She noticed.
Of course she did.
She adjusted her posture slightly, chin lifted.
Kelly leaned closer. “You know they’re not admiring your business portfolio, right?”
Sharon smirked. “Good. It saves me time.”
But the men never approached.
They paid their bill and left.
Ella watched them go, then turned slowly back to Sharon.
“Does it bother you?” she asked.
“Does what bother me?” Sharon replied smoothly.
“That men admire you from a distance but never… step forward.”
Silence hovered at the table.
Marina sipped her drink. “Maybe they’re intimidated.”
Kelly shrugged. “Or maybe they just don’t feel connected.”
Sharon let out a soft laugh.
“I am not auditioning for validation,” she said. “If I want a man, I will choose him.”
Her tone ended the conversation.
But later that night, back in her hotel suite, the silence felt louder than the city below.
She removed her earrings. Then her lashes. Then, she wiped away the bold layers of makeup.
The woman staring back at her in the mirror looked different.
Less armoured.
Less certain.
She touched her bare face lightly.
“Why are they afraid? Does it mean I'm not beautiful?” she whispered to her reflection. She almost aligned with what people think for the first time.
The question lingered.
Her phone buzzed.
A social media notification.
Someone had tagged her in a photo from the lounge.
She opened it.
In the comment section, an anonymous user had written:
“Money can’t buy beauty.”
Her jaw tightened.
She deleted the Insta app instantly.
But the words stayed.
Money can’t buy beauty.
She walked toward the window again, staring down at the restless city.
From this height, she controlled buildings, contracts, and livelihoods.
Yet somewhere below, in crowded streets and dim beer parlours, people laughed at her.
Not her wealth.
For the first time, the thirty-first floor did not feel powerful.
It felt lonely.
She poured herself a glass of wine.
Just one, she told herself.
The red liquid shimmered under the lights.
She took a slow sip.
Then another.
The city lights blurred slightly as the glass emptied.
Sharon leaned her forehead against the cold window.
“I am necessary,” she whispered to the darkness.
But even she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince.
Far below, sirens echoed again through the streets of Balii. Police is your friend, "she whispered to herself."
And somewhere in the city, unseen by her elevated world, destiny was already moving its pieces into place. She left home for a brief hotel stay, hoping to find solace, calmness, and redefinition, but it seemed she was getting the opposite.
- Writer
