Chapter Seven: Boundaries
1105 Words
Zara Okafor-Briggs
London
6:41 p.m.
The apartment is too quiet.
Not empty.
Quiet.
The kind of silence expensive places seem to cultivate, where every sound feels deliberate.
The front door closes behind us with a soft click.
No parents.
No security.
No photographers.
No house staff waiting to tell us where to stand.
Just...
Us.
I remain near the entrance, my overnight bag still hanging from my shoulder.
The apartment stretches before me.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the evening lights of Mayfair. Dark oak floors. Cream stone walls. Bookshelves that are actually filled with books instead of decorative objects.
Someone has excellent taste.
Or excellent interior designers.
I haven't decided which.
Emeka loosens the top button of his shirt.
The movement is so ordinary that it catches me off guard.
Until now, I've only ever seen him perfectly assembled.
He places his keys in a small leather tray by the entrance.
Always the same place, I suspect.
Always the same routine.
"This way."
I hesitate.
Then follow him.
The apartment is larger than I first realized.
An open kitchen.
A dining area.
A sitting room.
A study behind glass doors.
Then a hallway.
He opens the first door.
"A guest room."
My pulse eases immediately.
Then he opens the second.
"My room."
Relief floods me before I can stop it.
Two bedrooms.
Two separate spaces.
I hadn't realized how tightly I had been holding myself together until now.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
"You were expecting one."
"I was preparing for the worst."
"I see."
Neither of us says anything else.
We don't have to.
The apartment quietly establishes its own rules.
His bedroom.
Mine.
The study stays open.
The kitchen belongs to whoever reaches it first.
The silence itself becomes an agreement.
No discussion required.
I unpack slowly.
The journal remains hidden beneath folded sweaters inside the false lining of my suitcase.
I check it twice.
Then close the case.
Only then do I leave the room.
The apartment smells different.
Warmer.
I follow the scent into the kitchen.
And stop.
Emeka is cooking.
Actually cooking.
Not directing someone else.
Not ordering takeaway.
Cooking.
He stands at the stove wearing the sleeves of his white shirt rolled neatly to his forearms.
A saucepan simmers gently.
Vegetables sit on a chopping board.
Olive oil.
Garlic.
Fresh herbs.
For several seconds I simply watch.
He notices without turning around.
"You look surprised."
"I am."
He stirs something in the pan.
"You expected me to live on restaurant food?"
"I expected..."
I search for the right words.
"...someone else."
His mouth almost curves.
Almost.
"They're not here."
"No."
I lean lightly against the doorway.
"They aren't."
Silence settles comfortably between us.
Then curiosity wins.
"What are you making?"
"Chicken."
A pause.
"With rice."
I blink.
"That's it?"
He finally looks at me.
"It works."
Somehow, that answer makes perfect sense.
Twenty minutes later we sit across from each other at the dining table.
The meal is simple.
Grilled chicken.
Rice.
Roasted vegetables.
Nothing extravagant.
Just...
Good.
Unexpectedly good.
I take another bite.
"You cook well."
"I cook efficiently."
I almost smile.
"Of course you do."
He pours water into his glass.
"We should discuss practical matters."
There he is again.
The businessman.
I nod.
"Agreed."
He folds his hands loosely on the table.
"Our calendars."
"We'll need to coordinate."
I nod again.
"Public appearances."
"Yes."
"We don't need to spend every moment together."
Thank God.
"But when we're expected to appear as a couple..."
"We appear."
Exactly.
No argument.
No misunderstanding.
I appreciate the clarity more than I should.
"What about visitors?" I ask.
"They'll be discussed first."
Reasonable.
"And work?"
"You continue yours."
I blink.
"I wasn't expecting that."
He meets my gaze steadily.
"I have no interest in ending your career."
Something inside me loosens.
Only slightly.
Enough.
Then he says quietly,
"I have one condition."
I wait.
His expression grows serious.
"Whatever happens in this apartment stays here."
The words settle between us.
Heavy.
Important.
I understand immediately.
No reporting every disagreement to our parents.
No family interference.
No weapons carried outside these walls.
I nod.
"Agreed."
His shoulders relax almost imperceptibly.
Interesting.
The silence stretches.
Then I decide to test the boundary.
Immediately.
"If we're being honest..."
He waits.
I hold his gaze.
"What do you know about Adaeze?"
Everything changes.
Not dramatically.
Subtly.
Dangerously.
He becomes perfectly still.
Not frozen.
Controlled.
As though every instinct inside him has suddenly aligned.
He doesn't look away.
Doesn't blink.
Doesn't speak.
For several long seconds.
Then...
Two words.
"Not yet."
I stare at him.
"What does that mean?"
"It means..."
His voice remains calm.
"...not yet."
Frustration rises instantly.
"That's not an answer."
"It is."
"No, it's avoidance."
He doesn't argue.
Which somehow annoys me more.
"You know something."
Silence.
"Don't you?"
Another silence.
Long enough to become an answer by itself.
Finally he stands.
Collects both plates.
Carries them to the sink.
Conversation over.
Just like that.
I remain at the table.
Watching his back.
Watching the way he moves.
Nothing hurried.
Nothing careless.
Nothing accidental.
Everything about him feels measured.
Including what he refuses to say.
Especially what he refuses to say.
I retreat to my room soon afterward.
Neither of us says goodnight.
Somehow, it doesn't feel necessary.
The apartment grows quiet again.
I shower.
Change into pajamas.
Turn off the lights.
Lie down.
Sleep refuses me.
Again.
Eventually I give up.
The bedside clock reads 2:17 a.m.
I sit up.
Retrieve my suitcase.
Unlock the hidden compartment.
And pull out Adaeze's journal.
The pages feel thinner tonight.
More fragile.
I read everything again.
Slowly.
Carefully.
This time I pay attention to details instead of emotion.
Individual words.
The pressure of her handwriting.
Small changes in ink.
Margins.
Anything.
Then I reach the final entry again.
M says we still have one chance.
I stare at the sentence.
Something bothers me.
I lean closer.
The bedside lamp catches the page at a different angle.
My breath catches.
It isn't just M.
The second letter is almost hidden beneath a crease in the paper.
Tiny.
Faint.
But unmistakable.
M.A.
Not M.
M.A.
My heart begins to pound.
I grab my phone.
Open the browser.
Search:
Adeyemi family members.
Results appear instantly.
Chief Dominic Adeyemi.
Emeka Adeyemi.
Board members.
Business articles.
Family history.
I scroll.
Then stop.
One name.
Halfway down the page.
Michael Adeyemi.
Emeka's younger brother.
My eyes remain fixed on the screen.
M.A.
The journal trembles slightly in my hands.
Because for the first time...
Adaeze's secret has a name.
And that name belongs to the family I'm now living with.
- Writer
