Chapter Eight: The Name Between Us
1172 Words
Zara Okafor-Briggs
London
6:12 a.m.
I give up pretending to sleep.
The city outside my bedroom window is only beginning to wake, pale grey light creeping between the buildings of Mayfair.
My phone rests on the bedside table.
Michael Adeyemi.
The name has lived in my head all night.
I reach for the phone before I can stop myself.
Search again.
The results are disappointingly familiar.
Michael Adeyemi – Executive Director, Adeyemi Holdings.
A corporate biography.
A few photographs from charity galas.
An article announcing his appointment to the board three years ago.
Nothing personal.
Nothing useful.
No interviews.
No social media.
No public speeches.
No magazine profiles.
It is almost unnatural.
Men from families like the Adeyemis usually enjoyed publicity.
Michael seemed to avoid it.
Deliberately.
I scroll further.
A business journal describes him as reserved.
Another calls him the quieter Adeyemi brother.
One article ends with a sentence that makes me pause.
"Unlike his older brother, Michael Adeyemi rarely grants interviews and prefers to remain outside public attention."
Outside public attention.
Outside photographs.
Outside questions.
Convenient.
I stare at the screen.
The journal lies hidden beneath a sweater inside my wardrobe.
M.A.
Michael Adeyemi.
The initials fit too perfectly.
Too neatly.
But what does it mean?
Was he the man Adaeze loved?
The man she ran away with?
Or something else entirely?
The questions circle endlessly.
None of them have answers.
Not yet.
The phrase makes my stomach tighten.
Not yet.
Emeka hadn't denied knowing something.
He had only denied telling me.
There is a difference.
A dangerous one.
By the time I leave my room, the apartment smells faintly of coffee.
Of course.
The kitchen lights are already on.
Emeka stands at the counter, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, reading something on his tablet while a kettle boils.
He glances up briefly.
"Morning."
"Morning."
The greeting sounds surprisingly normal.
I dislike how comforting that is.
He slides a mug toward me.
"Coffee."
"You remembered."
"You looked disappointed yesterday when there wasn't any."
I blink.
"I did?"
"You frowned."
"I don't frown."
One eyebrow lifts.
"You do."
I can't argue with someone who noticed before I did.
I take the mug.
The coffee is exactly how I drink it.
Strong.
No sugar.
A little milk.
"You guessed?"
"I observed."
Naturally.
I shake my head.
"You're unsettling."
"I've been told."
Breakfast is simple.
Toast.
Eggs.
Fruit.
No conversation at first.
Only the quiet sounds of cutlery against plates.
Somehow, the silence feels less like a battlefield now.
Not comfortable.
Just...
Less sharp.
I reach for the butter.
At the exact same moment, so does he.
Our hands stop less than an inch apart.
Neither of us moves.
For one strange heartbeat, the apartment becomes impossibly still.
Then I pull my hand back.
"You first."
"So polite."
"So are you."
He picks up the butter and places it beside my plate instead.
A tiny gesture.
Meaningless.
I refuse to let it become anything else.
Neither of us mentions it.
We continue eating.
As though nothing happened.
By eight-thirty, I'm standing outside my architecture firm for the first time in weeks.
The familiar glass building feels oddly reassuring.
My life.
My work.
Something untouched by family politics.
Or so I hope.
The receptionist smiles the moment she sees me.
"Zara!"
"It's good to be back."
"You disappeared."
"I know."
The lift carries me to the seventh floor.
The office looks exactly the same.
Architectural models.
Blueprints.
People arguing over measurements.
It feels...
Normal.
My manager, Daniel Foster, looks genuinely surprised.
"I wasn't expecting you until next week."
"Plans changed."
"I've noticed."
His smile carries the unmistakable expression of someone trying not to ask personal questions.
It lasts exactly twenty seconds.
Then—
"I saw the announcement."
Of course he did.
News travels faster than honesty.
"I didn't know you were engaged."
Neither did I.
Not until someone informed me.
Instead, I smile politely.
"It happened rather quickly."
"I'll say."
He laughs.
"I nearly dropped my coffee."
"So did I."
That, at least, is true.
He studies me for a moment.
"You happy?"
The question lands softly.
Dangerously softly.
I answer with the same practiced smile I've worn for days.
"It's been... an adjustment."
Also true.
Truth has become remarkably useful lately.
It allows people to hear what they want.
Later that afternoon, one of my colleagues corners me near the model workshop.
"Is he really that billionaire everyone's talking about?"
I suppress a sigh.
"He runs his family's company."
"So... yes."
"I suppose."
"What's he like?"
I think about that.
Cold.
Controlled.
Observant.
Unexpectedly capable of making decent coffee.
Instead I answer,
"You'd have to ask someone who knows him."
"Aren't you marrying him?"
The irony almost makes me laugh.
"I'm still finding that out."
She grins.
"Well, he's ridiculously handsome."
I raise an eyebrow.
"I hadn't noticed."
She laughs.
I don't.
By the time I return to Mayfair, evening has settled over London.
The apartment is quiet.
Until I hear voices from the study.
Emeka is finishing a phone call.
"...Thursday works."
A pause.
"Good."
Another.
"I'll let her know."
He ends the call as I step inside.
"You're home."
"So are you."
He nods toward the dining area.
"I ordered dinner."
An improvement.
Neither of us feels like cooking tonight.
While we eat, he opens his calendar.
"We have a family dinner."
I sigh.
"When?"
"Two days."
"In London?"
He shakes his head.
"Video call."
I pause.
"Our parents?"
"Both families."
Wonderful.
He continues reading.
"My father."
"My mother."
"A few board members."
He says the next sentence almost casually.
"My brother Michael will be joining from Lagos."
Everything inside me stops.
Only for a second.
But a second is enough.
The fork becomes strangely heavy in my hand.
My pulse stumbles.
Michael.
I recover immediately.
Or I think I do.
"Oh."
One syllable.
Neutral.
Careful.
Emeka looks up.
His gaze rests on me.
One second.
Two.
Slightly longer than necessary.
Then he returns to his meal.
"As I said..."
His voice remains even.
"...Thursday."
I nod.
"Fine."
But my appetite is gone.
The rest of dinner passes quietly.
Yet I can feel it.
His awareness.
Not intrusive.
Just...
Present.
Like he's waiting.
Watching.
Not for answers.
For timing.
That night, I lie awake again.
Rain taps softly against the bedroom window.
London sounds different from Lagos.
Gentler.
Lonelier.
I stare into the darkness.
The journal.
The initials.
Michael.
Emeka.
Then the words return.
Not yet.
My chest tightens.
Because suddenly...
I understand what terrifies me most.
If Michael Adeyemi is the man Adaeze wrote about...
Then Emeka already knew exactly why I asked about my sister.
He already knew what I was beginning to uncover.
He didn't stop me.
He didn't help me.
He simply...
Watched.
Patiently.
As I found the truth one piece at a time.
And the most frightening part of all—
I have no idea whether he's waiting for me to reach the answer...
Or walking me toward the one he wants me to find.
- Writer
