OPERATION BUG SPRAY AND BETRAYAL
1154 Words
CHAPTER THREE
Adrian Thorne was brushing his teeth when the unmistakable scent of insecticide invaded his nostrils.
It wasn’t the discreet, citrus-infused kind preferred by people who read Architectural Digest and subscribed to linen-scented lifestyles. No. This was the chemical stench of war. Industrial. Aggressive. Nigerian.
He opened his bathroom window and gagged.
By the time he made it downstairs, the damage had been done.
Zara was in the living room, barefoot in fuzzy socks, wearing what was unmistakably his dark grey hoodie, three sizes too big on her, and a pair of indecently short tights. A pink silk bonnet hugged her head, and in her right hand, she wielded a green can of Rambo Insect Killer like a flamethrower.
“Good morning,” she said sweetly, spraying a corner of the room.
Adrian coughed. “What are you doing now?”
“Pest control,” she replied. “You have mosquitoes.”
“I most certainly do not.”
“You do. I saw one. Big one. Looked like it paid rent here.”
“There are no insects in this house. This is Kensington, not a jungle.”
She sprayed again, this time under the couch. “Kensington’s losing its standards, then.”
Adrian stared at her. The hoodie’s sleeves nearly swallowed her hands, and yet she moved like a soldier. A chaotic, tiny soldier. “That’s my hoodie.”
“I noticed,” she said, smiling.
“Take it off.”
“Report me to the fashion police.”
“I’m serious.”
“You want it back now, abi?” she asked, hands on hips, can still in hand. “You’ll wear it with Eau de Rambo.”
He nearly choked on his own irritation. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re ungrateful. I just saved your posh behind from dengue fever.”
Adrian marched toward the kitchen. “I swear, I will revoke your access to every room in this house ”
“You already did. That’s why I brought my own insecticide. And hoodie.”
He stopped. “You stole that hoodie from the laundry.”
She gasped, mock-offended. “Stole? Or liberated? Ever since I came here, you’ve worn nothing but grey shirts and trauma. Let someone else enjoy the hoodie.”
He threw his hands in the air. “It’s eight in the morning, Zara!”
“And mosquitoes don’t sleep. Wake up, Thorne.”
Later that afternoon, Adrian entered his bedroom and froze.
His closet had been... violated.
Not just cleaned. Not organized. Rearranged.
Color-coded, incorrectly.
His navy shirts had been lumped with blacks. Charcoal suits sat awkwardly next to slate grey trousers. And worst of all, a handwritten note on pink sticky paper read:
“This closet needed therapy. You’re welcome. - Z”
He exhaled slowly. “Charcoal is not black. CHARCOAL IS NOT BLACK.”
From downstairs, her voice floated up, calm and smug. “Tell that to your soul, oniranu.”
By evening, Adrian had had enough.
He wanted proof. Evidence. Answers.
So he did what any suspicious, half-MI6 man would do.
He planted a bug in the kitchen. A small camera, perfectly hidden, pointed at the space where Zara liked to stage her morning chaos.
He justified it as self-defense. Surveillance. For peace of mind.
But the next morning, he found the bug turned around, pointing at the wall.
And a new sticky note, stuck just beneath it, read:
“Smile. You’re on Candid Nonsense.”
Then came the fake phone call.
Zara stood in the kitchen, speaking in low Yoruba, pretending to be on the phone. Her tone was conspiratorial.
“ Yes, I’ve accessed the files... No, he doesn’t suspect a thing... Yes, we’ll leak it to The Viper’s blog tomorrow... I know. That’s how we’ll destroy ThorneTech.”
Adrian nearly dropped his mug upstairs.
He sprinted to the kitchen only to find her casually sipping tea and scrolling through her phone.
“Who were you talking to?” he demanded.
She blinked innocently. “Who, me?”
“I heard everything.”
She yawned. “I was ordering ogufe, goat meat.”
“You were speaking Yoruba.”
She smirked. “Multitasking.”
He stared at her, utterly unhinged. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re paranoid. Perfect match.”
Just as he was contemplating whether he could survive twelve months in this hellish sitcom, the doorbell rang.
He opened the door to find the only woman who could unnerve him more than Zara Ayotunde.
Lady Millicent Thorne. His grandmother. In full battle attire.
She wore a tailored blue coat, high heels that could pierce glass, and a fascinator so sharp it might be classified as a weapon.
“Darling,” she said, brushing past him into the house. “I’ve come to supervise.”
“Supervise what?” he asked warily.
“My experiment,” she said, as Zara peeked from the kitchen.
“Oh,” Zara said, her voice now ten times more polite. “Good afternoon, ma.”
Millicent’s face lit up. “Zara, my dear! How are you adjusting to the beast?”
Zara giggled. Giggled. “He’s not so bad. Once you get used to the brooding and the death glares.”
Adrian looked like he might implode.
“Lovely,” Millicent said. “Now, who’s making me tea?”
For the next hour, Adrian suffered in silence.
Millicent sat at the dining table, sipping tea and munching chin chin that Zara had served on his wedding china.
“This house has never felt more alive,” she declared. “And smells divine. Nigerian food?”
“Jollof rice,” Zara beamed.
“Delicious. Adrian, you should marry this one.”
Adrian choked on his water. Zara patted his back with too much enthusiasm.
“I like her,” Millicent said. “She’s grounded. Real. None of those stick-figure heiresses you used to bring around.”
Zara smiled. “Thank you, ma.”
She barely held back the irritation she holds for Adrian.
Adrian glared at them both. “She rearranged my closet.”
“Good. It needed a woman’s touch. You dress like a depressed librarian.”
Zara covered her mouth to hide a laugh. Adrian looked betrayed by his own bloodline.
That night, Adrian removed every scented candle in the guest quarters.
Replaced the fuzzy socks in the laundry with rubber slippers from Tesco.
Swapped her hoodie for a pressed robe and hung it like a peace offering, or warning, on her door.
Zara found it, chuckled softly, and didn’t say a word.
Instead, she waited until 5:59 a.m. the next morning to change his alarm ringtone to Zombie by Fela Kuti.
He woke up at full volume.
Tripped over her rubber slippers.
And screamed into a pillow.
Zara sipped her tea in the kitchen and smiled.
Operation Bug Spray and Betrayal was complete.
And the war was far from over.
- Writer
