When Hearts Negotiate

Chapter Three

Twelve Minutes

By Wednesday evening, Amara had practised her presentation so many times that everyone in the studio could recite the opening line.

Apparently, that included the security guard.

She discovered this when she and Zina stepped into the reception area after checking the final garment bags.

Amara was still rehearsing.

“Fashion should do more than make a woman beautiful,” she began, glancing at the notes on her tablet.

From his position near the entrance, Mr Joseph continued without looking up.

“It should make her feel understood.”

Amara stopped.

Zina stopped.

Mr Joseph slowly looked up.

Silence.

“Mr Joseph?”

“Madam.”

“You too?”

His expression remained perfectly serious.

“Madam, I have been hearing it since afternoon.”

Zina burst out laughing.

Amara placed one hand on her waist.

“Wonderful. At this point, perhaps you should give the presentation tomorrow.”

Mr Joseph appeared to consider it.

“No, madam.”

“Thank you.”

“But I think the second version was better.”

Zina nearly folded in half.

Amara stared at him.

“I’m firing everybody.”

“Start with yourself,” Zina managed between laughs. “You’re the one who’s been repeating it all day.”

“I’m firing you first.”

“You don’t pay me.”

“Then I’ll fire you for free.”

Amara lasted three seconds before laughing too.

For the first time all day, some of the tension left her shoulders.

Through the glass doors, the main studio was a mess: garment bags everywhere, shoes beneath the worktable, fabric scraps in places they had no business being.

Everyone looked tired.

Mostly because of her.

“Okay.”

Zina immediately looked suspicious.

“Okay what?”

“Everybody goes home.”

They walked back into the studio.

Chisom looked up.

“Home?”

“Yes. That place where your bed lives.”

“But we haven’t—”

“We have.”

Amara set her tablet down.

“The clothes are ready. The presentation is ready. The lookbook is ready. If we touch anything else tonight, we’ll ruin something out of anxiety.”

Zina nodded approvingly.

“Finally.”

Amara pointed at her.

“Nobody asked you.”

“Still right.”

Chisom looked towards the ivory dress.

“What about—”

“Chisom.”

She closed her mouth.

Amara walked over to her.

“You’ve checked it three times.”

“Four.”

“Exactly.”

She touched her shoulder.

“Go home.”

Chisom hesitated.

Then nodded.

The studio gradually emptied.

“And please go home too!” Chisom called before the door closed.

Soon, only Amara and Zina remained. Zina watched from the sofa as Amara debated two pairs of gold earrings.

“They’re both gold,” Zina said.

“One is brushed gold.”

“I’m going home.”

Amara laughed and dropped both pairs into her handbag.

Tomorrow’s outfit hung on the back of the office door.

A beautifully cut cream trouser suit.

No unnecessary embellishment.

No screaming labels.

Just clean tailoring and confidence.

Zina looked at it.

“You’re wearing that?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Why do you sound surprised?”

“I was worried you’d suddenly decide you needed to look ‘creative’ and arrive dressed like the green-feather incident.”

Amara gasped.

“You need new material.”

“I will never run out of material.”

Amara zipped the garment bag over the suit.

Her movements slowed.

Zina noticed.

“Nervous?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Amara sat beside her.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Amara exhaled.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Amara turned.

“Why does everybody keep saying that?”

“Because it matters to you.”

“It matters too much.”

“No. You’re just not used to wanting something you can’t control.”

That landed.

Amara looked away.

Outside the windows, Lagos was beginning to glow.

“You know what scares me?”

“What?”

“What if I get in there tomorrow and they don’t see what I see?”

Zina waited.

Amara looked towards the studio.

“I know what this can become. I can see it so clearly.”

“Then show them.”

“And if they don’t get it?”

“Then they don’t get it.”

Amara frowned.

“Very motivational.”

“I’m serious.”

Zina turned towards her.

“You’re acting as though tomorrow’s panel gets to decide whether you’re talented.”

“They decide whether we get the opportunity.”

“Yes. That’s different.”

Amara said nothing.

“One room doesn’t get to define you,” Zina continued. “If they say yes, fantastic. If they say no, we’ll complain about them over cocktails, then you’ll come back here and keep building.”

“We?”

“Obviously. I’m emotionally invested now.”

Amara smiled.

Zina nudged her shoulder.

“And for the record, they’re going to say yes.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No. But I know you.”

Amara rested her head briefly against her friend’s shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“Enough emotion. I have a reputation.”

“Your reputation is terrible.”

“Exactly.”

Across Lagos, Tobe was still at work.

Tara stood in his doorway, handbag over one shoulder.

“I’m leaving.”

Tobe didn’t look up.

“Goodnight.”

“You should try it.”

“Try what?”

“Leaving.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“Recently?”

He looked at her.

She smiled.

“Goodnight, Tobe.”

“Tara.”

She stopped.

“Tomorrow. What time are we leaving?”

Her eyebrows rose.

“The forum?”

“Yes.”

Tara tried not to look pleased.

“Early enough to account for traffic.”

He stared at her.

“Fine.”

Her smile widened.

“I’ll alert the media.”

“Goodnight, Tara.”

She disappeared before he could change his mind.

Tobe returned to the financial report on his screen.

His attention didn’t stay there for long.

His eyes shifted towards the forum file at the far end of his desk.

He ignored it.

Then he reached for it.

Preparation.

That was all.

If he was going to spend an afternoon listening to six entrepreneurs ask for investment, he might as well know what they were asking for.

He opened the file.

Logistics. Promising numbers, weak expansion plan.

Food processing. Better.

Then fashion.

He stopped.

AMARA NWOSU.

Tobe almost turned the page.

Instead, he read.

The first time he’d looked at her profile, the surname had been enough.

Nwosu.

Privilege.

Access.

A network most founders would spend years trying to build.

Tonight, he went beyond the biography.

Revenue.

He paused.

Went back.

Read the number again.

Interesting.

He turned the page.

Customer retention.

Production costs.

Growth projections.

His expression changed slightly.

The numbers weren’t extraordinary.

That wasn’t what caught his attention.

They were honest.

No inflated forecast.

No ridiculous claim that the company would conquer Africa in eighteen months.

No conveniently disappearing expenses.

He read further.

She had funded the first stage herself.

Tobe’s mouth tightened.

For a Nwosu, self-funded could mean a birthday cheque.

He continued.

She had declined two early distribution opportunities.

One because the margin would have made local production unsustainable.

The second because the proposed volume would have required compromising quality.

Tobe leaned back.

That was either disciplined—

or stupid.

He wasn’t sure which.

He turned another page.

A short statement from the founder sat beneath the expansion plan.

Growth that destroys the thing you’re trying to grow isn’t growth.

Tobe read it twice.

That, at least, he agreed with.

His phone rang.

David.

“What?”

“You know, some people say hello.”

“Those people probably have more time.”

“Are you still at work?”

“Yes.”

“And normal people have homes.”

“I have one.”

“Do you remember where it is?”

Tobe closed the file.

“What do you want?”

“Lunch tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Dinner?”

“No.”

“Are you deliberately trying to die alone so I have to organise your funeral?”

“Yes.”

“At least you’re honest.”

David rambled about golf and a mutual friend until he finally stopped.

“You’re distracted.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m working.”

David sighed dramatically.

“Fine. Go and make more money. Some of us have personalities.”

“You should consider getting another one.”

David laughed.

“Goodnight, miserable man.”

The call ended.

Tobe looked at the closed file.

Amara Nwosu’s business was better than he’d expected.

That didn’t mean she was.

Tomorrow would tell him whether she actually understood what she’d built—or whether someone else had done the understanding for her.

He picked up his pen.

For reasons he didn’t examine, he left her file beside his laptop instead of returning it to the stack.

Amara got home later that evening.

The house was quiet.

She kicked off her shoes by the door, carried her handbag into the bedroom and hung tomorrow’s cream suit carefully on the wardrobe handle.

Then she stood in front of it.

Cream suit.

Gold jewellery.

Hair pulled away from her face.

Simple.

She wasn’t going there to be admired.

She was going there to be taken seriously.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from her father.

Your mother tells me you’re presenting tomorrow.

Amara stared at it.

Then another appeared.

I also hear you refused Balogun’s introduction. Again.

She smiled.

Here we go.

The typing indicator appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Then:

Good.

Amara blinked.

A second message followed.

If you want to build it yourself, build it yourself. But don’t confuse independence with refusing wisdom. Ask for help when you actually need it.

She sat on the edge of the bed.

Then came the final message.

I’m proud of you. Go and show them what you built.

Amara’s smile disappeared.

Not because she was upset.

Because her eyes had suddenly filled.

“Daddy,” she whispered.

She typed:

Thank you. ❤️

His reply came almost immediately.

And call your mother. She’s complaining that you hung up on her.

Amara laughed through the tears.

Of course.

She called her mother.

Then she showered.

Then she checked the presentation one last time.

And one last time after that.

Eventually, Amara closed her laptop.

Twelve minutes.

That was all she had tomorrow.

Twelve minutes to show a room full of strangers what had taken her years to build.

She looked at the cream suit hanging across the room.

Tomorrow, there would be no introduction from her father.

No family friend waiting to open a door.

No one explaining who the Nwosus were before she walked in.

Good.

For once, she wanted her work to enter the room first.

Across Lagos, Tobe finally gathered the forum files and slid them into his briefcase.

Six founders. Six presentations. One afternoon he hadn’t particularly wanted to give them.

He closed the briefcase.

Then noticed a file still lying on his desk.

He had missed one.

Tobe reached for it.

AMARA NWOSU.

He stared at the name for a second.

Then slipped the file into his briefcase.

On top of the others.

He switched off the light and walked out.

He didn’t notice what he’d done.

Tomorrow, he would.