When Hearts Negotiate

Chapter Two

The Woman Who Had Everything to Prove

Amara Nwosu stood in the middle of her studio and watched six months of work unravel in front of her.

Literally.

The seam of the ivory dress had split from the waist to the hip.

Nobody moved.

Her production assistant, Chisom, looked close to tears.

“I checked it last night,” she said quickly. “I swear, Amara. It was fine.”

Amara walked towards the mannequin. The dress was supposed to leave the studio in less than two hours. It would lead the private presentation they had spent months preparing for—a presentation that could put her young fashion house in front of buyers she had been trying to reach for nearly a year.

“Who worked on this?”

“I did.”

The room seemed to wait for an explosion.

It didn’t come.

“Okay.”

Chisom blinked. “Okay?”

“Panicking won’t sew it back together. Bring me the spare fabric.”

“We don’t have enough.”

“How much?”

“Maybe half a metre.”

Of course.

Amara glanced at the clock, then at the dress.

“Get Ngozi.”

“She hasn’t come in yet. Her son is sick.”

Amara closed her eyes briefly.

Sometimes adulthood was simply a series of people telling you increasingly inconvenient things while you pretended you weren’t calculating your own funeral.

She opened her eyes.

“Fine. Bring the dress down.”

“Amara—”

“Chisom.”

“Yes?”

“We’re fixing it.”

Something in her tone settled the room.

Within minutes, the studio came alive again. Fabric moved. Scissors opened and closed. Someone switched off the music.

Amara removed the gold bracelet from her wrist, sat at the machine and began.

More than an hour later, the dress was intact.

She adjusted two details to disguise the repair, then stood back.

Nobody spoke.

The dress looked better than it had before the seam split.

Chisom stared at it. “You changed the whole side.”

“I had to.”

“But it’s actually…” She tilted her head. “It’s better.”

Amara smiled. “You sound surprised.”

Chisom laughed, then her face changed.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I should have reinforced it.”

“Yes. But you’ve made that mistake once now. I don’t expect you to make it twice.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. And next time something goes wrong, tell me immediately. Worrying about my reaction only gives us less time to solve it.”

Chisom nodded. “Thank you.”

“Save the thanks. You’re staying late with me tonight.”

Her mouth fell open.

Amara grinned. “Consequences, darling.”

Laughter broke through the studio, and everyone went back to work.

Later, Amara’s phone reminded her she still hadn’t eaten.

Mum.

She considered ignoring it.

Answered.

“Mummy.”

“Amara.”

That one word told her everything.

“What did I do?”

“Why do you always assume you’ve done something?”

“Experience.”

“Your father says you haven’t returned Mr Balogun’s call.”

There it was.

“I’ve been busy.”

“For four days?”

“Very busy.”

Her mother sighed. “The man is trying to help you.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you avoiding him?”

Because she knew what the help would look like.

A meeting arranged because of her father.

A buyer sitting across from her because of her surname.

A glowing introduction before she had even opened her portfolio.

And if she succeeded, she would always wonder which part of the yes had belonged to her.

“I don’t need him to arrange the meeting.”

“Everyone needs help.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you trying to prove?”

Amara looked through the glass partition into the studio. Chisom was steaming the ivory dress. Two others were packing garment bags.

On the far wall was her name.

Not her father’s company.

Not her family’s foundation.

Hers.

AMARA NWOSU.

She wasn’t naïve about her privilege. She simply didn’t want privilege doing the work her talent should be doing.

“I’m not trying to prove anything.”

Her mother laughed softly. “That is exactly what someone trying to prove something would say.”

“Mummy.”

“Just speak to him.”

“No.”

“Amara.”

“If he wants to see my work because he thinks it’s good, I’ll meet him tomorrow.”

“And if your father is the reason he knows your work exists?”

“That isn’t the problem.”

“Then what is?”

Amara’s voice softened.

“If the answer had been no without my surname, then it’s still no.”

Silence.

Her mother knew that tone. It was the same one Amara had used when she rejected an internship her father arranged and later put her savings into a fashion business one dramatic aunt predicted would “reduce the family to Instagram.”

That aunt now followed the brand.

Quietly.

“You inherited your father’s stubbornness.”

“My father says I inherited yours.”

“Your father lies when it suits him.”

Amara laughed.

“Sunday lunch,” her mother said.

“I’ll be there.”

“Not at four o’clock.”

“Details.”

“Amara.”

“I love you, Mummy.”

She ended the call before another instruction arrived.

A voice behind her said, “Coward.”

Amara turned.

Her best friend, Zina, stood in the doorway carrying two takeaway bags.

Amara’s eyes dropped to them.

“Is that food?”

“Look at you. Not hello, Zina. Not you look beautiful, Zina.”

“Hello, Zina. You look beautiful. Give me the food.”

Zina held the bags away. “Animal.”

“Hungry animal.”

Minutes later, they were sitting in Amara’s office with jollof rice and grilled chicken between them.

“So what’s the problem with Mr Balogun?” Zina asked.

“No problem.”

“Your father wants to introduce you to someone who could place your collection in two major stores.”

“Exactly.”

“And you’re refusing because…”

Amara stared at her.

Zina lifted both hands. “I know. Independence. Merit. Building your own thing.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Only a little.”

Amara leaned back.

“People assume everything was handed to you. If I fail, they’ll say I was playing businesswoman. If I succeed, they’ll say my father made a phone call.”

“And what will you say?”

“That I know what it cost me.”

“Then isn’t that enough?”

“No. I want to know that if this works, it works because I’m actually good.”

Zina’s expression softened. “You are.”

“You’re my friend. You’re contractually obligated to say that.”

“I’ve told you when your designs were ugly.”

Amara gasped. “One design.”

“The green one with the feathers?”

“That was experimental.”

“It was criminal.”

Amara threw a napkin at her.

Then her phone rang.

Unknown number.

She ignored it.

It rang again.

Zina pointed. “Maybe that’s your destiny.”

“My destiny can send an email.”

“That’s why you’re single.”

Amara picked up.

“Hello?”

“Ms Nwosu? Good afternoon. My name is Adeyemi. I’m calling from the Lagos Design and Enterprise Forum.”

Amara straightened.

The forum.

She had submitted the application almost seven weeks earlier.

No introductions.

No family calls.

No favours.

Just her work.

“Your brand has been selected for the final showcase.”

For a moment, Amara said nothing.

“We’ll send the formal confirmation this afternoon. The showcase is Thursday. You’ll have twelve minutes before the panel, followed by questions.”

Thursday.

Two days.

Her mind was already moving.

Garments.

Presentation.

Models.

Numbers.

Story.

“Thursday works.”

“Excellent. Congratulations. And Ms Nwosu?”

“Yes?”

“The panel is difficult.”

Amara smiled.

“Good.”

The call ended.

Zina was practically vibrating.

“What?”

“We got the showcase.”

Zina screamed.

Amara screamed with her.

Chisom rushed in, and within seconds the studio erupted.

In the middle of the noise, Amara laughed.

Really laughed.

Because this one mattered.

Nobody had called anybody.

Nobody had mentioned her father.

Nobody had cleared a path.

They had looked at her work.

And said yes.

The celebration lasted less than a minute before Amara clapped her hands.

“Okay! Enough. We have two days.”

Groans filled the room.

“You people thought success meant rest?”

“Yes!” someone shouted.

“Wrong company.”

More laughter.

Amara turned to the garment rack.

“Chisom, pull the final six looks. The ivory piece stays first.”

“The one that nearly killed us?”

“The very one.”

“Trauma.”

“Character development.”

This was what Amara wanted.

Building something. Watching an idea that had once existed only inside her head take up actual space in the world.

She picked up her notebook.

Thursday.

Twelve minutes.

She intended to make every second count.

Later that afternoon, across Lagos, Tara placed a file on Tobe’s desk.

“What is it?”

“Thursday.”

“I have a calendar.”

“I know. Frightening document.”

That made him look at her.

“The Lagos Design and Enterprise Forum. You agreed to sit on the investment panel.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Three months ago. Mr Adeyemi asked you personally, and you said, ‘Put it on the calendar.’”

“That isn’t agreement.”

“For normal people, it is.”

“Remove it.”

“I won’t.”

Tobe stared at her.

“The organisers have already announced the panel,” Tara added.

He returned to his laptop.

“How many presentations?”

“Six. Twelve minutes each.”

His expression suggested twelve minutes was eleven too many.

Tara opened the door.

“You might enjoy yourself.”

“No.”

“You haven’t gone yet.”

“I don’t need to.”

She laughed and disappeared.

Tobe glanced at the file.

Six businesses.

Six founders.

Six presentations.

He had sat through hundreds.

Big promises.

Optimistic numbers.

Carefully rehearsed confidence.

He opened the file reluctantly.

The first profiles meant nothing to him.

Then he stopped.

A photograph sat in the upper-right corner.

A woman.

Warm brown skin.

Composed expression.

Beautiful, certainly, but that wasn’t what held his attention.

Beneath the photograph:

AMARA NWOSU

Founder & Creative Director

His eyes moved to the surname.

Nwosu.

He knew that name.

Everyone in certain Lagos business circles knew that name.

Tobe’s expression cooled almost imperceptibly.

Old family.

Serious connections.

Access most entrepreneurs would spend years trying to build.

He closed the file.

Of course.

Another wealthy daughter with a business.

He had seen enough of them.

Tobe pushed the file aside and returned to his laptop.

Thursday suddenly seemed even less interesting.

He had already decided what kind of woman Amara Nwosu was.

The only problem was—

he hadn’t met her yet.