Chapter Two: The Man in Black
1247 Words
Carson woke to the sound of his phone vibrating across the wooden floor. The buzz echoed through the dimness of the studio, rhythmic and low like a pulse.
He didn’t move.
The weight of sleep clung to him like a shroud, but it wasn’t exhaustion that kept him frozen — it was hesitation. Dread, maybe. The familiar tension of waking from a dream that wasn’t quite a nightmare but still left his skin cold.
The phone buzzed again. Then silence.
He finally reached for it.
1 new message
C.A.
> You didn’t sleep at home. Interesting.
His fingers tightened around the phone. There was no number. Just initials. Just him.
Carson deleted the message without replying, shoved the phone into the drawer under his workbench, and headed to the back to wash his face.
The water was cold. Sharp. Cleansing. But the image that stared back at him in the mirror wasn’t a man fully awake — it was someone unraveling.
He told himself he was imagining it.
He told himself Caleb was just another spoiled client with too much access.
He told himself he wasn’t interested.
He told himself a lot of things.
---
By noon, the fashion house hummed with movement.
Carson stayed in the studio upstairs while his assistant handled walk-ins. The showroom sparkled — rows of glass, gold-trimmed display cases, and mannequins posed with elegance and control. His clients were the elite of Abuja — ministers’ wives, music producers, actors, ambassadors. They came for quality, privacy, and the quiet genius behind the brand name House of Adura.
No one asked for Carson. They never did. And that was how he liked it.
Until the intercom buzzed.
“Sir?” his assistant’s voice crackled through. “Your… client is here.”
Carson didn’t respond.
“Sir?” she repeated.
He pressed the button. “Which one?”
A pause. “The doctor. He’s early again.”
Carson closed his eyes.
“Send him up,” he said before he could stop himself.
---
The elevator doors slid open and there he was.
Dr. Caleb Ayoola.
Black shirt, unbuttoned collar. No tie. A charcoal blazer this time. Shoes that didn’t make a sound when he walked.
“Still don’t believe in appointments?” Carson asked, arms folded.
“I believe in initiative,” Caleb said. “Besides, you didn’t tell me not to come.”
Carson stepped aside wordlessly and motioned toward the private fitting area.
Caleb walked in, slow and unhurried, examining everything as if mapping it — sketches, fabric rolls, pins arranged in a velvet-lined tray. He ran his fingers along the edge of a suit draped across a form.
“This piece,” he said. “Is it yours?”
“All of them are mine,” Carson said flatly.
“Then I’ve been following your work longer than I thought.”
That stopped him. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen this style before. A few years ago. On a senator’s son during an event in Lagos. He wouldn’t give the designer’s name. Said it was a secret. I remember the cut. The structure.”
Carson said nothing.
“Even then,” Caleb murmured, “you were hiding behind other people’s bodies.”
The words were too sharp. Too accurate. They slid under Carson’s skin like a buried needle.
He turned away. “What do you want, Dr. Ayoola?”
Caleb didn’t answer right away. When Carson looked back, he was holding a folded swatch of deep maroon silk. The kind Carson only used for bespoke pieces — the kind no one touched without permission.
“Is this available?” Caleb asked, voice low.
Carson crossed the room in three quick strides and took it from him. “Don’t touch anything unless I hand it to you.”
Caleb smiled. Not smug. Not cruel. Just… curious.
“Do you always react this strongly to silk?”
Carson’s jaw tensed.
“I react to being watched.”
“I’m not watching,” Caleb said calmly. “I’m studying.”
“Why?”
Caleb leaned back against the table, arms crossed. “Because you’re the most fascinating man I’ve met in a long time.”
Carson’s breath hitched. It was too much. Too direct. Too close.
“Is this how you talk to all your tailors?”
“I don’t usually need more than one suit,” Caleb said. “But I’ll keep coming back if it means I get to unravel you.”
Silence.
Carson reached for the measuring tape. “Shirt off.”
---
They stood in silence as Carson measured him again — across the chest, down the arms, around the neck. Caleb didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His breathing was steady, eyes focused on Carson’s face.
The heat from his skin made Carson’s hands feel clumsy. Every brush of contact felt like an intrusion — but Carson knew the truth: he wasn’t repelled.
He was drawn.
He hated it.
When Carson pulled the tape away from Caleb’s hip, their fingers touched — just barely.
“Still shaking,” Caleb murmured.
Carson dropped the tape.
“You need to leave.”
Caleb didn’t move. “Did I cross a line?”
“You didn’t just cross it,” Carson said, voice low. “You kicked it down and set it on fire.”
Caleb’s mouth twitched.
“Good,” he said, and turned to leave.
---
That night, Carson stayed late again.
He told himself it was because of the order backlog, the fabrics he needed to prep, the mock-ups that still needed finishing.
But it wasn’t that.
It was because he couldn’t stop seeing those eyes — cold and hot at once, pulling and pressing, devouring and studying. And the way Caleb said good like this was all a game he already knew he would win.
He tried not to think about it.
He failed.
---
The next morning, the mirror held another note. This time, written directly onto the surface in soap:
> “You measured my body.
I’ll measure your silence.”
No signature. No need.
Carson scrubbed it clean until the glass squeaked.
---
Days passed. Caleb didn’t show.
But Carson started to notice other things.
A coffee cup left outside his door with no name.
A coat hanger in the wrong place.
A fabric swatch moved an inch left on the table.
No one said anything. No one admitted to being here.
He started locking the back room twice. Closing windows. Checking the CCTV.
And yet…
He never caught Caleb on the cameras.
---
By the end of the week, Carson’s assistant mentioned a large order — a VIP medical gala. A few key figures from Abuja’s health sector were scheduled for fittings.
One of the names on the list: Dr. Caleb Ayoola.
“Apparently he’s one of the sponsors,” she added. “Very influential. Private hospital in Maitama.”
Carson said nothing. He simply nodded and walked away.
---
That night, as he was preparing fabric, the lights flickered again.
He didn’t panic this time. He didn’t even move.
He just said, to the empty air:
“If you’re going to keep showing up like a ghost, at least bring your own damn thread.”
There was no reply.
But twenty minutes later, outside the door of the design studio, he found a sealed envelope.
Inside was a single item.
A spool of midnight blue silk thread.
The exact one he needed.
- Writer
