I TILED HER HOUSE, SHE STOLE MY HEART

Yaoundé was hot as hell. The kind of heat that made the tar on the road in Biyem-Assi melt and stick to your slippers. Daniel Mbarga wiped the sweat from his neck with a dirty rag and stared at the phone in his hand. The voice on the other end was still talking. "Five million FCFA, Daniel. For one bathroom. Marble tiling, Italian design. The client is in Bastos. Very rich. Do you want it or should I give it to Francis?" Five million. Daniel's heart stopped. His mother needed three million for her diabetes operation at Central Hospital. He had only 80,000 FCFA in his MoMo. "I want it," he said quickly, his voice rough. "I will take it, boss." "Be there tomorrow at 7 AM sharp. Don't be late. And Daniel... wear a clean shirt. This is not a ghetto house." The call cut. Daniel looked at his small workshop — two bags of cement, a broken tile cutter, and his father's old tool belt hanging on the nail. He picked up the tool belt and held it tight. "Mama, we will pay the hospital," he whispered. --- The next morning, Bastos. Daniel had never seen a gate that big. The house behind it was not a house. It was a white palace. Three stories, glass everywhere, palm trees that cost more than his whole life. A security guard looked at his old Yamaha bike and his toolbox and frowned. "You are the tiler?" "Yes, boss. Daniel Mbarga. I am here for the bathroom." The guard laughed and opened the gate. "Madam is inside. Don't touch anything." Daniel pushed his toolbox inside. His black tank top was clean but old. His arms were huge from carrying tiles since he was 15. Cement dust was permanently under his nails. He felt poor. Very poor. The living room was cold. AC everywhere. It smelled like perfume and money. And then she came down the stairs. Daniel forgot how to breathe. She was wearing a gold silk robe that barely reached her thighs. Her long braids were tied up, her skin was like fresh butter, her feet were bare and her toenails were painted red. She was not wearing makeup but she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in Yaoundé. She was holding a coffee cup and looking at him like he was a strange animal. "So you are the tiler?" Her voice was soft, French accent mixed with Cameroonian. "You are... bigger than I expected." Daniel swallowed. "Good morning, Madam. I am Daniel. I am here for the master bathroom." Isabella Laurent walked around him slowly. She looked at his arms, his chest, the sweat on his forehead. She was bored. So bored for months. Her fiancé Alex was in Douala with other women. Her life was parties she hated. And now, a real man was standing in her house. A man who worked with his hands. "You work hard, huh?" she said, and before he could move, she touched his shoulder. Her soft fingers on his dusty skin. Daniel stepped back like she burned him. "Madam, please," he said, his voice low. "I am here to work." Isabella's eyes widened. No man had ever stepped back from her. Men always stepped closer. Interesting. She smiled. A slow, dangerous smile. "The bathroom is upstairs. Second floor, last door. Don't make a mess, tiler." She turned and walked up, her gold robe flowing. Daniel tried not to look. He failed. Upstairs, the bathroom was bigger than his whole house in Biyem-Assi. All white marble, golden taps, a bathtub that could fit three people. One wall was broken, waiting for new tiles. This was the five million job. He opened his toolbox. His hands were shaking, not from fear, but from her perfume still in his nose. He started working. An hour later, he was shirtless. The AC was not reaching the bathroom. Sweat rolled down his back, his muscles moving as he cut tiles. He was focused. This was what he knew how to do. He didn't hear her enter. Isabella stood at the door with two glasses of cold lemonade. She had changed. Now she wore a short white towel dress. She watched him. Watched the way his back moved, the way his hands controlled the noisy tile cutter. She had seen many men in suits. She had never seen a man like this. "You should drink water," she said. Daniel turned, startled. His chest was heaving. Dust on his face. He saw her in that towel, her legs shining. "Madam, you should not be here. The dust—" "Isabella," she corrected him. "Call me Isabella. 'Madam' makes me feel old." "I cannot, Madam." She walked closer. Too close. She handed him the lemonade. Their fingers touched. The glass was cold, her hand was warm. "How old are you, tiler?" "Twenty-six, Madam." "And you have never been with a woman like me, have you?" The question hung in the steamy, half-tiled bathroom. Daniel's eyes fell to her lips. Then to her chest where the towel was slightly open. His throat was dry. He was a man. A poor man, but a man. "Madam, please step back. The cutter is dangerous." But she didn't step back. She stepped forward. So close he could feel the heat from her body. Just then, the main gate downstairs slammed hard. A man's angry voice shouted from the living room: "ISABELLA! WHERE ARE YOU? MY SECURITY SAID A BIKE IS OUTSIDE!" Isabella's face turned white. "Alex," she whispered. "My fiancé. He was supposed to be in Douala." Footsteps thundered up the stairs. Heavy, angry. Daniel was half-naked, sweaty, holding lemonade, with a half-dressed billionaire heiress trapped in a bathroom with him. The doorknob turned.