LATE NIGHT OFFICE ROMANCE

The mirror in Veronica Hale’s childhood bedroom had seen better decades. Its silvering was beginning to flake at the corners like old nail polish, and every time she stood in front of it, she felt herself being judged by the same piece of glass that had watched her graduate secondary school, get married at twenty-six, and return divorced and hollow at thirty-eight. Now, at forty, the reflection stared back with tired eyes and the stubborn poise of someone who had learned how to smile through disappointment. She smoothed the charcoal pencil skirt over her hips. It was second-hand, bought from a boutique in Ikeja two days earlier because her mother had insisted: “You cannot go to a job interview looking like you’re still waiting for your husband to come back.” The skirt still fits. That was the only victory. “You’re going to be late,” her mother called from downstairs. Veronica exhaled through her nose, picked up the cream blouse she had ironed twice, and slipped it on. The fabric smelled faintly of starch and the lavender detergent her mother still used. Familiar. Safe. Suffocating. She descended the stairs carefully, heels clicking against the polished terrazzo. Her father was already at the breakfast table, newspaper open to the business section, glasses low on his nose. He didn’t look up. “You look sharp, Vero,” her mother said, setting a plate of fried plantain and eggs in front of her. “Eat something. You’re too thin.” “I’m fine, Mama.” “You’re not fine. You’re nervous. Eat.” Veronica sat. The food looked like an effort she didn’t have the energy for. She managed three bites of plantain before pushing the plate away. Her mother sighed but didn’t argue. That was new. After the divorce, arguments had become the household language. Now there was only this careful tenderness, the kind people use around broken things. “You have the CV?” her mother asked. “Yes.” “The recommendation letter from Professor Adebayo?” “In the folder.” “And the cover letter?” “Also in the folder.” Her mother nodded once, satisfied. Then, softer: “This is good, Veronica. A fresh start. Lawson Atelier is big. Prestigious. If you get this job…” “I know.” Her father finally lowered the paper. “Sandra Lawson is the CEO now?” Veronica’s stomach tightened. “Yes.” He made a small sound—not quite disapproval, not quite surprise. “You two used to be close.” “Used to be,” Veronica echoed. He studied her for a long moment, then returned to his newspaper. Conversation over. Veronica stood. “I should go.” Her mother followed her to the door, pressing a small bottle of perfume into her palm. “The one you liked in university. I kept it.” Veronica’s throat closed. She hugged her mother quickly, fiercely, before either of them could cry. The drive to Victoria Island was slow. Lagos traffic had not improved in the twelve years since she left the city. Horns blared. Okada riders weaved between cars like mosquitoes. Hawkers pressed against the windows, selling pure water, plantain chips, and knockoff sunglasses. Veronica kept the windows up and the AC on low. She didn’t want the city’s smell—exhaust, roasted corn, wet dust—clinging to her clothes. Lawson Atelier occupied the top five floors of a sleek glass tower on Ozumba Mbadiwe Avenue. The building looked like money. The lobby smelled like money. Even the security guards wore tailored uniforms and polite indifference. She presented her ID, signed in, received a visitor’s tag, and was directed to the executive lift. The ride to the twenty-third floor took thirty-two seconds. Veronica counted. When the doors opened, Sandra Lawson was standing directly in front of her. Time had been selectively kind to Sandra. The same sharp cheekbones, the same commanding height, the same way of holding her shoulders as though the world owed her posture. Only the hair had changed—jet-black hair threaded with expensive silver, cut into a sleek, symmetrical bob. She wore a tailored emerald-green blazer over black trousers, no blouse, collarbones on display like jewellery. “Veronica.” The name sounded like a question and a verdict at the same time. “Sandra.” Veronica forced her mouth into something resembling a smile. “I didn’t know you were the one conducting the interview.” “I didn’t know you were applying.” A pause. “You look… well.” “You too.” They stood there, two women who had once shared secrets and clothes and dreams, now separated by twelve years, one failed marriage, and one very public success. Sandra recovered first. “Come.” She led Veronica through an open-plan office that smelled of fresh coffee, new leather, and ambition. Young designers bent over drafting tables. Seamstresses worked on industrial machines behind glass partitions. Mood boards covered entire walls—swatches of silk, photographs of runway shows in Paris and Milan, sketches of gowns that looked like liquid light. Veronica felt every year of her absence like a physical weight. Sandra’s office was all glass and clean lines. One wall was floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Atlantic. The other held awards, framed magazine covers, and a single photograph: Sandra and a young man, both laughing at something off-camera. He had Sandra’s eyes but none of her severity. “Have a seat,” Sandra said. Veronica sat. The chair was too comfortable. It made her feel like she was sinking. Sandra didn’t sit behind her desk. She leaned against it, arms crossed. “Why now?” Veronica had rehearsed answers for this. She chose honesty instead. “Because I’m tired of waiting for my life to restart.” Sandra’s mouth twitched almostinto a smile. “And you think my company is the place to do it?” “I think your company needs someone who understands pattern drafting like breathing. I’ve spent the last four years teaching part-time and freelancingwith bridal patterns. I’m good, Sandra. You know I’m good.” “I know you disappeared.” The words landed like a slap. Veronica looked down at her hands. “I was young. And stupid. And in love with the wrong man.” “You were in love with my fiancé.” “Yes.” Silence stretched between them, thin and sharp. Sandra finally moved, walking to the window. “He left me six months after the wedding. Turns out he was in love with someone else entirely. A man.” Veronica’s breath caught. “I didn’t know,” she whispered. “Of course you didn’t.” Sandra turned. “You were already gone.” Another long beat. “I’m not here to dig up graves,” Veronica said quietly. “I need a job. You need experience. That’s all this has to be.” Sandra studied her. Then, unexpectedly: “You still have that little scar on your left eyebrow from when we tried to pierce it ourselves in the second year?” Veronica touched the faint mark instinctively. “Yes.” Sandra’s expression softened—just a fraction. “I’ll give you a three-month probation. If you’re half as good as you used to be, we’ll talk permanent.” Veronica’s heart slammed against her ribs. “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me yet.” Sandra walked back to her desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a folder. “You start Monday. Pattern department. You’ll report to the head designer, but I’ll be watching.” Veronica stood. “I won’t disappoint you.” “You already did once,” Sandra said, not unkindly. “Let’s not make it a habit.” Veronica left the office feeling like she had survived something. She didn’t cry until she reached the car park. The tears came fast and hot, relief and shame and something dangerously close to hope. She cried for the girl who had run away. She cried for the woman who had finally walked back in. And somewhere beneath all of it, she cried because, for the first time in years, she felt the tiniest flicker of possibility. Monday arrived like a deadline. Veronica chose a navy wrap dres,s simple, professional, and age-appropriate. She pinned her hair in a low bun, applied minimal makeup, and sprayed the lavender perfume her mother had given her. Her father drove her to the office. He didn’t speak much. When she got out, he squeezed her hand once. “Be brave, Vero.” She nodded, throat too tight for words. The pattern department was on the twenty-first floor. Bright. Organized chaos. Bolts of fabric leaned against walls like drunk soldiers. Mannequins stood in various states of undress. A dozen people looked up when she entered. A woman in her late thirties approachedwith short locs, a gold nose ring, and a measuring tape around her neck like a necklace. “You must be Veronica Hale.” She extended a hand. “I’m Amara, head of pattern. Welcome to the madhouse.” Veronica shook her hand. “Thank you. I’m… happy to be here.” Amara grinned. “You’ll stop being happy by Wednesday. Come. I’ll show you your station.” The workstation was small but clean. A large drafting table, a dress form in her approximate size, shelves of pattern paper, rulers, French curves, and a brand-new Bernina sewing machine still in its box. “Boss lady said you’re to have the best equipment,” Amara said. “Apparently you have history.” Veronica’s cheeks warmed. “Old school friends.” “Uh-huh.” Amara didn’t press. “First project is a rush-order evening gown for a senator’s daughter. Wedding in three weeks. We need patterns by the end of the week. Think you can handle it?” Veronica ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the table. “Yes.” “Good.” Amara clapped once. “Then let’s get to work.” The morning passed in a blur of measurements, muslin mock-ups, and the comforting rhythm of pattern-making. Veronica felt her shoulders loosen, her breathing steady. This was something she understood. Fabric obeyed her. Numbers made sense. Here, at least, she was still competent. Lunch arrived at 1:15 p.m. in the form of a young man carrying a tray of takeaway containers. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Tall, taller than his mother, broad shoulders under a charcoal blazer, white shirt rolled to the elbows, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with quiet strength. His skin was a warm deep brown, his hair cut close and neat, but it was the eyes that stopped her breath. Sandra’s eyes. But softer. Kinder. Curious. He smiled open, easy, the kind of smile that made strangers feel remembered. “Afternoon, everyone. Mum sent provisions. Jollof, plantain, coleslaw, protein options.” A chorus of grateful murmurs rose. He set the tray down, then turned directly to Veronica. “You must be the new pattern drafter.” She stood automatically. “Veronica Hale.” “Ethan Lawson.” He extended a hand. His grip was firm, warm. “Welcome to the family business.” Family. The word landed like a stone in still water. She managed: “Thank you.” He didn’t release her hand immediately. Just held it a second longer than necessary, studying her face as though trying to solve a puzzle. “You have the most interesting eyes,” he said quietly. “They look like they’ve seen a lot of things most people haven’t.” Veronica pulled her hand back, pulse jumping. “They have.” He smiled again smaller this time, almost private. “I look forward to working with you, Ms. Hale.” And then he was gone, moving through the department, handing out food containers, laughing easily with the seamstresses, asking questions about deadlines and fabric deliveries like he actually cared about the answers. Veronica sat down hard. Amara appeared at her side with two plates. “You okay?” “Yes. Just… adjusting.” Amara followed her gaze to where Ethan was now talking to a junior designer. “He has that effect on people. Don’t worry. He’s harmless.” Veronica forced a laugh. “I’m sure.” But she wasn’t sure at all. Because when Ethan glanced back across the room and met her eyes again, something in his expression shifted—something quiet, deliberate, and entirely too knowing for a twenty-five-year-old man. She looked away first. She told herself it was nothing. She told herself she was imagining things. She told herself she was forty years old, divorced, and far too sensible to notice the way his sleeves were rolled, or the way he listened when people spoke, or the way his smile seemed to reach parts of her she had long considered dead. But that night, lying in her childhood bed with the ceiling fan turning lazy circles above her, she couldn’t stop replaying the moment his hand held hers. And for the first time in years, sleep came slowly restless, warm, and edged with something dangerously close to wanting.