Measured Distance (Tomade POV)
1502 Words
The house was quieter than usual. Not silent. It was never silent.
There was always something—the faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant movement of staff, the city pressing in from beyond the walls. But quieter.
Tomade sat in his study, the laptop open in front of him, unread emails lining the screen.
He hadn’t moved in ten minutes. Outside, the sky was turning grey again.
Rain.
Of course. His jaw tightened slightly.
He shifted in his chair, adjusting his leg just enough to ease the pressure building there. It didn’t help much. It never did when the weather turned. Still, he ignored it. He always did.
The report in front of him blurred. Not because he couldn’t read it. Because he wasn’t reading it.
His mind had moved elsewhere. Again.
“I’ve already taken the Hollywood scripts out of consideration.”
He exhaled slowly. Stubborn. Predictable. And yet—not entirely unexpected.
He reached for his phone without thinking. Paused.
Then set it back down. No.
If she wanted distance, she would have it. Even if she didn’t understand what that meant.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Boss?”
“Come in.”
Shayo stepped in, tablet in hand. “The revised contract from Bimbola’s team just came through.”
Tomade nodded once. “Leave it.”
Shayo hesitated, just slightly.
Then, “She’ll take it.”
Tomade didn’t look up. “That’s not the point.”
“It’s a good project,” Shayo added carefully. “Short schedule. Strong script. And she seems… settled on it.”
That made him look up.
“Exactly,” Tomade said.
Shayo held his gaze for a second, then nodded slowly.
Understood.
“It’s not about the project,” Tomade continued, quieter now. “It’s about timing.”
Shayo didn’t interrupt.
“She’s visible right now,” he said. “Which means she’s replaceable just as quickly. The industry doesn’t wait.”
“I know,” Shayo said.
“Then you know why this matters.”
They were both silent for a while.
Then Shayo shifted slightly. “And if she still says no?”
Tomade leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.
“Then she says no.”
It sounded simple. It wasn’t.
Shayo studied him for a moment longer than usual.
Then nodded once. “I’ll review the terms again.”
“Do that.”
Shayo turned to leave.
“Shayo.”
He stopped.
“Yes, boss?”
Tomade’s gaze dropped briefly to the desk, then lifted again.
“Make sure the schedule isn’t overloaded this week.”
Shayo’s brow furrowed slightly. “It’s already tight.”
“I know.”
He paused briefly . Then he said, “Just… adjust where you can.”
Shayo didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to.
“Alright,” he said, and stepped out.
The door closed. And the quiet returned.
Tomade leaned back fully this time, closing his eyes briefly.
It didn’t take much. Just a shift in weather. A memory he didn’t ask for.
A voice—too young. Too shaken.
“Are you there?”
His hand tightened slightly against the armrest. Stop.
He opened his eyes immediately. The room snapped back into focus. The desk. The files. The present. Controlled.
He pushed himself up from the chair. The movement was deliberate. Measured.
There was a slight hitch when his weight settled—but it passed quickly. It always did.
By the time he reached the window, the rain had started again. Light at first. Then steadier.
Consistent. He watched it for a moment, expression unchanged.
She didn’t like the rain either. He’d noticed that years ago. The way she got quieter. More restless.
More—
He stopped the thought there.
Twenty.
The number still sat strangely in his mind sometimes.
At thirty-four, he should have stopped being surprised by the way time distorted itself around her.
His phone buzzed softly against the desk behind him. He didn’t turn immediately. Let it ring once. Twice. Then he walked back and picked it up.
A message. From Muna.
He stared at it for a second before opening it.
I’ll think about the Hollywood scripts.
That was all. No extra words. No tone. Just that.
He read it twice. Then set the phone down. A small exhale left him before he could stop it.
Progress. But it didn’t settle anything.
He reached for the glass of water on his desk, taking a slow sip before setting it down again.
His gaze lingered on the phone. Unmoved.
“You’re choosing what keeps you close.”
He’d said that. He meant it. What he hadn’t said—what he wouldn’t say—was why that mattered.
He picked up the phone again. Typed. Paused. Deleted. Then typed again.
Don’t rush the decision. Look at it properly.
He stared at the message. Too cold. He erased it.
Another attempt.
Take your time. Just make sure you’re choosing what’s best for you.
He frowned slightly. Still not right. He locked the phone instead. Set it down. Stepped away.
Distance. That was the point. And yet—his gaze drifted back to it anyway. Outside, the rain didn’t let up. He watched the rain gather against the glass. Steady. Unrelenting.
His gaze drifted, uninvited, toward something he didn’t want to reconstruct.
The robe slipping slightly off her shoulder. The kiss—brief, unplanned, and yet not accidental in the way it lingered in memory.
Not romantic. Not careless either. Intentional in a way that forced recognition.
He exhaled once, slow. Then turned away.
His phone buzzed. This time he picked it up immediately.
A message followed seconds later:
TLS clip is already circulating. Worse than expected.
Tomade’s eyes narrowed slightly. He opened it.
Muted video. Crowded feed. Cameras. Flash. Her voice—composed, too calm for the noise around her.
Then comments scrolling beneath it like erosion.
Too polished.
Not really one of us.
Half-breed energy.
She thinks she owns the room.
Who even gave her this platform?
His jaw tightened.
Another message came in.
We’ve had to take down three threat posts already. One account tried tracing her movements from set schedules. Security flagged it.
Tomade set the phone down slowly.
Then picked it up again. Typed:
Increase monitoring. No leaks.
Paused. Deleted it. Typed again:
Lock all public schedule visibility. I want zero external access points.
Sent.
He leaned back slightly. The house felt larger now. Or emptier.
Rain pressed harder against the windows.
Another knock came. This time Shayo entered before being told to.
“You saw it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not just comments,” Shayo said. “There are fake accounts pushing it further. They’re framing her like she’s being placed above everyone else.”
Tomade said nothing.
“It’s turning racial again,” Shayo added.
Something hardened behind Tomade’s expression.
“Who handled it?”
“Security. I had them escalate to legal as well.”
“Good.”
Shayo remained standing.
“We’ve been tracking and reporting what we can,” he continued. “But it’s spreading faster than expected.”
“Because outrage spreads faster than truth,” Tomade replied.
Shayo nodded once.
Then: “We also tightened protection protocols.”
Tomade looked up.
“They tried pulling location patterns from old production posts,” Shayo said. “Nothing current leaked. We caught it early.”
Silence settled briefly.
“They’re not targeting the work anymore,” Shayo added. “It’s her identity now.”
Tomade’s gaze shifted toward the rain.
Of course it was.
People always preferred narratives they could reduce. Too foreign. Too privileged. Too ambitious. Never simply talented.
“Contain it,” he said.
“We’re trying.”
“Try harder.”
That ended the conversation.
Shayo nodded once. But didn’t leave.
“Boss.”
Tomade looked up.
“There’s something else.”
He waited.
“The blogs are connecting her visibility to you now.”
No surprise there.
“Not officially,” Shayo continued. “ But the implication is there. Influence. Positioning. Power dynamics.”
Tomade leaned back slowly.
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far off.
“Let them speculate,” he said.
Shayo frowned slightly. “That kind of attention becomes dangerous quickly.”
“I know.”
And he did. Because attention was manageable. Obsession wasn’t.
The room quieted again.
Then Shayo said carefully, “You’ve been covering for her longer than she realizes.”
Tomade’s gaze lifted.
“She doesn’t need to realize it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Tomade held his gaze for a second. That was enough. Shayo understood immediately.
“Right,” he said quietly. Then he finally left. The door shut softly behind him.
Tomade remained still after that.
Rain. Pressure. Memory.
And beneath all of it, something more exhausting than anger:
Awareness. Not of the press. Not of the threats. Her
The problem was no longer whether he noticed. It was how much longer he could pretend not to.
- Writer
