TIED IN SILK

Zuri Tande didn’t do chaos. She ran Tande Freight Solutions like a warship — efficient, clean, and two steps ahead of everyone in the room. So when her assistant buzzed in and said, “The new driver’s here,” Zuri expected steel-toe boots and silence. Not... him. The office door opened, and the man who stepped in looked like he belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine, not a logistics contract. Khaki trousers. White fitted T-shirt. A dark cape draped dramatically over his shoulders. Polished brown loafers. And a body like it was carved in the gym — hard arms, tight waist, broad chest. His scent hit next: warm, musky, expensive. Then that face — maddeningly handsome. Smirking, unbothered, beard trimmed to dangerous perfection. He tilted his head like he had every right to be here. “You must be Zuri.” Her name rolled off his tongue like a sin. Zuri’s gaze narrowed. “You’re late.” He smiled, stepping inside without invitation. “Only by twelve minutes. Nairobi traffic has no respect for ambition.” “Neither do I for excuses,” she said coolly. “And you are?” “Fahim Kombo. Temp driver. HR said report at nine. They didn’t say wear a tie.” “HR didn’t say wear a cape either,” she muttered. He shrugged, dark eyes dancing. “It’s Nairobi. Function meets flair.” Zuri stood, smoothing her blazer. “This is a regulated freight facility. Not a catwalk.” “I deliver crates, not walk them,” he said. “Besides... I’m dressed. I’m sober. I’m here. What more do you need?” Zuri’s lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost. “You're not exactly forgettable,” she said. “But let’s be clear — you’re here for two weeks. You do your job, you stay out of my way, and you don’t flirt with anyone while wearing that ridiculous cape.” He stepped closer, grin wicked. “What if I only flirt with you?” Her heart skipped, but her face didn’t flinch. “You’d be unemployed before your next chai break.” Fahim placed a hand on his chest dramatically. “Noted. Boundaries. Understood.” Twenty minutes later, Zuri watched him from her glass office above the floor. Fahim moved with surprising ease for someone who dressed like a storm. He lifted, scanned, and loaded crates like he’d done it all his life. Workers were already laughing at something he said. He was charming. Too charming. Her phone buzzed. Paul (COO): “Need your eyes on Container 447-B. Manifest mismatch.” Her jaw tightened. That was the second flagged cargo this week. At the container, Zuri crouched beside the large, steel crate. The label said electronics. The seal looked standard — at a glance. But Fahim was already there. “You see this ridge?” he said, pointing. “It’s been resealed. And not by us.” She gave him a sharp look. “You can tell that just by looking?” “Worked the docks in Zanzibar. These fakes are common. They pop the lock, re-fill it, then torch the new seal.” Zuri examined the edge. Dammit. He was right. “Who signed this off?” He handed her a clipboard. “That’s the strange part. There’s no digital match for this driver ID.” Zuri’s eyes flicked to the name. F. Kombo. Her head snapped up. “That’s you.” Fahim blinked. “No. Someone used my initials, but that’s not my badge number. Someone slipped this through under my name.” Her gut twisted. “And you’re just casually telling me this?” “I figured you’d rather know than find out from the press.” Zuri didn’t like how calm he was. Or how her instincts didn’t scream ‘guilty.’ They whispered something else. Later that afternoon, they crossed paths again near the breakroom. Fahim sipped from a chipped mug of roadside chai, that ever-present smirk on his lips. “You always this intense?” “You always this unserious?” “I’m serious when it matters. Like when your company might be unknowingly transporting stolen aid.” Zuri exhaled through her nose. “You think I don’t know my own company?” “I think someone’s banking on the fact that you think you do.” He walked off before she could reply. That night, she couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of her high-rise apartment, the city pulsing outside her window. Fahim’s voice echoed in her head. “Someone’s banking on the fact that you think you do.” She’d spent ten years building Tande Freight. Sleepless nights. Missed birthdays. Sacrifices no one saw. And now, a stranger — one with shoulders like that and a voice like melted chocolate — was pulling at the threads she worked so hard to keep tight. Her phone buzzed. Unknown Number: Still awake, boss lady? I found something. Unknown Number: It’s about Container 442-B. Meet me. And bring your armor.