Chapter Six - The CEO Returns
1294 Words
Amara spent three days trying to convince herself not to go.
She almost deleted the email twice.
But every time she looked around her studio, reality returned. Rent. School fees. New equipment she needed but could not yet afford. Maya’s shoes were already getting small. Ethan would soon need textbooks for secondary school.
It was work.
That was the only reason.
Nothing more.
Aunt Ada noticed the restlessness immediately.
“You’ve packed and unpacked that bag four times,” she said from the doorway.
Amara stopped folding a blouse.
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re worrying.”
“That too.”
“Then don’t go.”
Amara looked at her.
“I should.”
“Because you want the job or because you want answers?”
She did not reply.
Aunt Ada nodded as if that was answer enough.
The next morning, she left before sunrise.
Ethan stood by the gate, trying hard to look older than twelve.
“You’ll call when you get there?”
“Yes.”
“And when you’re coming back?”
“Tomorrow evening.”
He glanced at her bag.
“Is it really just work?”
The question landed deeper than he knew.
“Yes,” she said.
It was not a lie.
Just not the whole truth.
Maya wrapped both arms around her knees.
“Bring me sweets.”
“I knew there was a reason you love me,” Amara said.
Maya smiled.
The bus ride to Lagos felt longer than she remembered.
The city rose around her in familiar pieces. Heavy traffic. Street vendors weaving between cars. Towers of glass above restless roads.
Five years, and it still felt like a place that never learned how to breathe.
Her hotel was near Victoria Island.
Simple. Quiet. Paid for by Vale Group.
That unsettled her more than luxury would have.
At six that evening, she stood in front of the mirror fastening the sleeves of a cream blouse.
Her reflection looked calm.
She was not.
She wore her hair back neatly. Minimal makeup. A dark skirt. Professional. Composed.
No one would see the pulse beating hard at the base of her throat.
The event was being held in one of Vale Group’s private conference spaces.
The lobby alone reminded her how far removed this world was from hers. Polished floors. Glass walls. Quiet efficiency.
A young woman at reception smiled.
“Ms. Okafor?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome. They’re expecting you.”
The words tightened something inside her.
They’re expecting you.
She followed the assistant upstairs.
There were twelve other designers in the room.
Some were talking confidently in small groups. Others were arranging portfolios and tablets across the long table.
Amara chose a seat near the far end.
Her hands were steady.
Only because she forced them to be.
A man in a navy suit stepped forward.
“Good evening, everyone. Thank you for coming. Vale Group appreciates your time. Mr. Vale will join us shortly.”
Her chest tightened instantly.
She had known it.
And still hearing it changed everything.
She told herself not to react.
Five years was a long time.
He might not even remember.
The thought barely settled before the door opened.
The room shifted.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But it shifted.
Damien Vale walked in.
He was older now.
Sharper somehow.
The calm was still there, but heavier. More controlled. The kind of presence that made conversation stop without asking.
He wore a dark suit. No tie. His hair was shorter. His expression unreadable.
For a moment Amara forgot how to breathe.
He was speaking quietly to the man beside him as he entered.
Then his gaze lifted.
And found hers.
He stopped.
Only for a second.
But she saw it.
Saw the stillness enter him.
Saw recognition land.
The room kept moving around them, but everything inside her had gone silent.
His face did not change much.
That was almost worse.
He knew.
Completely.
Immediately.
Amara’s pulse was suddenly so loud she could hear it.
He resumed walking.
Took his place at the head of the table.
“Good evening,” he said.
His voice was deeper than she remembered.
“Thank you for coming.”
The presentation began.
A senior manager spoke first. Numbers. Event goals. Brand direction. Guest expectations.
Amara heard almost none of it.
She could feel Damien’s awareness across the room.
He was not staring.
That would have been easier.
But every time she looked up, she knew.
He knew she was there.
When the individual presentations started, she wished briefly for invisibility.
One by one, the designers stood.
Mood boards. Concepts. Fabric samples.
Then her name was called.
“Amara Okafor.”
Her legs felt strangely light as she stood.
She moved to the front of the room with her portfolio in hand.
Professional.
Steady.
She had done this before.
She could do it now.
She began speaking.
Her voice held.
She talked about local textile influence, modern structure, understated elegance. About warmth instead of spectacle. About memory and place.
Somewhere halfway through, she forgot herself enough to become real.
And then she made the mistake of looking up.
Damien was watching her.
Not politely.
Not professionally.
Watching her the way he had that first night in the rain.
As though five years had collapsed into one breath.
Her throat tightened.
She forced herself to continue.
When she finished, there was a small round of approval.
A few questions followed.
A woman near the window asked about sourcing.
Another asked about budget flexibility.
Then Damien spoke for the first time.
“Why did you leave Lagos?”
The room went still.
Her eyes lifted sharply.
That was not a professional question.
Not remotely.
The others noticed it too.
She forced herself not to react.
“For family reasons,” she said.
His gaze stayed on hers.
“And did those reasons change?”
Her pulse jumped.
“No.”
A quiet silence followed.
Then the manager quickly stepped in and moved the meeting forward.
But the air had already changed.
By the time the session ended, Amara wanted only one thing.
To leave.
People gathered around the refreshments table.
Cards exchanged hands.
Conversations restarted.
She packed her portfolio quickly.
Her fingers had just closed around the handle when a voice behind her said quietly,
“You came.”
She turned.
Damien stood there.
Closer now.
Close enough for her to see the faint line of an old scar near his temple.
For a second neither of them spoke.
“You’re alive,” she said before she could stop herself.
His expression shifted.
“That was your first thought?”
“You were attacked.”
“You heard.”
“It was on every station.”
“And yet you disappeared.”
There was no anger in his voice.
That made it harder.
“I had reasons.”
“Five years of reasons?”
“Yes.”
His gaze held hers.
“You never called.”
“No.”
“Why?”
She should have answered.
Instead she said, “This is not the place.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It isn’t.”
People were beginning to notice them.
She felt it immediately.
The weight of attention.
She stepped back.
“I should go.”
He moved slightly, not blocking her, but not letting the moment disappear.
“Amara.”
Her heart stumbled.
Not here.
Not in front of everyone.
But he was already looking at her with that same impossible steadiness.
And then, in the sudden hush of the room, Damien Vale said her name clearly.
“Amara.”
Every conversation stopped.
Every head turned.
And for the first time in five years, the entire room knew he knew her.
- Writer
