THE MAN LAGOS THINK I STOLE

The first time my phone buzzed, I ignored it. I was standing behind the refreshment table, counting glasses in my head so I wouldn’t think about how tight my shoes were or how my back ached from standing since morning. Twenty three glasses left. Twenty two. Someone laughed too loudly behind me. Camera shutters clicked. The room smelled like perfume and money. “Amara.” I turned. One of the junior staff was waving at me from the stage, panic written all over her face. “The sponsor’s wife wants to see you.” Of course she did. I smoothed my dress already stained with a thin streak of oil from the catering issue earlier and walked toward her, heels clicking faster than my heartbeat wanted to admit. This launch had to go right. It had to. I needed this campaign. I needed the invoice paid. I needed my name to stay clean. “Good evening, ma,” I said, smiling. She nodded once, eyes scanning past me like she was searching for something better. “Who’s that man you were speaking with earlier?” My mouth opened, then closed again. I glanced instinctively toward the far end of the hall. He stood there, tall, calm, untouched by the chaos the rest of us were swimming in. Dark suit. No smile. People leaned toward him when he spoke, like gravity worked differently around him. “Just… a guest,” I said. Her eyebrow lifted. Just slightly. Enough. “Hm.” She walked away without another word. I exhaled, slow, careful. That was nothing. Harmless. I’d spoken to him for less than two minutes about the lighting, of all things. I didn’t even know his last name then. My phone buzzed again. I frowned and pulled it from my clutch. One notification. Then five. Then more, stacking so fast my screen lagged. I opened Twitter. The photo was already there. Me. Him. Standing closer than I remembered. My head tilted slightly toward him, like I was listening too closely. Like it mattered what he was saying. The caption read: “So THIS is who Xander Cole is hiding.” My throat went dry. Another buzz. w******p this time. Is this you?? What’s going on? Amara, answer me. I looked up, scanning the hall again, suddenly aware of how many people were looking at their phones. How many eyes flicked toward me and then away. I felt stupid for not seeing it earlier. For thinking two minutes of polite conversation in Lagos could ever be just that. Someone brushed past me. Another camera flash went off. This one closer. I turned too quickly and collided with a waiter. His tray tipped. Glass shattered at my feet. “Sorry sorry,” he said, already kneeling. “It’s fine,” I muttered, though my hands were shaking as I helped him gather the pieces. My phone buzzed again. Instagram this time. A story reposted the photo. Then another. Then another. Different angles. Different captions. Each worse than the last. I didn’t read them all. I couldn’t. I slipped out of the hall without telling anyone. The air outside hit me hard, warm and heavy. Cars crawled past the hotel entrance, horns blaring like the city didn’t care that my life had just tilted sideways. I leaned against a pillar and finally allowed myself to breathe. In. Out. Okay. Think. This would pass. People would move on. Lagos always did. My phone buzzed again. A message this time. No profile photo. Verified checkmark. Xander Cole We need to talk. I stared at the screen. Of course he’d noticed. Of course this wasn’t just my problem anymore. I typed, deleted, typed again. About what? The reply came immediately. Tomorrow. 9 a.m. My office. That was it. No explanation. No apology. No acknowledgment of the fire burning through my notifications. I wanted to throw the phone. Instead, I slid it back into my clutch and straightened my shoulders. I went back inside, finished the launch, smiled when required, nodded when spoken to. I did my job like nothing had happened. By the time I got home, my jaw hurt from holding everything in. I kicked off my shoes and stood in the dark living room, phone glowing in my hand. The photo was everywhere now. Blogs. t****k. Commentary accounts I’d never heard of before. One post read “Freelancer climbs her way into Lagos’ richest circles.” Freelancer. Like it was an insult. Like I hadn’t worked my way into every room I’d ever entered. I sat down slowly on the couch. Another message came in. This one from a client. We should pause the campaign for now. Just until things clear. I didn’t reply. Another message. Let’s talk next week. My chest felt tight, like something was pressing inward. I dropped the phone on the cushion beside me and covered my face with my hands. This was stupid. All of this. One photo. One moment. I stood up again and began pacing. Three steps to the window. Three back. My reflection stared at me from the glass eyes too bright, mouth pressed thin. Tomorrow. His office. I didn’t know what he wanted. I didn’t know what he could do. But I knew one thing. People like Xander Cole didn’t invite you to their office to chat. My phone buzzed again. I picked it up slowly. Unknown Number: You think this ends well for you? My fingers tightened around the phone. Then another message followed. Because it won’t. I looked at the time. 11:47 p.m. Tomorrow was coming fast. And whatever waited for me in that office it wasn’t just about a photograph anymore. It was about survival.