His Old Money World

Chapter 8 - The First Touch

It rained that night in Ikoyi.

Not the small Yaba rain that drums on zinc. The big, Ikoyi rain that sounds like it owns the whole of Lagos.

Power blinked. Then went out. The whole mansion was dark, except for emergency lights.

I was in my small staff room, my wrapper tight around me, listening to rain and my own breathing. I was supposed to be asleep. Staff curfew was 10pm.

A knock. Soft.

I froze. "Who is there?"

No answer. Another knock.

I opened the door a crack.

Adrian.

He was in the dark hallway, only in a white t-shirt and shorts, holding a flashlight. His hair was messy, like he had been sleeping. Without his cold suit and watch, he looked younger. Human.

"The generator didn't kick for the staff wing. Are you okay?" he asked, low.

I nodded, holding my door. "Yes sir. I'm fine."

He looked at my small room — the single bed, the bucket, my clothes folded on the floor.

The flashlight flickered over my face.

"You are cold," he said. It wasn't a question.

I was. The AC was dead but the rain had made my room freezing.

He hesitated. That cold old money mask slipped for one second.

"Come," he said. "The main house generator is on. You can stay in the small guest room upstairs until morning. Just tonight. Simi is not here."

My heart was beating so loud he must have heard it.

"Sir, I can't. If they see me—"

"No one will see you. It's 1am. Everyone is asleep. And you can't stay here in the dark. The rats come when power goes."

He said it matter-of-factly, but his eyes didn't leave mine.

I should have said no. Mainland girls know: never go to a rich man's bedroom floor at night. My mother warned me.

But I was cold. And he was looking at me like he did in the kitchen when he wiped my tear.

I followed him, barefoot, wrapper tight, up the back stairs I was never supposed to use. His flashlight lit the way, his broad back in front of me.

The guest room was small but it was like heaven compared to mine. Big bed, duvet, AC humming.

"Sleep here," he said, putting the flashlight on the side table. "Lock the door from inside. Leave by 5:30am before Bisi wakes."

"Yes sir. Thank you."

He turned to leave. Then stopped at the door.

"Amara."

"Sir?"

"If anyone asks, you never left your room. Understand?"

I nodded.

He looked at me one more time — my wrapper, my bare feet, my braids loose. Something changed in his eyes. That coldness cracked.

He walked back, two steps, and before I could breathe, he lifted his hand and brushed a strand of my braid behind my ear. His fingers grazed my cheek. Just a second.

Soft. Warm.

It was the first time any man in Ikoyi had touched me like that. Not like a maid. Like a woman.

I gasped, without meaning to.

He dropped his hand like he was burned.

"Sorry," he said, voice suddenly hoarse. "Go to sleep."

He left, closing the door gently.

I stood there, in that big guest room, hand on my cheek where he touched me, where Simi had slapped me two days before.

Same cheek. Different touch.

Outside, the rain kept falling on his old money world. And for the first time since I came to Ikoyi to be invisible, I didn't feel invisible at all.

I felt chosen.

And that was more dangerous than being hated.

I locked the door, climbed into the big bed that smelled like him, and didn't sleep till morning.