Chapter 7
1472 Words
Luna sat on the edge of her bed, phone clutched in both hands, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
*Was I being too dramatic?*
*Should I just text him “never mind, it was a mistake” and pretend the 3 a.m. message never happened?*
She typed the words—*Ethan, sorry, ignore that last message. I was just…*—then deleted them. Typed again. Deleted again.
Her stomach twisted into knots. She felt ridiculous. Exposed. Like she’d thrown herself at him in the dark and now the daylight was making everything look stupid.
Before she could hit send on yet another unsent apology, her phone buzzed.
**Ethan:** Change of plans. We won’t be meeting at the coffee shop. Something urgent came up. I’ll send my driver to pick you up at your hostel gate by 5 p.m. Please be outside.
Luna stared at the screen.
*Urghhh. Who does he think he is?*
*Why can’t he just explain like a normal person?*
*Oh please, let this not be some dramatic “I need to end this before it starts” speech in person.*
She flopped back onto the bed dramatically, arm over her eyes.
“Life, why are you like this?” she muttered to the ceiling.
But when 5:00 p.m. came, she was outside the gate anyway—jeans, simple white top, hair in a messy bun, nerves buzzing like live wires.
A Rolls-Royce Phantom glided up—matte black, windows tinted so dark they looked like voids. The driver stepped out in a crisp black suit, opened the rear door without a word.
Luna’s brain short-circuited.
*What professor can afford this?*
She hesitated, heart hammering. Then—because curiosity and stubbornness had always been her worst/best traits—she slid inside.
The leather smelled like new money and quiet power. Soft classical music played. The driver didn’t speak. Just drove.
They pulled up to a high-end spa salon in Maitama—glass front, gold lettering, the kind of place celebrities posted “self-care day” stories from.
The driver opened her door again. “The boss will message you, ma’am.”
Luna stepped inside.
Every staff member turned at once.
“Miss Luna! Welcome!”
“We’ve been expecting you.”
“Right this way, please.”
They greeted her like royalty—warm smiles, professional bows of the head, no questions asked. It was surreal. Terrifying. A little magical.
Her phone buzzed.
**Ethan:** Please, I’ll explain later. Just trust me.
Luna exhaled. *Alright. Too much. Way too much. But… free spa? I’m not saying no.*
She let them lead her.
They treated her like a fairy-tale princess who’d wandered into the right enchanted castle.
First, a warm herbal foot soak while soft hands massaged her shoulders. Then a full-body scrub that left her skin glowing like she’d been kissed by moonlight. Manicure—deep burgundy polish that caught the light like wine. Pedicure—same shade, toes curling in bliss. Facial—cool masks, gentle steam, fingers working magic until every line of tension melted away.
She closed her eyes and let herself float.
*This is insane,* she thought, smiling despite herself. *But I’m enjoying every second.*
When they finished, one of the attendants brought a garment bag.
“The boss said you should wear this.”
Inside: a floor-length red gown—silk chiffon, off-shoulder, fitted bodice flaring into a soft mermaid skirt that shimmered like liquid fire when she moved.
They did her makeup—smoky eyes, bold red lip to match, hair swept into an elegant updo with a few tendrils framing her face.
Luna stood in front of the full-length mirror.
She didn’t recognize herself.
The girl staring back was magnificent—regal, radiant, dangerous.
She touched her reflection. Whispered, “Who are you?”
The driver appeared. “Ma’am. It’s time.”
Outside, the car was different.
A sleek black Bentley Continental GT—low, growling, windows tinted obsidian, chrome accents gleaming under the evening lights. It didn’t just look expensive; it radiated aura. Power. Legacy.
Luna slid inside. The door closed with a soft, expensive thud.
They drove through Abuja’s elite hills, past gated estates, until they reached wrought-iron gates that opened silently.
The mansion beyond was breathtaking.
White marble columns. Manicured gardens lit by soft lanterns. A fountain in the courtyard that looked like it belonged in Versailles. Security cameras discreet but everywhere. The kind of place that whispered *old money, new influence, untouchable*.
Luna’s heart pounded.
The driver stopped at the grand entrance.
Before she could reach for the handle, the door opened.
Ethan stood there.
And he looked… different.
Black tailored suit—perfectly cut, hugging broad shoulders and narrow waist. Crisp white shirt, no tie, top button undone. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Hair styled back, a single lock falling rebelliously. Eyes darker than usual, intense, almost hungry when they landed on her.
He looked like power personified. Like a man who owned rooms just by walking into them.
“Luna,” he said, voice low. “You look…”
He didn’t finish. Just stared, like the words had failed him.
She stepped out. The red dress caught the light, rippling like flame.
“Ethan,” she breathed. “What is this?”
He looked into her eyes—deep, searching.
“Please,” he said quietly. “I need you to trust me. I’ll explain everything later. But first… we need to pretend. In front of my parents. That you’re my girlfriend.”
Luna blinked. “What?”
“I know this isn’t what you expected. I know it’s a lot. But please.”
His voice cracked on the last word—just a fraction. Enough to show the man behind the suit.
She searched his face.
Saw the plea there.
Saw the fear.
And something in her softened.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He exhaled. Offered his arm.
She took it.
They stepped inside.
The foyer was marble and crystal—grand staircase curving upward, chandeliers dripping light like diamonds.
A young woman—mid-twenties, sharp cheekbones, same blue eyes as Ethan but brighter, mischievous—came bounding down the stairs.
“Ethan! You’re late—oh my God.”
She threw her arms around him in a dramatic hug.
He hugged back stiffly, then muttered, “Clara, behave.”
Clara pulled back, spotted Luna, and gasped theatrically.
“You brought a goddess? Where have you been hiding her, big brother?”
Luna laughed—couldn’t help it.
Clara grabbed her hands. “You look magnificent. Seriously. Where has he been keeping you?”
“Hostel,” Luna said dryly. “With three chaotic roommates.”
Clara cackled. “I love her already.”
Then a woman appeared—elegant, silver-streaked hair, warm smile, wearing a cream silk gown that screamed quiet luxury.
“Ethan, darling.”
She hugged him—gentler than Clara’s tackle.
Then turned to Luna.
“You must be the one he’s been hiding.” She pulled Luna into a soft embrace. “Call me Stella.”
Luna melted a little. “Hi…"
Ethan cleared his throat. “Mum… happy birthday.”
Stella beamed. “Come. Everyone’s waiting.”
They walked into the grand hall—long table set with crystal and silver, soft jazz playing, guests in tailored suits and gowns laughing over champagne.
Then a tall man in a charcoal suit approached—silver hair, commanding presence, eyes the same blue but colder.
“Father,” Ethan said. Voice flat.
Mr. Alexander nodded once. “Son.”
The air shifted—tension thick enough to cut.
Ethan’s hand tightened on Luna’s waist—protective, possessive.
He introduced her to everyone as “my girlfriend, Luna.”
She smiled. Played along. Felt his thumb brush small circles against her back every time someone asked how they met.
(“Campus,” he said smoothly. “She asked the best question in tutoring.”)
The party was alive—laughter, toasts, rich people being playfully rich. Caviar on blinis. Live string quartet. Someone started a conga line at one point.
Luna laughed—real laughter—when Clara dragged her into it.
Ethan watched from the side, eyes never leaving her.
After the cake, after the speeches, Stella pulled them aside.
“You two are staying tonight,” she said firmly. “No arguments. Guest suite is ready.”
Ethan opened his mouth—then closed it.
“Okay, Mum.”
Stella kissed Luna’s cheek. “Thank you for coming, darling. He looks… happier.”
Luna’s heart stuttered.
They were led upstairs.
One suite. One bed.
Ethan closed the door behind them.
Silence.
Luna turned to him—red dress still shimmering, makeup still perfect.
“Now,” she said softly. “Explain.”
He exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair.
- Writer
