CHAPTER 6
539 Words
The atmosphere in the dining room was thick, the clinking of cutlery louder than necessary. Zara sat at the end of the long table, toying with her grilled yam. Her appetite was gone, lost somewhere between Regan’s arrival and her father’s latest remark about legacy.
Regan sat diagonally across from her, sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed but unreadable as ever. Not once had he looked her way, but his presence clung to the room like fog.
Her mother cleared her throat. “Regan, I hope you’re enjoying the meal. I made the pepper sauce myself.”
He gave a courteous nod. “Very much, ma. Thank you.”
Zara scoffed under her breath, barely audible.
Mr. Tunde leaned forward, his tone prideful. “In this house, we believe in strong roots. Family, tradition, honor. It’s not just a marriage—it’s the merging of legacies.”
Zara bit her tongue. She’d already made her stand clear: one year. That was all she was giving them. One year to pretend, to play along. If love didn’t grow from this chaos, she was walking away—and everyone had agreed. They hadn’t liked it, but they’d agreed.
After dinner, she retreated to her room. The soft click of the door behind her brought a shallow sense of relief. She sat on the edge of her bed and pulled out her phone.
A message from Kemi lit up the screen.
KEMI: Just posted your best shot. It’s already getting attention. Some stylist even asked if you’re signed 😍🔥
Zara smiled faintly. Then a knock interrupted her calm.
Not now.
Another knock—firmer this time.
With a sigh, she opened the door.
Regan stood there, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.
“What now?” she asked, folding her arms.
He stepped inside, calm as ever, closing the door behind him. “I figured we should clear the air.”
“There’s no air to clear,” she replied coolly. “We’re stuck in this. End of story.”
“I know,” he said. “One year. Your terms. I respect that.”
Her brows lifted slightly. She hadn’t expected him to acknowledge it so plainly.
“But if we’re going to survive the next twelve months without killing each other,” he continued, “we might need a few ground rules.”
“Such as?”
“No sabotaging each other. No playing happy couple in public only to backstab in private. You do your thing, I’ll do mine.”
Zara tilted her head. “And what exactly is your thing, Regan?”
He smirked faintly. “None of your business. Same way your modeling gigs are none of mine.”
Her heart skipped. He knew.
Again.
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to. You really should close your door when whispering secrets.”
He moved to the door but paused, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m not your enemy, Zara. At least not unless you make me one.”
Click.
He was gone.
Zara stood still, heart pounding. The lines had been drawn, but not clearly. Not yet. One thing was certain, though—Regan wasn’t as passive as he seemed.
And neither was she.
- Writer
