Chapter Three: The Storm
1427 Words
The next morning they started off again, just driving. He didn't ask questions, he didn't seem to mind, he just drove.
She keep looking across at him. He seemed to be running from something too and she was just his escape, his excuse to run.
The rain didn’t begin gently.
It came like war drums in the sky — thunder growling low, clouds swollen and heavy like bruises. One minute, the road was dry and still under the waning afternoon light. The next, a torrent unleashed without mercy.
The kind of Nigerian rain that didn’t ask for permission. The kind that brought back memories of childhood — gutters flooding, neighbours dragging plastic chairs indoors, mothers yelling for clothes left on the line.
Inside the SUV, Amara jolted awake as the first raindrops slammed against the windshield. She sat up, bleary-eyed, still wearing the borrowed wrapper from the inn, the memory of her wedding dress tucked away in the boot like a discarded ghost.
Dante gripped the wheel tightly, brows furrowed.
“Visibility’s dropping fast,” he said. “We need to stop.”
Amara glanced out the window. The road ahead had dissolved into a grey sheet of water. Trees swayed violently. Thunder cracked like a whip in the distance.
“Is there somewhere close?”
“There’s a town about fifteen minutes ahead. Small. Remote. I’ve passed it before on business. There’s a lodge—if we’re lucky, they’ll have space.”
Amara nodded wordlessly. She was beginning to trust that when Dante said something, he meant it. No flourishes. No pretence. Just facts.
As they drove, Amara’s thoughts drifted.
She’d barely spoken since last night. Something in her had numbed, like her body had gone into protective shutdown mode. She hadn’t cried again. Not since the first sobs in the back seat. And maybe that was scarier than the crying — the stillness. The eerie quiet inside her chest.
But now, with the sky split open and water gushing from the heavens, something stirred again.
Maybe it was fear. Or maybe… maybe it was the sense that this wasn’t just running away anymore.
It was becoming something else.
*****
They pulled into the town just as the storm reached its full rage.
The town was modest — the kind built around a single main road, where everyone knew everyone and strangers weren’t just noticed, they were catalogued.
The lodge stood at the edge of the road: a squat, two-storey building painted in faded blue, the sign barely readable through the rain.
Heritage Rest Lodge.
A generator hummed behind the building, fighting hard against the wind. A dim yellow light glowed from the reception window.
Dante parked beneath a rusted tin canopy and turned to Amara.
“Wait here.”
Before she could argue, he was already out, dashing through the downpour. His figure disappeared behind the swinging door.
Amara watched from the window, trying not to shiver as the temperature dropped.
He was gone longer than she expected.
Ten minutes. Maybe more.
When he returned, he didn’t speak. Just opened her door, passed her an umbrella, and gestured toward the building.
They hurried inside.
*****
The reception smelled of mothballs, kerosene, and old wood. The woman behind the counter looked them up and down with suspicion — Amara in her wrapper, Dante in his damp shirt and boots.
But whatever questions she had, she swallowed them when Dante handed her a wad of cash.
No ID. No questions. Just folded naira notes exchanged like secrets.
Amara caught the transaction and raised an eyebrow.
“Why no ID?” she asked once they reached their adjoining rooms.
“Privacy,” he replied shortly.
“Right,” she said, crossing her arms. “Because that doesn’t sound sketchy at all.”
He paused at the door, then turned. “You’re running too. Or have you forgotten?”
That shut her up — but only for a second.
“Yeah, but I’m not out here paying in cash like I’m on the run from Interpol.”
He gave her the faintest smirk. “Would it make you feel better if I said I’m a spy?”
“Not even slightly.”
A beat.
“Okay, maybe a little.”
Their eyes met. For the first time since their escape, they both laughed.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t long. But it was real.
Something in the air cracked open. Not just the storm outside — but the ice between them.
*****
Later, in the small dining area of the lodge — four plastic tables, flickering fluorescent bulb overhead — they sat down for a meal.
It wasn’t fancy. Just two bowls of ofada rice with pepper sauce and goat meat. Dante ate like a man used to eating alone — focused, deliberate. Amara picked at hers, appetite still curled up somewhere in the wreckage of her wedding morning.
She watched him between bites.
“Who are you really, Dante?”
He paused, spoon halfway to his mouth.
“I told you. Dante Okonkwo.”
“Don’t play coy. You’re not exactly average.”
He gave a small shrug. “Depends on what you think average is.”
“Come on. The car. The way you carry yourself. The cash. The fact that you know backroad towns better than most delivery trucks. You didn’t just stumble across me. You were meant to be there.”
Dante looked at her for a long moment.
Then he placed his spoon down, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and leaned back.
“I used to be in finance and tech. Started young. Made the right friends, the wrong enemies. Built something big.”
“And?”
“And then I walked away.”
“Just like that?”
“There was a scandal,” he said, gaze darkening. “My name was attached. Not because I was guilty — but because I was convenient. I left before the media could chew me up.”
“So… you’re rich, but wanted?”
“Not wanted. Just forgotten. On purpose.”
Amara processed this. It was a lot. Yet somehow, it made sense. Dante had that haunted kind of peace — the kind worn by men who had lost more than they would ever say.
“I should be scared of you,” she said quietly.
“Are you?”
She didn’t respond.
He didn’t press.
Instead, he picked up his spoon again.
*****
After dinner, they returned to the corridor. Rain still lashed the windows. The lodge had no satellite TV, no music, no distractions.
Amara lingered at the door of her room.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For not leaving me on the side of the road. For not asking me to explain everything. For just… being there.”
Dante nodded. “You deserved better than what happened.”
She bit her lip.
“I’m still angry,” she admitted. “Not just at them. At myself. For not seeing it. For letting them get so close.”
“That’s human.”
“And what are you?”
Dante looked at her, eyes steady. “Someone who’s learning how to be human again.”
The words hit something deep.
She reached for her door handle, hesitated, then turned back.
“Would you… maybe sit with me for a while? Just until I fall asleep?”
He raised an eyebrow.
She laughed softly. “Not like that. Just… I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight.”
He studied her, then nodded.
“Alright.”
*****
Inside the room, the bed was small but clean. The air smelled of rain-soaked linen and old detergent. Amara slipped under the covers, while Dante took the wooden chair by the wall.
They didn’t speak much.
Occasionally, she’d ask something — about his past, about places he’d seen. And he’d answer, in pieces. Never the whole puzzle, but enough to feel real.
She told him about her childhood. About Bisi. About how her parents had thrown a wedding fit for royals, and how she now couldn’t bear to face them.
At some point, her voice grew slow. Sleep tugged at her lashes.
As her eyes drifted shut, she murmured, “Maybe this storm is a blessing. Maybe it washed away everything fake.”
Dante looked at her.
Soft. Vulnerable. Stronger than she realized.
“Maybe,” he said.
When her breathing steadied into sleep, he stood silently, walked to the door, and turned off the light.
Outside, the rain began to ease.
- Writer
