The storm didn't let up. By the time the announcement came—"All outbound flights have been canceled for the night"—a low groan spread through the terminal like thunder had entered the building.
Amaka stood by the window, watching the sky throw down sheets of water like it was punishing the city. The news should've upset her more than it did. But instead of disappointment, she felt... relieved. One more night of not having to explain herself. One more night of not fighting battles she was tired of winning.
Tunde leaned beside her, his voice quiet.
"You really sold that performance."
Amaka smirked. "You weren't bad yourself. You've done this before?"
"Pretending?" He shrugged. "Every day."
She turned to him. His tone had been flat, but his eyes weren't. They were heavy, like he carried silence the way some people carried grief.
"You ever think of acting?" she asked, trying to shift the mood.
"I don't perform," he said. "I observe."
A moment passed between them, unspoken but not awkward.
"Come with me," Amaka said suddenly.
Tunde raised an eyebrow. "To where?"
"The place I was running to," she said. "I booked a weekend at the Grand Palms in Ilashe. Private beach, no journalists. You could use a break from... whatever this is." She gestured to the sketchpad he still carried.
"You're inviting a total stranger to join you on a getaway weekend?"
"You're not a stranger. You're Tunde Afolayan."
He blinked, then laughed for the first time since she'd met him.
"And you're Amaka Okoye. Destroyer of men and startups."
She laughed too, surprised at herself. "Touché."
He studied her. "Why me?"
She hesitated. "Because you're not trying to fix me. And you're not asking me to explain."
He nodded, slowly. "And what do I get out of this?"
She tilted her head. "A few days of pretending you're not broken."
Tunde was quiet for a long time. Then:
"You have no idea how dangerous that is."
Amaka smiled. "Neither do you."
They took the water taxi out just after noon the next day. The storm had receded, but the sky still wore bruises. Ilashe greeted them with its usual hush—just waves, sand, and silence. The Grand Palms was nearly empty, its usual buzz flattened by weather and off-season timing.
At check-in, the woman at the desk raised her brow.
"Room for two?" she asked, fingers poised over the tablet.
Tunde hesitated. Amaka didn't.
"Yes. We're together."
There it was again—that flicker of chemistry that neither of them wanted to name.
The room was absurdly luxurious: glass walls, infinity pool, hammocks, a view that looked like something out of a tourism ad. Tunde walked around, half-impressed, half-suspicious.
"Is this where rich people come to forget they're lonely?" he asked.
Amaka pulled off her hat and tossed it onto a chair. "No. This is where people who've earned hell try to buy a little peace."
He glanced at her. "And have you earned hell?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she walked to the balcony and stood at the edge, arms crossed.
"I spent ten years building a company that empowers women financially. One leak. One lie. And suddenly I'm a whore who slept her way to seed funding."
Tunde said nothing.
"And the worst part," she added, "is how quiet the people I helped became. How fast everyone moved on."
The ocean didn't care about her story. It just kept rolling.
He finally spoke. "I lost my wife in this water."
Amaka turned, startled.
"She drowned," he said simply. "Three years ago. I stopped painting for two. Only just started again last week."
She walked toward him, slowly.
"Why now?"
"Because I met someone who reminds me what it feels like to fight for something."
They stood there, close but not touching.
Then Tunde looked away. "We're still pretending, right?"
Amaka smiled, softly.
"Of course."
You said:
chapter 3
ChatGPT said:
Absolutely! Here's Chapter Three of Borrowed Skies, where the emotional undercurrents between Amaka and Tunde deepen. This chapter shows their "pretend" beginning to blur with real vulnerability—and foreshadows the conflict ahead.
Chapter Three: Cracks in the Act
The resort had a strange stillness that made every glance feel louder than it should.
Amaka stirred her tea slowly, watching steam curl upward from her cup. Across the patio table, Tunde had gone back to sketching, the edge of his charcoal catching light every time he shaded a line.
She couldn't tell if he was drawing her. But she felt it.
"You always this quiet in the mornings?" she asked.
He didn't look up. "Only when I'm trying not to ruin a moment."
"You think this is a moment?"
He finally met her gaze. "You don't?"
That stopped her. For someone who claimed not to perform, he knew exactly where to hit a line that stuck.
She sat back, sipping her tea. "Don't romanticize this. We're on borrowed time."
"I know," he said. "That's what makes it honest."
They went kayaking that afternoon—more her idea than his. The guides at the resort gave them life vests and told them to avoid the far rocks. The sea was calmer than the day before, but still moody.
Amaka paddled hard, used to effort. Tunde moved more slowly, deliberate with every stroke. Their tandem kayak glided unevenly at first, then fell into a rhythm.
She liked the silence between them. It wasn't awkward. Just full.
Halfway through, she asked, "What was she like?"
He didn't ask who she meant.
"She was kind," he said. "Gentle in a way that made you believe the world could be, too."
"And you lost her out here?"
He nodded. "She went swimming alone. Current pulled her under."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm not."
She looked at him.
"I mean, I am. But I'm also tired of people saying sorry like it's a cure. It isn't. Grief is like... a shadow you learn to stop fighting."
She didn't say anything. Because she got it.
That evening, back at the villa, Amaka stood in front of the mirror, her reflection softened by candlelight. Her hair was wrapped in a loose scarf, and for once, she wasn't wearing anything branded or bold. Just a linen dress and bare feet.
Tunde appeared in the doorway with a bottle of palm wine and two cups.
"Figured we might as well toast the end of the world," he said.
She smirked. "Is that what this is?"
He handed her a cup. "Feels like it. But in a good way."
They sat on the floor, the soft hum of ocean air sneaking in through the open balcony doors.
"I Googled you last night," she said, after two sips.
Tunde laughed. "Of course you did."
"You were... big. Like mural-on-Bourdillon-Road big."
"I used to think visibility was the goal," he said. "Now I think peace is."
She nodded slowly. "Peace sounds nice."
Tunde looked at her differently then. Not like a stranger, or a scandal, or a story. Just... a person. Real. Close.
"Why didn't you delete the video?" he asked.
She swallowed. "Because deleting it would've made me complicit in hiding it. I decided to own it instead."
He nodded. "That's brave."
"It was survival."
Another long pause. Then:
"This doesn't feel fake anymore," he said softly.
"No," she admitted, "it doesn't."
He leaned in slightly. Not enough to kiss her. But enough for her to feel the gravity of it.
She didn't move.