I don't respond right away.
The message from Kolade sits on my phone like a ghost that refuses to be ignored. "We need to talk. One last time."
What could he possibly say that I don't already know? That it wasn't personal? That he cared, somehow? That he regrets it?
Regret is cheap. Silence is easier.
But I don't delete the message either.
Instead, I sleep with it lingering in my thoughts, curling under my skin, turning my dreams into a mix of longing and fury. When I wake up, the decision has already been made in my gut.
I text him back:
> "Tomorrow. 3 p.m. The garden café in Ikoyi. Come completely clean or don't bother coming at all."
No emojis. No emotion.
Just a chance for the truth to face me in daylight. A chance to see the monster, for what it truly was.
Tomorrow...
The next day arrives slow and grey, the kind of sky that feels like a warning. I dress simply a black blouse, high-waisted jeans, no jewelry except the tiny gold ring my mother gave me before she passed. I leave the confidence heels at home and wear flat sandals.
There's power in not having to perform.
I get to the café early. It's quiet, tucked behind flowering shrubs, with birdsong and soft jazz dancing in the air. A waiter offers me the corner table, half-covered in ivy. I choose it without hesitation.
By 3:07, I'm convinced he won't show.
At 3:09, he does.
Kolade.
Except now, I see him differently.
He's not the soft-spoken driver who once waited outside for hours just to take me home. He's not the man who massaged my ankles after long board meetings or read poetry aloud when I couldn't sleep.
He's leaner. Paler. A little rough around the edges, like someone who hasn't eaten or rested in days. But his eyes… his eyes still hold that storm I once mistook for calm.
"Rita," he says, as though the name still belongs to him.
I don't offer a smile. "You're late."
He nods, slides into the seat across from me. He doesn't reach for my hands, doesn't try to lie with his touch like he used to.
Good.
I want honesty now. Only that.
"I'm not here to apologize," he says, his voice rough. "You wouldn't believe me if I did."
"That's the first smart thing you've said."
A beat passes. The birds chirp, the waiter brings water, and we sit in that strange limbo where two people who once shared a bed now sit like strangers on opposite sides of a war.
"You were the job," he finally says. "At first."
I let the silence press against him.
He swallows hard. "Nse was the mastermind. She found me after I got out. She'd been watching you for years knew your routines, your habits, your pride. She offered me a deal. Said I could help her bring you down, and in return, she'd protect me."
"Protect you from what?"
He looks away, jaw clenched. "From what I'd become."
I almost laugh. "You make it sound like you were the victim."
"No," he says quickly, looking back at me. "I was desperate. There's a difference."
I fold my arms. "You could've stopped."
"I tried. I swear I did. But the money, the plan… it was already in motion. And then you " He stops himself. Shakes his head. "You ruined everything. Because I fell for you."
I sit back. Let his words hang there like smoke.
He says it like a confession. Like a wound.
And I don't know what hurts more that he says he loved me, or that part of me still wants to believe it.
But I won't let belief betray me again.
"You broke me," I say quietly. "But not beyond repair."
He nods slowly, tears blinking at the corners of his eyes. "I know."
I stand. "This is the last time we speak. Ever."
He doesn't argue. He just watches me walk away.
And I don't look back.
Not once.