There's always a line.
Between boss and worker.
Between kindness and something more.
Between safe and stupid.
And the most dangerous thing about a line… is not knowing when you've already crossed it.
Madam Nneka had traveled for the weekend to attend a wedding in Owerri, and the change was instant.The tension in the house loosened, as if everyone could finally breath.
No shouting. No clicking heels echoing down the hallway. No last-minute orders.
The staffs worked slower, Softer, we even laughed.
I spent most of the day in the laundry room, ironing the household clothes while the radio played faintly in the background. My favorite song Ololufe played through the speakers, and i sang along under my breath, almost forgetting where i was.
That's when i heard the voice.
"You always sing when you iron?"
Startled, i nearly pressed the iron onto my own hand.
Chinedu stood at the doorway, wearing a black t-shirt and gray joggers. No shoes, just casual, relaxed but his eyes were unreadable as always.
"I… I didn't hear you come in."
He did not move. "Do i scare you?"
"No," i lied.
He smirked. "That makes one of us."
Before i could respond, he turned and left, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
Later, i went to the kitchen and found something odd tucked behind the pinned cleaning schedule a small square of paper folded neatly.
My name. Written in a sharp, clean hand.
Come to the balcony after dinner.
No signature.
But I knew who it was.
Every part of me said i should not go.
But my feet did not listen.
The third floor balcony overlooked the garden, dimly lit by ground lanterns casting long shadows. I stepped onto the cool tiles, my slippers quiet beneath me.
Chinedu was already there, resting his forearms on the rail, a drink in his hand. He didn't turn when i arrived.
"I like the quiet here," he said. "It reminds me of when this house did not feel like a prison."
I said nothing letting the breeze speak for me.
He turned slowly. "Do you still feel trapped?"
Sometimes i said
He took a sip of his drink, then set it down.
I called you here because i want to ask you something.
I nodded, cautious.
If i tell you something… something that could change everything… would you keep it?
I blinked. "What kind of secret?"
The kind that makes people disappear.
The words sank like stones into my chest.
"I would never repeat anything," i said firmer than i expected.
He studied me, his expression unreadable. "Even if it made you see me differently?"
I held his gaze. "You don't scare me like you think you do."
That made him smirk again. A soft, amused sound that barely reached his eyes.
I have seen fear but yours doesn't smell like it.
He stepped forward. Not too close but close enough.
"There's blood on this house, Tomiwa," he said softly.
A chill ran down my spine.
"What do you mean?"
He looked down at his hands. "Not tonight i just i needed to see something. What?
"If you will run."
I did not.
He nodded to himself, as if that answered something he had been asking all along.
Then, slowly, he reached out and tucked a loose braid behind my ear his fingers brushed my skin and the contact left heat in its wake.
"You're not like them," he said.
I didn't know who them was, but i did not ask.
He turned away, picked up his drink again, and stared out into the dark.
I should have walked away.
I should have gone to bed, buried the night like a forgotten whisper.
But i stood there.
Until he spoke again.
"You ever think about who you were… before you had to become strong?"
His voice was quiet, but it tore through me.
"Every day," i replied.
He did not look at me, but his shoulders tensed.
"I was soft once," he said, too soft now i don't even know if i miss it or if i hate that version of me."
I did not reply, i couldn't.
We stayed like two broken people staring into the dark pretending we were not falling into something neither of us was ready for.
The next morning, i woke up to find another package outside my door.
Inside was a silk scarf. Midnight blue, embroidered with gold thread.
No note. No reason.
Just silence.
And in that silence, I realized something terrifying:
This was no longer just a job.