CHAPTER FOUR
CHIDERA
The living room felt suspended in a hush when she stepped in.
Morning light spilled across the tiles in soft, golden pools, warm and unhurried, yet the air carried a weight—like a conversation left unfinished.
Dele perched on the arm of the couch, phone in hand, thumb scrolling endlessly, as if the screen could shield him from whatever was coming. The television flickered silently in the background, forgotten. The faint hum of the refrigerator and a distant bird outside filled the silence in delicate, unnoticed layers.
She cleared her throat, gentle but deliberate.
"Dele… can we talk?"
He looked up, eyes blinking slowly. "About what?"
She paused, gathering herself, then met his gaze. "It's about your friend. Chidera."
A smile touched Dele's lips—too quick, too bright. "Last night," she began, choosing her words with care, "something happened."
Dele leaned back slightly. "You two fought again?"
"No," she said softly. "Not exactly. Last night—"
"Oh, thank goodness," he cut in, laughter spilling out with obvious relief. "I thought it was something serious."
Her brows drew together, confusion flickering across her face. "Dele, please listen. Last night—"
Footsteps sounded from the hallway, measured and unhurried.
I entered, an apple in one hand, a small paring knife in the other. I moved as if the previous night had never existed—calm, indifferent. My gaze brushed over her once, slow and lingering, before sliding away. I leaned against the counter and began peeling the apple, the blade gliding in thin, curling spirals. The faint scent of the fruit mingled with the morning air, sharp and fresh.
Dele exhaled, a quiet release of tension.
Interesting.
"Bro," he said, forcing lightness into his voice, "what happened between you and Star last night?"
She stilled. Not dramatically—just a subtle freeze, like breath caught in her throat. A faint tension ran through her shoulders. "Dele," she said quickly, "this is private. Between us."
He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze. "Babe… he's right here. Let's just clear the air. Whatever it is, we can sort it out together."
She tilted her head, annoyed, but also betraying a hint of fatigue. "Are you slow?"
I almost smiled. The subtle twitch at the corner of her lips… that tiny motion made my pulse stir unexpectedly.
"What?" Dele asked.
She sighed, regret already colouring the sound. "Sorry. That came out harsher than I meant. Can we just go to the room? Please?"
Slow?
She had no idea she was the one completely in the dark.
Dele was avoiding this question because he was also agreed to what she wanted to discuss.
Dele glanced at me. "Chidera, did anything happen with Star last night?"
I let the question hang for a moment, knife pausing mid-peel. "Last night?" I echoed, as if searching my memory. "Hmm… I think someone slapped me. Or maybe that was a dream." I shrugged lightly. "No, I didn't see Star."
Then, innocently, I added, "What's wrong, dear?"
The word landed softly, but her reaction was immediate—eyes widening, lips parting in quiet outrage. "Dear?"
She straightened, composure returning like armour.
"Dele. You and me. In the room. Now."
But Dele wasn't ready for that conversation—more than she realised.
His phone buzzed—timed perfectly. I'd watched him set the alarm just minutes earlier.
He glanced at the screen with exaggerated surprise. "Sorry, Star," he said, already rising. "Work thing. We'll talk later, yeah?"
She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. Hurt flickered across her face, gentle and unguarded, before she tucked it away.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Silence settled, thick and deliberate. The hum of the refrigerator suddenly seemed louder. Even the distant bird outside hadn't dared to sing.
I stayed by the counter, peeling the apple in slow, rhythmic strokes. She remained where she was, arms folded loosely across her chest, posture guarded yet not entirely closed. Every slight shift in her weight, every subtle exhale, registered in my attention.
"You were about to snitch on me," I said quietly, voice low and amused.
She rolled her eyes.
I chuckled under my breath. Why did that small defiance stir something in me?
My gaze drifted to her as I worked the knife—watching the way stray strands of hair caught the morning light, the subtle rise and fall of her breathing. The blade moved steadily, but my attention wasn't on the apple anymore.
The knife slipped.
Just a fraction. Enough.
A sharp sting bloomed across my finger. I hissed softly, more irritated than hurt. Blood welled, bright against my skin.
"Damn."
She moved before I could dismiss it—turning toward the cabinet with quiet purpose.
"Sit," she said, voice calm but firm.
"I'm fine."
She paused, back to me for a moment. "Sit."
There was no demand in it, only certainty. Something in the steadiness of her tone made resistance feel pointless.
I lowered myself.
She returned with the first-aid kit, knelt in front of me, and gently took my hand in hers. Her fingers were warm, careful—smaller than I'd imagined, yet sure. She cleaned the cut with slow, deliberate movements, as if each touch mattered.
I watched her, not the wound.
Her lashes cast faint shadows on her cheeks. A loose strand of hair brushed her face as she worked. She tucked it behind her ear without looking up.
Her hands are soft. Not fragile—simply kind.
When she finished, she secured the bandage with gentle precision and withdrew her touch almost reluctantly.
"There," she murmured. "Try not to bleed on the floor."
Something unfamiliar stirred in my chest—brief, quiet, unwelcome.
I had wanted her hand to linger. Just a moment longer.
Wait. Why?
I exhaled softly, listening to the quiet around us—the distant street noise, the muted TV, the faint click of the refrigerator—and felt the pulse of my own heart.
I wanted to reach for her hand. Just to understand it.
But I didn't.
I didn't have a reason to
My phone buzzed next to me. I glanced at it—a message from Grandfather.
You haven't been to the company in four days. You haven't come home in two months.
I smirked faintly. I could hear his voice trough the text: Can't an heir rest? I typed, thumb hovering over send.
But I deleted it. He'd only call and shout.
Instead, I replied: Buzz off. Now that's how to provoke your grandfather
The phone rang instantly—his name flashing. I let it ring out, satisfaction warming me.
Almost immediately, another message: Choose the belt you prefer when I discipline you upon your return.
I chuckled quietly, selected an image of the thickest one, and added: If I return.
Looks like I wasn't going home this weekend after all.
She packed the kit and closed it.
My attention shifted back to her
A corner of my mouth lifted. "Didn't know you cared."
"I don't," she said evenly, not meeting my eyes.
I laughed softly. "Liar."
She paused, then spoke quietly. I was thinking, of a love one, my younger brother. He's always hurting himself with sharp things."
"Oh?" ".... so have I become a loved one now?"
She looked at me, eyes steady. "Don't give me the urge to slap you again."
Anyone else would've regretted saying that to me.
Instead, I smirked.
A beat passed.
"And," she added, voice calm but edged with steel, "never, insult me like you did yesterday. Ever again. Do you understand?"
"I didn't insult you."
She held my gaze. "You called me a prostitute in ninety-nine different ways."
Then she turned and walked away, footsteps soft against the tiles.
I remained, forgotten apple beside me, bandaged hand resting on my knee.
I bit my lip, a slow smile forming.
That attitude.