Chapter 4: Thinks we are dating.

Amos

With the number of complaints coming from the company that hosted the event, visiting with a gift to apologize became unavoidable. One thing I knew how to do was swallow my pride when it mattered.

With Mosun by my side, I went shopping and picked out a few “sorry” gifts.

We arrived as early as possible, only to be told the CEO wouldn’t be around that day. She had taken time off to rest.

Without hesitation, we headed to her house.

The drive was quiet — the kind of quiet that feels like a cold war. Mosun was proving tough; I wasn’t trying. I stayed in my lane, being myself, offering no explanation for my mood. She had the upper hand anyway. I hadn’t found a manager more suitable than her.

Yes, she came with her flaws, but who didn’t?

As the saying goes, the devil you know is better than the angel you don’t. For now, I was willing to let Mosun be.

Soon, Mosun updated me on my schedule for the day, but I told her to reschedule every meeting from morning till evening. None of them were important to the growth of my company — not today.

We arrived after an hour-long drive, maneuvering through Lagos’ usual madness. I was granted entrance immediately. This wasn’t our first time here, and the house owner was a friend.

I knew she would be mad at me, but that could be settled with a few xoxo.

The moment Bisola was informed I was in her abode, I was certain she was ignited — anger, excitement, confusion, or whatever emotions she chose to feel at that moment.

I didn’t need to notify her. I wasn’t a stranger here. But for effect — and maybe courtesy — I did.

I walked in.

She was seated on the couch beside her bed, dressed in a nightgown that barely reached mid-thigh, her cleavage visible enough to send a message.

I got the idea.

Not today.

In her hand was a stack of newspapers she skimmed through — definitely not reading. Bisola reading? Not today. Not tomorrow.

The fact that I was already a few steps into the room and she didn’t flinch or turn to see who had walked in told me everything I needed to know.

I didn’t stop midway. I walked straight to her.

I caressed her from behind, my hands resting on her shoulders as I laid soft kisses along her neck — not a hickey. She tried to suppress the moan that followed, but she failed.

I won.

“Here,” I said, handing her the bouquet of purple roses. “An apology for not coming.”

Her favourite.

“Not enough.” She turned to me — neither surprised nor impressed. I expected that. It was always the same. I wasn’t a woman pleaser, and I didn’t pretend to be.

But her words meant something else. I knew exactly what she wanted. I just chose to act like I didn’t.

She wanted more.

This was all I had.

I knew refusing her unspoken request would cost me something later. Still, I overlooked the consequences and made my choice.

I stopped being clingy, stepped back, and took a seat.

“Why didn’t you come?” she asked as I settled on the couch beside her bed.

I gave her a smile — heavy, rare, genuine. It had been a while since I’d smiled like that, and I was oddly pleased with myself.

“No excuse,” she said. “Or is there one?”

Her look told me she already knew what I was going to say.

That made me tighten my lips and refuse to let a word out.

This wasn’t me. I didn’t understand it, but I became vulnerable around Bisola. It wasn’t normal — at least not for me. Maybe it was because we’d come a long way. Still, she wasn’t the first female friend in my life. Or maybe there was something more I wasn’t ready to name.

But it definitely wasn’t love.

“Wardrobe malfunction,” I said.

I didn’t know when the words formed or how they escaped my mouth. Strange. I wouldn’t have said that if I were fully conscious. That’s what being around her did to me — it loosened my guard.

She looked at me like the excuse was lazy.

Like it was a lie.

Like I simply didn’t want to come.

She didn’t need to say it. Her face said everything.

“My stylist failed,” I added quickly. “And Mosun couldn’t get another one.”

I just needed the look gone — even if belief wasn’t part of the deal.

We didn’t break eye contact the entire time.

Through that long stare, I noticed it — her expression softened. Her features lifted, and a smile slipped out unconsciously.

Yes. Finally.

Don’t get me wrong — I wasn’t begging. I just needed that look gone, whatever it took.

“You could have called me,” she said. “I could’ve reached out to my stylist.”

Her tone was calmer now.

“Yesterday was a mess,” I replied. “I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

The words were carefully chosen. Still, the thought that followed drained me instantly. My fingers rubbed against my forehead, trying to quiet the memories pressing in.

Yesterday was daring.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked — ready to listen, to turn chaos into soft melodies.

I wasn’t ready to hand her that weight.

“Don’t bore yourself with my sad, tired-day tale,” I said, half poetic, fully dismissive.

“Okay.”

She stood and moved away from the couch, disappearing into the dressing room.

Surprised!

Bisola never gives up easily — unless on rare occasions. I guess today was one of them. She seemed like she wasn’t going to persist.

Soon, she slid out of my gaze behind the glass doors I couldn’t see through.

What is she going to do? I wanted to ask directly, but instead, I used the moment to escape Bisola’s world and check into mine briefly.

“The world thinks we are dating!” Her voice echoed from the dressing room.

Even as I scrolled and checked a few things on my phone, her words reached me. There was something soothing in them. A smile tugged at my lips, playful and subconscious, and I didn’t fight it.

“What did you see?” I asked, not about our actions, but whether she had come across some articles.

To me, it was old news.

What haven’t I been called? Her dog? I’d been dragged countless times online, but no one dared say it to my face. And during strolls, I never bothered replying. I guess people finally got the message — it didn’t get to me.

“A new article. It says, ‘We thought they were dating.’ Then there are separate pictures of me and you.” She took her time explaining the details. In summary, it was about last night.

The whole article screamed curiosity. They didn’t know where we stood. They wanted answers, but couldn’t find them. Only those stupid, unprofessional bloggers, born to dash out false claims for attention, drew conclusions without proof. Integrity? I guess they have none.

“Are you happy about it?” she asked, peeking out from the dressing room. Her face was beaming, her smile bright enough to light another.

For some reason, my countenance dropped. Words faded. Nothing existed in my world at that moment. “Speechless” wasn’t right. I was dumbstruck.

“...” I tried to speak, but all I did was stammer, my first words failing to come out.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, shutting me up. She knew I was about to speak. She knew what my answer might be — was that what she needed to hear to confirm something?

She put me on the hot spot.

Stammering wasn’t meant to hurt her feelings, but when had it started? I thought I didn’t care.

“I’m sorry, Bisola.”

Just as I said it, her smile dropped and she disappeared completely into the dressing room.

An awkward silence settled. Long… long… long.

I tried to think of the right words, words that wouldn’t offend her further. All to no avail. My head buried between my arms, resting on my knees, I shifted position, then stood and paced toward the door, praying silently for words to come.

“Are you fine?” I asked as she emerged, glittering in a green-and-silver dress. My words rushed out before I could think. Thank God she made it easy for me to compliment her.

“This is what I wore for the after-party.”

“You don’t look stunning…” I paused, letting the effect linger. “…You are stunning,” I added, my tone heavy, deep enough for her to feel that these words weren’t just empty flattery.

“You missed big time yesterday,” she said, striding across the room like a model, before walking back to me. Then, she slipped into the dressing room again, and I excused her.

Bisola!

My heart screamed as I dropped onto the couch, staring at the dressing room entrance, waiting for her to walk out. Memories of the struggles we’d faced over the past few months flashed before my eyes—and they didn’t feel old. Life had a way of bringing people together. Meeting people wasn’t the goal; the impact you had on each other was what mattered. Thank God she walked in when she did. And I thanked God I was here, too.

After a while, she was dressed and ready to head out. I expected her to go to work and me to mine, but I knew the plans were about to change. The moment she told her driver to join Mosun in my car and had me drive her, I knew today wasn’t going to be a workday.

We headed to a lounge to enjoy some quiet time together. She kept me there, and we had conversations that bridged the gaps we hadn’t addressed before.

But a question lingered in my mind: was I ready for another press question about our relationship?

The answer remained the same.

“… ”

Silence.