I barely slept.
Not because the house wasn't comfortable—it was too comfortable. Too quiet. Too perfect. Every time I closed my eyes, my mind started racing. What if it was a mistake? What if by morning, someone would realize they'd made a terrible error? I kept turning over, half-expecting someone to knock on the door and say, "Sorry, wrong Chioma," and escort me out like some imposter caught sneaking into the VIP lounge of life.
But morning came, and no one showed up. It was real.
I woke up before dawn, long before my alarm buzzed. The air smelled of lavender from the scented diffuser on the dresser. I took a long shower, letting the warm water run over me as if it could wash away the disbelief clinging to my skin.
I dressed extra early, even though my shift didn't start till 10. Checked my phone out of habit. A couple of messages from my mum and Ada blinked on the screen.
"How's it going?"
"Have you settled in? What's the place like?"
I just replied, "You won't believe it if I told you." Because truthfully, I was still trying to believe it myself.
By the time I arrived at the restaurant, the place was already buzzing with life. Same clatter of pans, same sharp aroma of spices warming in oil. Same energy. Same faces—but something felt different. Maybe it wasn't them. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was the weight of that house key in my bag, pressing against my palm when I reached for my phone. Or maybe it was the memory of soft pillows and silky sheets, of scented handwash in every bathroom, of not having to jostle for space in a cramped apartment.
A few colleagues greeted me with extra curiosity today. It wasn't blatant, but you could feel it in the extra second their eyes lingered.
"You good?" one of the chefs asked as we prepped. "You look… different."
"Do I?" I smiled, reaching for a chopping board. "Maybe I just slept well."
Truth? I felt seen. And that was a dangerous feeling because I didn't know who exactly was doing the seeing.
I caught the HR guy walking past the kitchen, and he gave me this strange, knowing nod. Like he was in on some secret I hadn't been let in on yet.
I didn't know what to make of it. So I brushed it off. There were knives to sharpen, spices to measure, and orders to run. The kitchen didn't slow down for speculation.
Still, in the quiet moments—while waiting for the stew to reduce or the timer to go off—my mind kept drifting.
Why me? Why that house?
I hadn't seen the CEO again since the incudent in the kitchen. He hadn't been spotted around much. Only mentioned in murmurs and half-whispers, like some corporate ghost everyone feared but no one admitted to fearing. But something in my gut told me… this wasn't random. He had a hand in this.
And if that was true, I needed to stay sharp. I'd worked too hard to blow this. Because if someone like him was watching, I didn't want to be seen stumbling.
I wanted them to see me rise.
KELVIN'S OFFICE
Kelvin sat behind his desk, half-listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the distant clatter of kitchen activity several floors down. The scent of freshly brewed coffee clung to the room. His eyes skimmed over supplier reports on his tablet, but his focus wasn't there.
Another buzz from his phone. A third message from the logistics manager about the delayed cold room installation at the Port Harcourt branch.
He ignored it.
Instead, his gaze shifted to the tablet beside him—the one synced to DC's internal live feeds. He hadn't opened it all morning. Not because he wasn't tempted, but because he didn't want to need to check it. Didn't want to see what he was already thinking about.
She'd already gotten under his skin more than he liked to admit.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in."
It was Emeka, the restaurant supervisor—sharp, overly observant, and irritatingly fond of office gossip.
"Morning, sir," Emeka greeted, stepping in with the smug tone of someone carrying gist and waiting for permission to spill it.
Kelvin raised a brow. "Yes?"
"Just thought I should update you. The new chef… Chioma?"
Kelvin didn't respond. Just blinked slowly. Yes. Chioma. Go on.
"She's blending in faster than I expected," Emeka said, inching forward. "The kitchen guys tested her yesterday. You know how they get with new staff—especially pretty ones. But she held her own. Today, she came in earlier than most of the full-timers. Very coordinated. Confident."
Kelvin gave a noncommittal nod. "She should be. That's why we hired her."
"Of course," Emeka replied, lips twitching into a faint, unreadable smile. "But… some of the staff are talking."
Kelvin looked up fully now. "About?"
Emeka hesitated just enough to confirm he was enjoying every second of this. "Well, they're wondering why she got House 5. I mean… not even our sous chef is in one of the larger units. Some people think maybe she has… special ties."
Kelvin's jaw tightened, just slightly. "Do they also think I explain my decisions to gossiping kitchen staff?"
Emeka's smirk disappeared like a flicked-off switch. "No, sir. I just thought you'd want to be aware. Rumors travel fast."
Kelvin leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Let me make one thing clear, Emeka. I don't entertain speculation. I value skill, consistency, and results. If she gets all three right, that house will still be too small for her."
"Yes, sir."
Emeka straightened, executed the usual respectful nod, and left without further comment.
Once the door shut, Kelvin exhaled slowly and turned his chair toward the window. The city outside was alive—the honking cars, blurred shapes of pedestrians, Lagos never slept.
He could've said more. Could've denied any personal interest. Could've laughed it off like some absurd workplace joke.
But the words refused to form.