Later That Evening
The last of the dinner rush had faded, leaving DC Restaurant draped in a quieter hum. The lingering aroma of seared meat, roasted garlic, and spice clung to the air like the final notes of a symphony winding down. Lights had dimmed to their evening glow, and the bustling kitchens now settled into a softer rhythm — chefs cleaning down, prepping stations for tomorrow, the sharp clang of knives and clatter of pans gradually giving way to stillness.
Chioma lingered by the sauce station longer than necessary, wiping a spotless counter for the third time. She wasn't sure what she was waiting for. Or maybe she was — and it felt dangerous to admit it.
The afternoon's confrontation still played on repeat in her mind. Not Amaka's venom. Not the petty words. But his.
The way Kelvin's voice could cut through a room without ever rising. The lethal calm in his eyes.
And the way the storm in her chest had quieted the second his gaze met hers.
She exhaled, untying her apron, and made her way toward his office.
The corridor stretched before her, empty and too quiet. Every step sounded too loud against the polished floor. By the time she reached the heavy oak door marked CEO, her pulse had quickened. It wasn't fear. Not exactly.
It was something else.
Something heavier. And she didn't dare name it.
She raised a hand and knocked.
"Come in."
That voice. Deep. Unmistakable.
She opened the door.
Kelvin sat behind his desk, the soft glow of a desk lamp casting sharp shadows across his face. His jacket was gone, sleeves rolled up, forearms tensed as he sifted through untouched files. A glass of something dark gleamed by his elbow. The room smelled of leather, expensive cologne, and quiet authority.
He looked up, a single brow lifting in question.
Chioma hesitated. "I… wanted to thank you. For earlier."
He didn't smile. Kelvin wasn't a man of easy expressions. But something in his gaze shifted — a flicker of interest, or danger, or both.
"You already did," he said, leaning back, studying her like a puzzle he hadn't yet decided whether to solve or unravel.
"I know," she murmured, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "But I needed to say it properly. Not in front of everyone."
He gestured to the chair opposite him.
"Sit."
It wasn't a suggestion.
She obeyed.
The silence between them stretched thick, weighted with things unsaid. The only sounds were the distant clatter of kitchenware and the steady tick of the clock on the wall.
At last, his voice broke it — low, smooth, carrying the weight of something unnameable.
"You handled yourself well. Most would've lost their head, caused a scene. You didn't."
"I wanted to," she admitted, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
That earned the closest thing to a grin she'd seen from him — a quick curve of his lips, sharp and fleeting.
"Good," he murmured. "But you know what makes you more dangerous than the rest?"
She tilted her head. "What?"
"You wear your fire like a secret."
His eyes lingered on her, gaze dropping briefly to her lips before returning to hers.
"And that… makes people curious."
A warmth bloomed low in her stomach. She wasn't sure if it was the words or the way he said them — like each syllable was meant only for her.
He reached for the glass, swirling the amber liquid but not drinking.
"People will come for you here. It's inevitable. Talent threatens the insecure. And…" a small, wicked glint flickered in his eye, "proximity to me makes you a target."
"I didn't ask for special treatment," she said softly.
"I know. But you have it now. Not because of anything you think… but because the moment you stepped into my kitchen, you made every man in there look like a boy playing with fire."
The compliment struck deeper than she expected, setting her pulse into an unsteady rhythm. She dropped her gaze, not out of submission — never that — but to gather herself. His attention felt like standing too close to a flame. Reckless. Alluring.
He set the glass down, leaning in.
"I'll handle the others. You… focus on your craft. That's all I ask."
She met his gaze. "And if I can't ignore them?"
A slow, dangerous smile curled his mouth.
"Then you come to me."
His voice was a promise and a provocation at once.
He added, softer now, his tone like velvet wrapped in steel:
"I don't joke with you, Chioma."
The way he said it — low, intimate, like a secret meant for no one else — made something catch in her throat. A flicker of heat, a pull she wasn't ready to name.
She swallowed and rose to her feet. "Goodnight, sir."
As she reached for the door, his voice stopped her again.
"Chioma."
She turned, glancing back.
"I don't tolerate weakness." His gaze held hers, dark and unreadable.
"But loyalty…" A pause. A promise. "I reward that."
There was something in his tone that wasn't about work — she felt it in her blood, thick and heady.
She gave a small, steady nod. "Understood."
And then she stepped out, closing the door behind her.
The echo of it settled deep into her bones.
---
In the hallway, Chioma pressed her back against the door, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
The air felt cooler than his office, but it did nothing to calm the heat simmering under her skin.
She hadn't expected those words. Hadn't expected the weight of his gaze to linger like a touch, or for his voice to wrap around her like silk and wildfire.
I don't joke with you, Chioma.
The line played in her head, curling around something soft and dangerous inside her. It wasn't just the words. It was how he'd said them. Low. Certain. Like a promise. Or a threat.
Her fingers brushed her lips as though trying to quiet the storm in her chest, but it was no use. It was there — a tight, pulsing ache. Not quite fear. Not quite desire. Something in between.
Something dangerous.
She pushed off the door and moved down the hallway, her footsteps careful now. Lighter.
Like someone carrying a secret.
And maybe…
She liked it.
More than she should.