Amaka arrived early again, this time for a strategy session scheduled to last most of the afternoon. The meeting was not in the usual boardroom but in Chuka's private executive suite,a decision that made her palms sweat the moment she saw the calendar invite.
She had stared at her screen for almost a full minute when the notification appeared:
Strategy Session — Amaka and CEO — 2:00 PM — Executive Suite (North Wing)
No assistant. No team. Just the two of them.
A deliberate choice, clearly.
Now, standing outside the glass doors of his office, she hesitated just long enough to collect herself. Her reflection in the door showed a poised woman in a soft cream blouse tucked into a rust orange skirt that hit just below her knees. Her curls were pinned up neatly, and a bold nude lipstick gave her the confidence she needed.
With a quiet inhale, she knocked once, then entered.
Chuka looked up from behind his desk. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top button of his shirt undone. His tie was nowhere in sight.
She felt her heart skip before she even stepped fully inside.
"You are early," he said, standing and walking around the desk.
"Better than late," she replied smoothly, placing her laptop on the small meeting table near the window.
"I agree," he said, pouring two glasses of water. He handed one to her. "Shall we begin?"
She nodded.
They sat facing each other, the city skyline stretching endlessly behind them. The room was silent except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the soft clicking of her keyboard.
"I have reviewed the data you sent last night," she began. "It confirms that the user base has grown by nearly thirty percent since the initial rebranding test. Engagement is up, and feedback shows a renewed sense of loyalty."
He nodded slowly, listening.
"That is good," he said. "But we still need more. This is Lagos. Competition moves fast. I want a brand that makes noise."
"You already have the noise," she replied, locking eyes with him. "What you need is trust. Loyalty. You cannot buy that with a loud campaign."
There was a pause. Then a small smile crept onto his lips.
"There she is."
"Who?"
"The Amaka I remember. Always saying what no one else will."
She tilted her head slightly. "Is that a compliment or a warning?"
"Maybe both," he said, still smiling. "Depends on the day."
She chuckled, despite herself. "Well, today I am just doing my job."
They reviewed the campaign plans, discussed the updated brand narrative, and brainstormed ideas for a new video series highlighting the real people behind the company. As the discussion deepened, the tone softened. There were moments when their conversation drifted beyond work, small comments, shared jokes, a memory referenced too casually to be innocent.
At one point, he asked, "Do you still hate plantain?"
She looked up, surprised. "I never hated plantain."
"You always picked it out of your rice at Mama Ejiro's."
"I was saving it for last. It is the best part."
He laughed, his voice echoing off the glass walls. "All these years, and I thought you hated it."
"You thought wrong," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Like you did about many things."
The smile faded just slightly between them.
Chuka leaned back in his chair, tapping a pen against the table.
"Amaka… do you ever think about how things ended?"
Her fingers paused over her keyboard.
She did not look at him right away.
"Of course I do," she said quietly. "But I do not dwell."
"I do," he admitted.
Her eyes met his.
"That night… I left without a word. I was scared. I thought I was doing what was best."
"You thought leaving without explanation was best?" she asked, her voice suddenly sharp. "You disappeared. I waited. I called. I begged God for a reason. And you gave me silence."
"I was young," he said. "And foolish. I was offered the opportunity of a lifetime, and I ran with it."
"And left me to wonder if I was not part of your lifetime," she said, her voice rising slightly.
The room fell silent again.
He looked down.
"I regretted it the moment I landed in Canada. But by then, I was too ashamed to reach out."
She closed her laptop slowly.
"I do not want to have this conversation here," she said, her voice calm but firm.
"I know," he replied.
"But I need to say this."
She looked at him, eyes filled with unspoken pain. "You broke something in me, Chuka. Something that took years to rebuild. And just because we are sitting across from each other in a glass office does not mean it is healed."
He swallowed hard.
"I am not expecting forgiveness," he said. "But I needed to say it."
She nodded.
"Good. Now let us get back to work."
They returned to their documents, but the room felt different. Raw. Honest. The air between them was no longer heavy with tension, but it was still charged.
At exactly four o'clock, she stood.
"I have another call in fifteen minutes. I will finish the mockup slides tonight and email them before midnight."
He stood too.
"Thank you."
She nodded once.
As she turned to leave, he spoke again.
"Amaka."
She stopped but did not turn.
"If I could go back, I would choose differently."
She looked at him over her shoulder.
"Then make better choices now."
And with that, she walked out, leaving behind silence, regret, and the unmistakable scent of coconut oil and perfume that lingered in the air long after she was gone.
Amaka made her way back to her office, her heels clicking rhythmically against the tiled floor. She walked quickly, deliberately, as though speed could somehow erase the heaviness in her chest. Her mind was spinning. Part of her was relieved he had finally spoken those words, the admission, the regret, the truth. And yet, it did nothing to close the old wounds. If anything, it reminded her just how deep they were.
Back at her desk, she sank into her chair and stared at her screen without truly seeing it. The company's brand strategy, the marketing timeline, the digital campaign, all of it blurred beneath the storm of emotion brewing behind her calm expression.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Kemi, her best friend and emotional compass.
Kemi: Update me before I call the FBI. How was the solo session with His Royal CEO?
Amaka chuckled and replied.
Amaka: Intense. He brought up the past.
Kemi: Wait… what? Are we talking closure or confusion?
Amaka: Both. He apologized. Said he regretted it all.
Kemi: Whew. And you?
Amaka: I told him the truth. That I was broken. That I waited.
Kemi: My girl. That is power.
Amaka: I do not feel powerful. I feel tired.
Kemi: Healing is tiring. But you did good. Want to meet up later? Wine and suya therapy?
Amaka: Maybe. I'll let you know.
She placed the phone face down and exhaled deeply.
Later that evening, the office was mostly empty. The soft buzz of the air conditioning was the only sound besides her rapid typing. She was in the zone, slides laid out, graphics aligned, campaign concepts rewritten to reflect a new approach.
But then, a knock.
She looked up.
Chuka.
Again.
He held two steaming cups in his hands.
"I figured you would still be here," he said, stepping inside without waiting for permission. "Chai from that roadside woman near the security gate. You still like ginger and cloves, right?"
She stared at him, unsure how to respond.
He placed one cup on her desk and took a seat opposite her, the same way he used to back when they were still in university, back when they would meet in the library and he would bring her drinks and jokes and dreams.
"You do not have to keep doing this," she said softly.
"Doing what?"
"Showing up like we are friends. Like nothing happened."
"I am not pretending nothing happened. I am showing up because something did."
She looked away.
"I do not know what you want from me, Chuka."
"Neither do I," he admitted. "But I know I want to be around you."
"Do not say that."
"Why not?"
"Because it is too easy to fall for words. And I have learned the hard way that words can mean nothing."
He was quiet.
The silence between them spoke volumes.
"I am not asking for anything," he said finally. "Not yet. I just… I miss you. That is all."
"You miss the idea of me," she replied, voice low. "You miss who I was. But I am not that girl anymore."
"I know."
She glanced at the cup of chai but did not touch it.
"I cannot give you what you want, Chuka. Not now."
"I understand."
She looked at him then, really looked.
He was still the man she once loved. His features were older, sharper, more defined. But his eyes held the same softness when he looked at her. The same unspoken longing. The same echo of all that was left unsaid.
"Then let us keep this professional," she said, finally picking up the cup. "We have work to do. A company to save."
He smiled.
"To work then."
They sipped in silence, the glow of her laptop screen casting shadows on their faces.
And even though neither of them said it aloud, something had shifted between them. Not fully healed. Not fully broken.
Just beginning again.