The summons came on a Wednesday.
Amina had just finished cleaning the second-floor kitchenette when Mariam, the head cleaner, found her near the supply room.
"You've been called to HR," Mariam said, brows drawn together. "Now."
Amina's heart dropped.
"Why?" she asked, voice small.
Mariam didn't answer. Just gave her a look—half warning, half worry—and turned away.
Human Resources was a sleek glass room on the 8th floor, cold and too bright. Inside, Ms. Vanessa Odede, head of employee relations, sat behind a desk lined with policy manuals and untouched orchids.
"Sit," she said, without smiling.
Amina sat.
"There's been… chatter," Vanessa said, folding her hands. "About your presence on the executive floor. Particularly with Mr. Kareem."
Amina's mouth went dry. "He asked me to assist in the filing room—"
"I'm aware," Vanessa interrupted. "And I'm sure Mr. Kareem had his reasons. But this is a professional environment. We maintain a standard here. Boundaries must be observed."
Amina swallowed. "I didn't mean to—"
"No one's accusing you," Vanessa said smoothly. "But perceptions matter. If you continue to take on tasks outside your official duties, people may… misinterpret your role."
The words landed like quiet knives.
"Should I stop assisting him?" Amina asked carefully.
Vanessa gave a tight smile. "It's probably best for everyone. You're valued where you are."
Dismissed.
Amina left the room shaken, her ears still ringing. By the time she returned to her routine, the dust cloth trembled in her hand. It wasn't shame she felt—it was something deeper. Like she'd been reminded, cruelly, where the lines were.
And how quickly they could snap.
But later that evening, as she was finishing the reception hall, Idris appeared.
"Amina."
She turned, startled.
He looked… concerned. Tense.
"Why didn't you come to the filing room today?" he asked.
Her pulse raced. "I was told not to."
His jaw clenched slightly. "By who?"
"HR," she said simply. "They said people are talking."
He exhaled, slow and sharp. "Of course they are."
She looked at him then—really looked. And saw not just a man of power, but one being boxed in, too. Trapped by the very machine he helped build.
"I don't want to make your life harder," she said.
"You didn't," he said. "They did."
A silence passed between them. Then:
"There's a gala next Friday," he said. "The firm's annual donor event. All staff attend. Even the cleaning crew. I want you there."
Amina blinked. "Why?"
"Because I trust you," he said quietly. "And I'm tired of pretending like your presence doesn't matter."
Her heart thudded against her ribs.
"I'll be wearing borrowed shoes," she whispered.
He gave a faint smile. "I'll be wearing borrowed patience."
She laughed, softly. Then turned serious.
"This won't end well, Idris."
"No," he said. "But it's already started."The week before the gala was suffocating.
The office was all smiles on the surface—coffee orders, elevator chatter, scheduled meetings—but underneath it, tension slithered like smoke in the walls. Amina felt it in the way conversations stopped when she entered a room. In the way Leila's laughter lingered too long when she passed by.
And worst of all, in the silence from Idris.