The sleek, black car felt like a spaceship. Mina sat stiffly in the butter-soft leather seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the envelope of money a secret weight against her skin. The driver, a silent, professional man named Emmanuel, had simply nodded when she'd given him her address in a quiet voice, too ashamed to meet his eyes.
Her neighborhood of cramped, buzzing flats and narrow streets seemed to shrink under the car's silent, imposing presence. Curtains twitched. Children playing football in the dusty road stopped to stare. Mina slid down in her seat, her cheeks burning. This was a mistake. Adams's kindness felt like a spotlight, exposing the frayed edges of her life.
She rushed through her small, sparse apartment, grabbing a change of clothes for Lara and a few personal items. She ignored the empty cupboards, the urgency to return to the hospital overriding her hunger. The envelope felt like it was burning a hole in her bag. She tucked most of the money deep into a drawer, taking only a few notes for food, her fingers lingering on the hidden cash. A fortune, she thought, Lara's warning echoing in her mind. What does he want?
Back in the car, she directed Emmanuel to a modest food stall she knew, buying two portions of pepper soup, the fragrant, spicy steam filling the luxurious interior with a jarring, homely scent. The contrast was dizzying.
At the hospital, Lara was sleeping. Mina placed the food on the side table and sank into the chair beside the bed, exhaustion finally claiming her. She watched the steady rise and fall of her sister's chest, the miracle of it still fresh. Her last thought before sleep took her was of a man with a kind smile and eyes that saw too much.
She was woken hours later by the soft click of the door. Her heart leapt, a foolish, involuntary reaction, but it was only a nurse checking vitals. Disappointment, sharp and unexpected, pricked at her. She chided herself. What was she expecting? For him to come back? He was a busy man. A man with drivers and expensive cards. He had done his good deed.
The day bled into evening. Lara woke, ate a little soup, and drifted back to sleep. The silence of the room was punctuated only by the hum of the air conditioner and the distant sounds of the hospital. Mina felt adrift, suspended between the terror of the past days and the unsettling calm of the present.
Another soft knock. This time, it wasn't a nurse.
Adams stood in the doorway, holding a brown paper bag. He'd changed again, into dark trousers and a simple cotton shirt, but he still carried an air of effortless authority.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said, his voice low so as not to wake Lara.
Mina stood up too quickly, smoothing down her wrinkled top. "No! No, not at all. She's sleeping."
He stepped inside, his eyes taking in the small room, the simple food containers, the way Mina hovered protectively by the bed. He didn't look out of place; he seemed to bring his own space with him, a bubble of calm order.
"I brought you dinner," he said, offering the bag. "I figured hospital food wouldn't suffice, and I doubted you'd left to get a proper meal. It's just jollof rice and chicken from a place I know."
Mina took the bag. The aroma was rich and inviting. "You didn't have to…"
"I know," he said simply. He gestured to the chair. "Please, eat. I can't stay long."
Feeling self-conscious, she sat and unpacked the food. It was still warm. He pulled the room's other chair closer and sat, not too close, but near enough to talk quietly.
"How is she?" he asked, his gaze on Lara's sleeping form. It was filled with a genuine concern that disarmed Mina further.
"Better. The doctor says the worst is over. It's because of you." Her voice thickened with emotion. "Mr. Dared… Adams… I don't… thank you. Thank you isn't enough. It will never be enough." The words tumbled out, inadequate and raw.
He shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips. "Seeing her there, safe, is more than enough. Please, don't thank me again. It makes me feel… awkward." He said it with such sincerity that she almost believed the power dynamic between them was equal.
They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound Mina's spoon scraping the container.
"So," he began, his tone light, conversational. "Mina. What does a woman who fights so fiercely for her sister do when she's not battling hospital bills?"
It was such a normal question, so far removed from the drama of their meeting, that it caught her off guard. She looked down at her food. "I… I was a teacher. At a primary school. But I had to take leave to care for Lara."
"A teacher," he repeated, and she heard genuine appreciation in his voice. "A noble profession. The most important one, I'd argue. Shaping minds." He leaned back in his chair. "What do you teach them? Besides the curriculum."
The question surprised a real answer out of her. "To be curious. To ask questions. To not be afraid of being wrong." She felt a pang of loss for her classroom, her students.
"A revolutionary," he said, his eyes twinkling. "No wonder you have such a fierce spirit."
She felt a blush creep up her neck. "And you? You're an editor?"
"I am. I run a boring business magazine. I spend my days persuading very serious people to say interesting things and then cutting out the interesting parts to make them sound serious again." He said it with a self-deprecating charm that was utterly disarming.
Mina laughed, a real, unexpected sound that seemed to startle both of them. "It doesn't sound boring. It sounds important."
"It pays the bills," he said with a shrug, but she could see the passion in his eyes. This was a man who loved his work, who was good at it. "Mostly, I like the stories. Everyone has one. Even the serious people."
His gaze lingered on her, and she understood his unspoken question. What's your story?
The air between them shifted, grew warmer, charged with a new and potent curiosity. He wasn't just a benefactor. She wasn't just a charity case. In that quiet room, they were just a man and a woman, sharing a moment of unexpected connection.
"My parents…" she started, then hesitated, the old pain surfacing. "They died in a road accident five years ago. It's just been Lara and me since then."
His expression softened with empathy, but not pity. "I'm sorry. That's a heavy weight for two sisters to carry alone."
"We manage," she said, the familiar defiance returning. It was her shield, her mantra.
"I can see that," he said quietly. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. It buzzed again, more insistently. He sighed, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "The outside world beckons. I'm afraid I have to go."
He stood up, and Mina rose with him, suddenly reluctant to see him leave.
"The car will remain downstairs. For as long as you need it," he said, moving toward the door.
"Adams," she said, stopping him. He turned. The gratitude was a tide inside her, but she pushed past it to something more real. "The money… for our upkeep… it was too much. I can't—"
"Mina," he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. "Let me do this. Please. It is, honestly, the least of my worries and the most of my pleasures today. Let me have this."
The way he said it—my pleasures—sent a strange shiver through her. He wasn't just fulfilling an obligation. He was getting something from this, from her. Something more than gratitude.
He gave her one last, lingering look, a look that hinted at a thousand unspoken words, and then he was gone.
Mina stood rooted to the spot, the container of half-eaten jollof rice forgotten in her hand. The room felt emptier, colder. She looked at Lara, sleeping peacefully, her life bought and paid for by a stranger's whim.
A powerful connection had been hinted at, a spark of something that felt dangerously like the beginning of a story. But as she remembered the easy way he commanded a driver, dismissed a fortune, and ignored buzzing phones that surely signaled a world of immense responsibility, the reality crashed down on her.
Their worlds weren't just different; they were galaxies apart. And a spark, no matter how bright, was fragile. It could easily be swallowed by the vast, dark space between them.
The connection was there. But so was the terrifying, unspoken question: what happened when a man used to commanding galaxies set his sights on a single, lonely star?