CHAPTER NINE
The doorbell rings, slicing through my sleep like a blade.
I drag my tired body across the room, hair disheveled, eyes still heavy, and open the door to find the laundry woman standing there with her usual polite smile.
"Come in," I mutter, my voice rough from sleep.
"Thank you, sir," she says softly.
Without hesitation, she slips past me and heads straight to the walk-in wardrobe. Her hands move with practiced ease, gathering shirts, suits, and trousers in neat bundles.
"When you're done, let me know," I say, already turning away. I sink back onto the mattress of my king-sized bed, the cool sheets swallowing me whole.
Just as my eyes flutter shut, my phone pings on the nightstand.
Ayanfe.
The sixth notification this week.
Persistent. Relentless. Almost desperate.
She wasn't giving up on us meeting. And I wasn't ready to open a door I couldn't close
I ignore her message, my fingers drifting instead to the folded papers beside my phone, the informal draft I'd prepared for Ere.
My "terms and agreement."
Our blueprint. Our game.
The paper is cool between my fingers, but the words on it burn. I unfold the sheet, letting my eyes trail down the neatly written lines. Even to me, it didn't feel like a casual draft, it felt binding.
"Agreement of Conduct
This document outlines the informal agreement between Aanoni Adukolapo and Ereadurami Tijani. Though not bound by law, the following expectations are to be respected in full by both parties. The agreement exists to ensure clarity, loyalty, and discipline in the course of our private relationship.
Rule 1: I am entitled to ten deliberate attempts—ten counts—in which to make you open and ready for intimacy. If, after the tenth attempt, I fail, you are free to walk away with no penalty.
Rule 2: For the duration of our association, you may not entertain any other man in your personal or emotional life. Fidelity remains absolute.
Rule 3: You are prohibited from relieving yourself sexually by artificial means, including toys, vibrators, or any such devices. Your release shall be solely mine to command.
Rule 4: I reserve the right to touch you at any time, in any manner I choose, without prior permission.
Rule 5: You may not touch ——
"Ping. Ping. Ping."
Another ping cuts through the silence. I groan loudly, dragging my hand across my face before reaching for the phone.
Not yet.
I straighten the folder and slip it neatly into my briefcase.
I take a look at the phone to see who's texting.
Arin.
Arin: I'm not supposed to tell you this, but Dad has been planning something. No one knows the details, but the office has been unusually tense.
My brows furrow as I reread the message. Arin was a gossip, yes, but his words carried weight. He had a knack for hearing things he shouldn't.
Me: Any idea what these meetings are about?
I tap my foot against the floor impatiently, waiting for the typing bubble.
Arin: None at all. Even Ara doesn't know. But he says Dad has been staying late in the office and meeting some people privately.
Me: Alright. Thank you.
I set the phone aside with a sigh. Normally, I wouldn't care to track my father's movements, but the past few weeks had carried a peculiar heaviness in the family air. It was wise to keep my guard up. And on days like this, Arin was my informant.
I take a long shower, letting the cool water wash the tension from my shoulders. By the time I step out, my mind is refocused, not on my father, but on Ere.
I needed to see her soon.
From the wardrobe, I pick out a fresh teal green polo and pair it with crisp black pants. The color hugs my frame neatly, professional yet understated. I spray the finishing touches of cologne across my wrists and neck, letting the scent settle like armor before heading out.
The laundry woman is still busy folding when I pass.
"I'll be off now," I tell her. "When you're done, fold the clothes on the table and leave them. Your payment will get to you before the day's end."
She nods quickly without looking up.
I open the door, only to stop short.
Standing at the gate is a familiar figure:
Ranti. My father's PA.
Her heels strike the floor in sharp, clipped beats as she approaches.
"Why are you here?" I ask, signaling to Ahmed to bring the car around.
"Your father instructed me to deliver this folder to you personally." She extends a sleek black folder toward me. Her expression is flat, unreadable, but her heels click loudly as she turns and leaves without another word.
I take the folder, slip it into my suitcase, and make a mental note to read it later.
"Good morning, sir," Ahmed greets as I step into the car. "Where to today?"
"The office first," I reply. Then, after a pause, "The flower shop."
I keep my voice steady, hiding the flicker of anticipation beneath it.
The office is the usual chaos of numbers, contracts, and signatures. I handle what needs handling, clear a few loose ends, then signal Ahmed to head toward the flower shop.
The bell above the glass door jingles as I step inside. The place smells of sweetness and dew, an intoxicating mix of roses, lilies, and earth.
"What would you like to get, sir?" the attendant asks, her smile professional yet hopeful.
I glance around at the rows of colors before answering slowly, "I'd like a cherry blossom bouquet."
Her brows lift slightly. "How many stems, sir?"
"Stems?" I echo, not following.
"How big would you like it to be?" she clarifies.
"Big," I say without hesitation. "Grand-sized."
She disappears into the back, and the wait feels longer than it is. But when she returns, my patience is rewarded.
The bouquet she carries is enormous, spreading out like a soft pink umbrella, perfectly rounded, each blossom carefully arranged as though cradled by light itself.
"Yes," I murmur. "Perfect."
"Would that be all?" she asks, eyes glinting with the subtle hope of a tip.
"Yes," I reply simply, swiping my card.
Ahmed takes the bouquet carefully, and we step back into the afternoon sun. The weight of the flowers fills the car with a faint, delicate fragrance.
A scent that already reminded me of her.