Chapter two : Flightless and Familiar

The storm didn't let up. By the time the announcement came—"All outbound flights have been canceled for the night"—a low groan spread through the terminal like thunder had entered the building.

Amaka stood by the window, watching the sky throw down sheets of water like it was punishing the city. The news should've upset her more than it did. But instead of disappointment, she felt... relieved. One more night of not having to explain herself. One more night of not fighting battles she was tired of winning.

Tunde leaned beside her, his voice quiet.

"You really sold that performance."

Amaka smirked. "You weren't bad yourself. You've done this before?"

"Pretending?" He shrugged. "Every day."

She turned to him. His tone had been flat, but his eyes weren't. They were heavy, like he carried silence the way some people carried grief.

"You ever think of acting?" she asked, trying to shift the mood.

"I don't perform," he said. "I observe."

A moment passed between them, unspoken but not awkward.

"Come with me," Amaka said suddenly.

Tunde raised an eyebrow. "To where?"

"The place I was running to," she said. "I booked a weekend at the Grand Palms in Ilashe. Private beach, no journalists. You could use a break from... whatever this is." She gestured to the sketchpad he still carried.

"You're inviting a total stranger to join you on a getaway weekend?"

"You're not a stranger. You're Tunde Afolayan."

He blinked, then laughed for the first time since she'd met him.

"And you're Amaka Okoye. Destroyer of men and startups."

She laughed too, surprised at herself. "Touché."

He studied her. "Why me?"

She hesitated. "Because you're not trying to fix me. And you're not asking me to explain."

He nodded, slowly. "And what do I get out of this?"

She tilted her head. "A few days of pretending you're not broken."

Tunde was quiet for a long time. Then:

"You have no idea how dangerous that is."

Amaka smiled. "Neither do you."

They took the water taxi out just after noon the next day. The storm had receded, but the sky still wore bruises. Ilashe greeted them with its usual hush—just waves, sand, and silence. The Grand Palms was nearly empty, its usual buzz flattened by weather and off-season timing.

At check-in, the woman at the desk raised her brow.

"Room for two?" she asked, fingers poised over the tablet.

Tunde hesitated. Amaka didn't.

"Yes. We're together."

There it was again—that flicker of chemistry that neither of them wanted to name.

The room was absurdly luxurious: glass walls, infinity pool, hammocks, a view that looked like something out of a tourism ad. Tunde walked around, half-impressed, half-suspicious.

"Is this where rich people come to forget they're lonely?" he asked.

Amaka pulled off her hat and tossed it onto a chair. "No. This is where people who've earned hell try to buy a little peace."

He glanced at her. "And have you earned hell?"

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she walked to the balcony and stood at the edge, arms crossed.

"I spent ten years building a company that empowers women financially. One leak. One lie. And suddenly I'm a whore who slept her way to seed funding."

Tunde said nothing.

"And the worst part," she added, "is how quiet the people I helped became. How fast everyone moved on."

The ocean didn't care about her story. It just kept rolling.

He finally spoke. "I lost my wife in this water."

Amaka turned, startled.

"She drowned," he said simply. "Three years ago. I stopped painting for two. Only just started again last week."

She walked toward him, slowly.

"Why now?"

"Because I met someone who reminds me what it feels like to fight for something."

They stood there, close but not touching.

Then Tunde looked away. "We're still pretending, right?"

Amaka smiled, softly.

"Of course."