Chapter six : Echoes and Edges

The silence in her apartment had teeth.

Amaka stood by the kitchen island, sipping cold coffee, scrolling through the endless parade of headlines, think-pieces, and hot takes. Some praised her bravery. Others mocked her "soft rebrand." But none of them saw her.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Rita.

"Board has called an emergency vote. They're talking about replacing you 'for stability.' You need to act fast."

She didn't reply. She couldn't.

Stability. As if the idea of a woman CEO healing out loud was too unstable for business. They wanted clean, emotionless leadership. Not fire. Not softness. Not her.

She looked around the apartment—spotless, soulless, designed like a page in Architectural Digest. Suddenly, it felt like a museum of a version of herself she no longer trusted.

She picked up her keys and left.

Meanwhile, across the city, Tunde sat alone in his late wife's old studio. He hadn't stepped foot in it in over a year.

Her easel still stood in the corner, paintbrushes dry and dusted. Her unfinished final painting—an abstract storm in blues and grays—leaned against the far wall.

He stood there for a long time, breathing in the silence, waiting for grief to bite.

But it didn't.

Instead, he felt something else. A pull. A new kind of ache.

He set his sketchbook down. Flipped it open to the drawing he'd done on the balcony in Ilashe. Amaka—barefoot, fierce-eyed, smiling like she didn't trust the shape of joy but wore it anyway.

He started to draw again. But not her. Them.

Their story, not just his. A series of moments: her hand wrapped in his, the sea behind them, the tension before the kiss they never fully claimed.

He realized then: he hadn't walked away because he needed space. He'd walked away because he was afraid that someone might actually see all of him—and stay.

Amaka stood at the front desk of her company's office tower, ID in hand, blazer crisp, eyes forward.

Her assistant blinked in surprise.

"You're—back?"

Amaka offered a tight smile. "Didn't think I would be?"

Rita lowered her voice. "They've already got him in the boardroom."

"Let them finish talking," Amaka said. "I'll talk last."

She walked to the executive floor, heels clicking like punctuation.

When she entered, the board fell quiet. Twelve men and women in expensive suits looked up with varying degrees of discomfort.

One of them, Mr. Kolapo—gray-haired, stern, the loudest of her critics—cleared his throat.

"Amaka, this was unexpected. We're in the middle of—"

She held up a hand.

"You've had your meeting. Now you'll hear me."

There was something new in her voice. Not anger. Not defiance. Just conviction.

"I built this company from the ground up. Not with scandal. Not with charm. With grit, sleepless nights, and a refusal to be small. You want to strip me of my title for surviving in public? Fine. But just know—without me, this brand has no soul. And soul is the only thing still selling in this market."

Silence.

Then, slowly, Rita clapped. One by one, others followed.

Mr. Kolapo didn't clap. But he didn't interrupt, either.

Amaka straightened. "Now. If you're still voting, I suggest you make it quick. Because I have a keynote speech in two weeks, and I'd rather not waste time updating my LinkedIn."

Later that night, Amaka stepped onto her balcony, shoulders finally unclenching. Lagos buzzed below, alive with too much light and not enough quiet.

She felt a presence before she heard his voice.

"I told you borrowed time was dangerous," Tunde said softly.

She turned.

He stood in the doorway—no bag, no sketchbook. Just him.

Amaka raised an eyebrow. "What changed?"

"I did," he said. "And maybe you did too."

She didn't rush to him. She just stood there, studying his face, trying not to feel too much too fast.

"I don't need saving," she whispered.

"I know," he replied. "I just came to walk beside the woman who already did."

And for once, she let herself lean—not back, but forward.

Into him. Into something real.