Chapter One: The Weight of Small Things
Monday started the way it always did — with Danielle Marion’s voice slicing through the morning hush like a blade.
“Zeema, where’s my schedule?”
Zeema’s fingers stilled over the keyboard. She'd barely taken her first sip of coffee when the demand came. She pressed Ctrl+P, waited for the printer to whir to life, and rose without a word, heels quiet on the polished floors.
Danielle’s office was a vision — sleek, cold, impersonal. The kind of place where orchids died quickly and everything smelled faintly of glass cleaner and expensive perfume. Zeema stepped in, placing the printed schedule on the desk.
Danielle didn’t glance up. “Late again.”
“It’s 8:01,” Zeema said quietly.
Danielle finally looked at her. Her makeup was flawless. Red lips, arched brows, skin like polished caramel. “Eight is eight.”
Zeema swallowed her retort and nodded. “Understood.”
“Cancel the 3 PM with Bright. I don’t like the way he breathes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Danielle leaned back in her chair, a bored queen surveying her lesser. “And fetch my oat milk latte. No sugar this time. Unless you’re trying to ruin my day.”
Zeema left the room without a sigh. She wouldn’t give Danielle the satisfaction.
Back at her desk, she sipped the rest of her own coffee in silence. Room temperature now. Another Monday.
People said Danielle was brilliant. A force. And she was. Her father had built DDM Nigeria Ltd., but Danielle had transformed it into a sharper, leaner version of itself. Everyone respected her. No one liked her.
Especially not Zeema, who’d once worked for Mr. Marion himself — back when the office felt like a family, not a battlefield.
The transfer had been meant to be temporary. Mr. Marion said she could help “steady” Danielle. Bring calm to her storm. But four years later, Zeema was still here. Still weathering the storm.
Danielle’s brand of cruelty wasn’t loud. It was precise. Forgetting Zeema’s birthday. Assigning her to lunch runs even when she had reports due. Cutting her off mid-sentence in meetings. Introducing her as “the assistant” when they were out. Asking her to pick up dry cleaning on days when she knew Zeema didn’t have enough for transport.
And yet, Zeema endured. Quietly. Not because she was weak — though that’s what people thought — but because she had nowhere else to go. Not really. Her sick mother needed care. Her brother was in school. Her salary barely covered both.
She couldn’t afford to start over.
She couldn’t afford to dream.
—
On Tuesday, Danielle threw out a client file in front of the team.
“This is trash,” she said, slapping the folder down onto the conference table. “Redo it.”
Zeema picked it up with shaking fingers. “Ma’am, this is the latest version. Based on your last edits.”
Danielle turned to the room. “Does anyone else understand why mediocrity keeps showing up in my department?”
No one met Zeema’s eyes. Not even Tunji from finance, who used to bring her suya during late nights. The silence was familiar. Expected.
Later that day, in the break room, she overheard two interns whispering.
“Why does Danielle hate her so much?”
“Maybe she slept with her man or something.”
Zeema didn’t flinch. She stirred her tea slowly, pretending not to hear.
But she heard.
—
Wednesday came with a downpour. Lagos rain — heavy, relentless. Danielle arrived without an umbrella, soaked and furious. She dumped her coat onto Zeema’s desk.
“Dry this. And call the valet. If my shoes are ruined, it’s coming out of your salary.”
Zeema didn’t argue. She never did. She took the coat. Made the call. And when Danielle turned her back, she allowed herself one long, slow blink to keep from crying.
That night, she got home to darkness. NEPA had struck again. Her mother coughed from the bedroom. Zeema heated water on a kerosene stove, massaged balm into her mother’s chest, and watched the candle flicker against peeling walls.
“This job is going to kill you,” her mother said softly.
Zeema smiled without teeth. “Not today.”
—
Thursday brought the lilies.
She found them at reception. Large, white, and fragrant. The kind of bouquet you only saw in music videos or wedding magazines. A small envelope was attached.
“To Ms. Danielle Marion. A weekend escape at Wheje Suites. Just you, no distractions. Love, Ray.”
She’d seen flowers before. They came once a month, sometimes more. Danielle always dismissed them with a flick of her hand.
“Another one from the stalker,” she’d say.
But this note was different. Handwritten. Soft, looping letters. Not the sterile print of the usual deliveries.
Zeema brought them up to Danielle’s office.
Danielle barely glanced at them. “Trash it.”
“Ma’am?”
“You heard me.”
Zeema stood frozen for a moment, the lilies cool against her skin.
“Understood.”
She left the office, flowers in hand. She passed by desks and raised eyebrows, ignoring the smirks. Back at her own space, she set them down and stared.
She meant to throw them away.
She didn’t.
Instead, she opened the envelope. Read the note. Then read it again.
A weekend escape at Wheje Suites.
She pulled out her phone and searched the name. Photos came up — private pools, ocean views, soft sheets. A place made of quiet luxury. Of rest.
Her chest tightened.
Not hers. None of it.
And yet — she tucked the card into her bag.
Maybe she could go. Just for a moment. See it with her own eyes.