Chapter Three: Wheje Suites

Zeema almost turned around three times on the way there. Each time her cab hit a red light, she took it as a sign to go back. But somehow, she didn’t. Somehow, she made it all the way to Wheje Suites — the kind of place that had its own perfume, soft jazz humming in the lobby, and receptionists who looked like they’d stepped out of fashion magazines.

She didn’t belong here.

And yet, here she was.

Her palms were sweaty as she handed the front desk her name — no, Danielle’s name. “I’m here for the weekend reservation under Marion.”

The woman gave her a tight smile and nodded. “Yes, Ms. Marion. You’re expected.”

Zeema didn’t correct her. She couldn’t.

The suite was everything she imagined and more. High ceilings, glass walls overlooking the lagoon, cream and gold furniture that practically whispered luxury. She dropped her small overnight bag by the door and stood in the center of it all, stunned.

For a few hours, it was peaceful. She kicked off her shoes, opened a bottle of complimentary wine, and ran a warm bath. Just once, she told herself. Just this once.

She was halfway through drying her hair in the bedroom when the knock came.

Three soft raps. Followed by a pause. Then: “Babe?”

Her stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no.

She crept to the door and peeked through the peephole.

Tall. Sharp features. Dark suit. Clean cut. Handsome in the way magazine ads promised men could be if they used the right cologne. And familiar.

Ray.

She had seen photos of him once, on Danielle’s desk — usually face down, like even the sight of him irritated her. She remembered Danielle tossing his name around like an afterthought. “Ray sent more flowers. Why can’t he just vanish?”

But he hadn’t vanished.

He was here.

And he thought Zeema was Danielle.

“Danielle?” he called again, softer this time. “It’s Ray. I just… I was in the area. Thought I’d drop by.”

Zeema opened the door slowly. “Hi.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. “You’re not—”

“I’m not Danielle,” she said quickly, heart thudding.

His brows pulled together in confusion. “Then what are you doing in her suite?”

There was a long silence.

“I—” Zeema hesitated. “She didn’t want the weekend. Told me to trash it. I just… I don’t know. I came instead.”

Ray studied her, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak for a while. Then he stepped back. “So she sent her assistant to enjoy the place she rejected?”

“She didn’t send me,” Zeema corrected quietly. “She didn’t care.”

Ray leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “And you thought it would be okay to show up in her place?”

“I didn’t think,” Zeema admitted. “I just… wanted something else. Something not… that.”

She couldn’t explain it. The weight of the office. Danielle’s voice in her ear. The slow, daily erosion of her confidence. She just wanted a breath of air.

Ray looked at her again, more curious than angry now. “What’s your name?”

“Zeema.”

A pause.

“You’re the one who signs all her emails when she can’t be bothered to respond.”

Zeema’s lips twitched. “Guilty.”

Ray stepped into the suite without asking, glanced around, then looked at her again. “I should report this, you know. It’s kind of insane.”

“I know.”

“But Danielle wouldn’t care. She might even be glad she saved herself the trouble.”

Another pause.

“You hungry?” he asked.

Zeema blinked. “What?”

“I ordered dinner before I decided to stop by. I hate eating alone.”

She hesitated. “You don’t find this… strange?”

Ray shrugged. “I’ve been dealing with Danielle for years. Strange is normal.”

They sat down in the dining space, awkward at first. Ray ordered pasta and grilled shrimp. Zeema barely touched her plate. She kept expecting someone to barge in and end the whole illusion.

But no one did.

Instead, they talked. About small things — how long she’d worked for Danielle, how many bouquets he’d sent, why he kept trying.

“I guess I was hoping the Danielle I met three years ago would come back,” he said. “She wasn’t always cold.”

“And I guess I kept hoping she’d become someone she never was,” Zeema replied quietly.

Their eyes met. Something softened.

Neither of them reached for more wine. But they didn’t need to.

By midnight, they were still talking. And laughing. And something bloomed quietly, in the gentle space between disappointment and desire.

Zeema knew she should leave. But she didn’t move.

Not yet.