Chapter Five: The Blur Between Right and Real
The city came alive at night, and for the first time in years, Zeema felt like she was part of it.
Ray had been quiet since Jide’s surprise visit earlier, but not distant. He changed into a crisp black shirt and dark jeans, and when Zeema emerged from the bathroom in her simple but fitted dress, he gave her a look that lingered just long enough to stir something in her chest.
“You feel like dancing?” he asked.
Zeema blinked. “Now?”
“You’re already dressed. I know a place. Nothing serious. Just a vibe.”
She hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Okay.”
The club was called Eleven:45, tucked into one of Lagos Island’s swankiest corners, guarded by velvet ropes, towering bouncers, and a crowd dying to get in. But with Ray, there was no wait. No questions.
The second the manager saw him, they were whisked past the line, up a private elevator, and into a VVIP section that overlooked the entire dance floor.
Zeema had never seen anything like it.
A neon-lit table with their names already glowing on the screen. Champagne bottles chilling in silver buckets. A host in all black bowing low as she offered her a glass of Moët.
Ray leaned in, his voice warm against her ear. “You good?”
Zeema smiled, dizzy from the lights, the music, and the surreal blur of it all. “More than good.”
They danced. Not pressed tight at first — just bodies moving in sync, shoulders brushing, fingers brushing. The DJ knew what he was doing, and by the time Burna Boy’s bass-heavy voice dropped through the speakers, Zeema had stopped thinking about Danielle. About consequences. About anything but the rhythm.
Jide showed up an hour in — flanked by two women in short dresses, eyes flicking between Ray and Zeema like he was trying to calculate something.
“Well, well. You must be Danielle's upgrade,” he said, grinning, tipping his glass in Zeema’s direction.
Zeema froze. Ray slid an arm protectively around her waist.
“She’s not Danielle,” Ray said coolly.
Jide raised a brow. “I know.” Then to Zeema, lower, softer: “Interesting choice.”
He disappeared into the crowd, and the air left her lungs.
Ray looked down at her. “Want to leave?”
“No,” she said, breathless. “Not yet.”
More drinks came. Tequila. Cocktails she couldn’t name. She wasn’t used to alcohol, but the warmth in her stomach, the boldness in her veins — it made her laugh louder, dance freer, lean into Ray without flinching.
Sometime after 2 a.m., he kissed her.
She didn’t remember who leaned in first. Only that his lips were soft, his hand steady at her back, and everything inside her unraveled. He didn’t stop. She didn’t want him to.
By the time they stumbled back into the suite, limbs tangled and clothes half-off, she was past hesitation. Past reason.
They fell into bed. They kissed like they had years to make up for. She forgot every name but his.
And when they finally came together — breathless, half-laughing, half-moaning — it didn’t feel like a mistake.
It felt like gravity.
She slept in his arms that night, skin still humming, heart trying to memorize the moment.
She didn't know what the morning would bring.
But for once, she didn't care.