4—Chaos Unleashed!

Ara was slowly going out of her mind as the day progressed, which could not be good for her or the little one. She turned around and glared at the cause of her craziness. He ignored her and continued doing his sweep. It was finally time to leave work; she had a last-minute meeting in the conference room. A meeting he insisted on sitting in on. Most people in the company knew about him, so his presence was not a total shock, but it was still annoying.

He stood behind her, looking every inch the bodyguard. He didn't speak, but she could feel his eyes sweeping the room, cataloguing the people and escape points. Or whatever it is that bodyguards do to ensure your safety.

She made a mental note to tell him to sit next time. He could do all the sweeping she wanted from a chair. Now they were back at her office, and he insisted on doing another sweep; she wanted to rip out her braids in frustration.

“Nobody accessed my office while we were in the conference room,” she told him as he moved from one corner of her office to the other. “It's not like a bomb will go off if we leave for two minutes.”

He remained silent and continued his sweep, opening cupboard doors, looking under the table. He was overreacting; he had to be. He was probably in cahoots with Dad to scare her into submission. Anxiety prickled her skin the longer he moved around her office.

Was something wrong after all? She looked at the room where she spent most of her time. Everything looked exactly as she left it fifteen minutes ago. Her cedar desk commandeered most of the room, and her light blue ergonomic chair sat behind it. Two relaxed black chairs sat sentry in front of the desk. While the desk itself was empty except for the picture frame of her, which held a picture of her family. The last picture they had taken with Mom before she passed. The second one was her favourite from the engagement photoshoot with her husband, then fiancé. They were both dressed in black formal wear and smiling at the camera. Beneath the picture, she tucked in a picture of the ultrasound.

The room was painted a very light blue that made it look white with blue undertones. The wall behind her desk was mostly windows, and she loved to gaze out and admire Lagos when she struggled with something. To the side was a row of cupboards that housed her files, colour coordinated and arranged in alphabetical order. The shape of her office wasn't a regular square box; well, the area where her desk sat was. But the room extended to the side on an angle. So the rest of the room was a long but slim rectangle.

This meant you didn't see her entire office immediately. Once you looked in, all you saw was the square section; you had to tilt your head a little to see the other section. On that side of the room, two light couches sat facing each other, exuding relaxation. The blue LED light that she strung to the ceiling herself cast a chill glow on the room.

“You can come in now,” Folarin waved her in his face, still stoic, but she saw the irritation that creased along his brow.

Once upon a long time ago, she had been an expert on his emotions. He would never say anything, but she would study his face because she knew he would give something away. And he always did, a tiny smile that always made her know he was okay with her wacky idea. A nod that assured her he was listening to her rant.

He had been her calm during that stressful season. She knew he didn't expect too much from her. And they helped her just be, until she found out he was just another staff member her father paid to hang out with her.

She turned away from the memory and walked into the carpeted office. She hated that he was in her space constantly; it brought back all the memories she wanted to bury. The feelings of betrayal and acute sadness.

She closed her laptop with a light thud, grabbed her bag, and shoved it in lightly. Then she was up and out of her office; she had to get away.

“I thought you would work some more,” he phrased it as a question, and she rolled her eyes. Of course, he knew her routine. He had probably studied her routine months ago when he first started coming around regularly. She remembered accusing him of being a stalker earlier that day when he almost followed her to the toilet, and now she wondered if she wasn't far off.

“Today has been a stressful day, and I'm tired.” She explained softly. It wasn't a lie either; she was exhausted. Mentally and emotionally drained, from all the memories and all the crazy information that rocked her world.

A nod of acknowledgement was all she got in response, and it was so very Folarin that she felt a tiny grin break out. She waited impatiently while he swept every room. With all this sweeping, by the time he was done, every room should be cleaner.

She finally settled into her car and sighed. Folarin was talking to her driver, probably dismissing him for the night and the near future. Folarin would be driving her everywhere from now on. She couldn't escape him even if she tried. She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep when the door closed. Soft classical music flowed through the speakers, surrounding her with its warmth, relaxing her bones and body.

He remembered, she thought sadly. He remembered that she loved soft classical music on the ride back home because it calmed her, made her sleepy. She had an entire playlist now. He made it hard for her to stay angry with him when he did things like that.

She must have dozed off because Folarin was about to carry her out of the car when she woke up. She stopped her hands and glared at him. “I can walk,”

He took a small step back but stayed close, waiting close by in case she did need help. His presence unsettled her. She needed space from him; she needed to breathe without inhaling his cologne. It was so different from what he wore as a teenager, but it also fit him perfectly; it disconcerted her. She grabbed her bag and stepped out. She all but ran inside.

“You don't need to sweep the house, right?” She turned to look at him.

He shook his head. “Maybe I should,” he muttered under his breath.

“Maybe you shouldn't, our house is safe,” she frowned at him. It had to be. "Isn't it?"

“Safe is relative,” he snorted. “No house is that safe. Plus, all the packages were delivered here.”

“Delivered, not planted,” she argued, trying to outrun him and his stupid long legs. She was also very tall by most standards, but Folarin towered over her. He would have excelled at basketball with all that height. She wondered if he still played and shook her head.

She had won their little race; he let her win, but she ignored the thought and stepped into their calm house. Exactly has Mom had left it all those years ago.

Mom had a unique style that was all her own. She enjoyed decorating. Changing things up with the season, now that didn't do that. No one messed with it, and Ara preferred it that way. It felt like her Mom was waiting somewhere in the house. She slipped out of her heels and set them by the door, pulling on her house slipper before sliding along the wooden floors in a zigzag pattern.

She climbed up the three small steps that separated the kitchen and the sitting room. Their house was an open floor plan and gorgeous. It lets the light in from every side. The large kitchen window brought in the outdoors, and so did the patio doors close to the dining room. The kitchen was like most regular kitchens, with chrome appliances and two sinks. A marble island and a large light fixture above it. Four white barstools with wooden legs sat tucked into the island.

Because the kitchen was elevated, the sitting room felt like a conversational pit. She climbed down the stairs and roamed over the sitting room to make sure everything was in its place. The sitting room was one large room, sectioned off by one large sectional couch with all those extra pieces. A fireplace took up most of the wall space in front of the couch. Which sounded ridiculous in a Nigerian home, but her Mom got cold easily, so she loved the idea of a fireplace, and her dad had gotten her one. Simple.

Mom had used the thing a lot, especially during the rainy and cold days of the year. Sometimes, even when it was blazing hot outside, Dad kept the house temperature freezing. A landscape painting of a coastal reef sat on top of the fireplace. A round wooden coffee table sat between the sectional. Two dark brown textured sofas sat beside the couch; they had their back to the door. A long floor-to-ceiling window was situated beside the fireplace, mirroring the length and the size of the patio door, but this one didn't open.

She took in the dining room quickly as she walked towards her room. Tall ceilings offered spectacular wall space that Mom had designed with a photo wall. Square photos sat side by side, some of family members, some contained art prints. Others contained whimsical things like dried wildflowers. It provided the only colour in the otherwise cold grey of the dining area. It also had the raised effect, putting the kitchen and the dining on the same level and further establishing the conversational pit thing the sitting room had going on.

The patio door was slightly open, but that was normal, especially when someone was outside. Because the patio door locked immediately, it was closed. They could always come back in through the front door, but leaving the patio door open was easier.

She finished her sweep and raced up the stairs, ready for a night of relaxation and pampering. She deserved it after putting up with Folarin all day. She turned the corner, walked over to her room, and pulled the door open. She froze. She didn't move; her feet were stuck to the ground.

She didn't know she was screaming until the sound ripped out of her and vibrated through the room. She heard Folarin's steps heavy on the stairs as he took the stairs in threes until he finally stood by her side.

He surveyed the room and cursed. “Shit!”

Shit instead. Her room was a train wreck. Someone had gutted a big pig on her bed and used the blood or red paint to redecorate her room. They painted red X's everywhere like a deranged artist obsessed with the letter. Ironically, it reminded her of Lord of the Flies. The book was part of her study material in secondary school, and it was one of the few books she had struggled through because she didn't enjoy the story. She understood the symbolism and what the author was trying to portray, but she did enjoy it. Nothing like someone gutting a pig on her bed to teleport her back to secondary school.

Folarin snapped into business mode, pulling her away from the sight, but she couldn't look away. How long ago had this happened? Who did this? Why did they do this? What had she ever done to deserve this? The questions ping-ponged in her head like a ball between two furious table tennis players.

Finally, he stepped in front of her, obstructing her view of her room. Forcing her to look at him. She shook her head softly. Whatever he saw in her eyes must have caused him concern because he pulled her into a hug.

“I've got you, baby,” he whispered as he peppered the crown of her head with reassuring kisses. His big palm moved up and down her back in slow, soothing motions.

That was how her Dad and the police found them; they nodded at each other, and Folarin picked her up and carried her away from the mess.

“She didn't touch anything except the door handle,” he informed the police, his voice clinical, detached. But she knew he was angry, fuming even. That some crazy person had successfully scared her on his watch.

This was no longer a game; she now knew that her father and Folarin were not orchestrating this charade to keep her submissive and obedient.

Yes, they had tried to scare her this morning. She had seen through their tactics because she knew them. She realised their good cop, bad cop gameplay once she was back in her office and thinking calmly. But they would never go this far. She rested her head against his chest and let him carry her away from the chaos.

Someone wanted her gone. The question was why.