( A new day )
The day moved exactly as scheduled—though Lagos traffic tried its best to destroy that plan.
By the time John's car entered the company compound, it was exactly 8:00 a.m.
Not 8:02.
Not 8:05.
Exactly eight.
The security guards at the gate straightened instantly.
Workers near the entrance, who had been laughing too freely moments ago, suddenly lowered their voices.
Because John had stepped out.
And whatever softness they noticed yesterday was gone.
Today he wore a fitted black suit again, clean and severe. His expression was composed, sharp, unreadable. The natural authority around him returned so quickly it made several junior staff wonder if they imagined the healthier version from the day before.
He walked past them without wasting a glance.
Shoes clicking over polished tile.
Phone in hand.
Shoulders straight.
The atmosphere tightened behind him like a rope being pulled.
One receptionist whispered to another.
"He looks angry."
"He always looks angry."
"Yes… but today he looks healthy and angry."
That was somehow worse.
Upstairs, his office doors opened.
The room was large, modern, and arranged with brutal neatness.
Dark shelves.
Glass walls with blinds half-drawn.
Awards displayed without warmth.
A long desk with only essentials.
No clutter.
No softness.
No distractions.
Joseph entered moments later with the vice president beside him—a round, cheerful man named Mr. Daniel whose smile somehow survived all executive pressure.
Daniel placed a tablet and several printed reports down.
"Good morning, sir. I handled the pending distributor approvals, moved the signing event to Hall B, delayed the legal review until tomorrow, and approved the social media campaign draft."
John sat and began reading instantly.
No greeting wasted.
His eyes moved quickly over each decision.
Nod.
Pause.
Page turn.
Another nod.
Daniel watched nervously.
Finally John looked up.
"You made three good decisions."
Daniel beamed.
"And one careless one."
The smile vanished.
John tapped a page.
"You approved the logo redesign without seeing the final print ratios."
Daniel swallowed.
"Yes, sir."
"Fix it."
"Yes, sir."
John handed the papers back.
Then turned to Joseph.
"Go to the logo department. Review their schedule."
Joseph already knew trouble was coming.
"I've received enough complaints about them."
Joseph sighed dramatically.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Go."
Once alone, John opened his laptop.
Unread emails.
Three pending approvals.
Two complaints.
One investor invitation.
Then a manuscript draft.
From: Precious Adebayo
Attached file.
He checked the clock.
Forty-five minutes before the KM Company meeting.
Enough time.
He opened the file.
At first, he expected the usual polished commercial work Precious was known for.
Instead—
The writing was rougher.
Sharper.
There was grit in the sentences.
Pain hidden beneath style.
The opening scene took place in an old bar lit by amber lamps and cigarette shadows. The descriptions were so specific—the cracked leather stools, the tired pianist, the smell of whiskey and regret—that John almost felt transported there.
He leaned back slowly.
Interesting.
Not flashy.
Not trendy.
But alive.
A rough masterpiece still finding its final form.
He reached for the keyboard and typed:
Approved for development. Strong atmosphere. Strong emotional edge. Continue revisions. Excellent work.
He sent it.
Just as Joseph returned, looking deeply offended by humanity.
"What happened?"
Joseph dropped into a chair.
"The logo department happened."
John waited.
"They were late, unserious, two absent, one eating meat pie during briefing, and another said inspiration cannot be rushed."
John's face remained blank.
Joseph leaned forward.
"I almost committed workplace violence."
John nodded once.
"Document everyone absent."
"I did."
"Good."
John stood.
"It's time."
The meeting room was smaller, designed for negotiations.
Neutral walls.
Conference table.
Screen mounted ahead.
Cold water arranged neatly.
Two guests were already waiting.
One was a tall man in a fitted navy suit with the stillness of a private security officer. Broad shoulders. Sharp eyes. Silent.
The second was seated elegantly.
Mixed-race.
Poised.
Beautiful in the expensive, effortless way cameras loved.
Cream blouse.
Black tailored trousers.
Gold watch.
Hair tied neatly.
She looked up as they entered.
John remembered the report from last night.
KM Company — a rising media and fashion house founded by Katherine Moreau, a French model turned designer. Though the company was only three years old, her personal reputation had given it immediate power.
But there was a complication.
She was rarely in Nigeria.
And her English was limited.
"Where is the translator?" John asked quietly.
Joseph grimaced.
"She declined one."
John exhaled once.
Then turned to her.
"Bonjour, Madame Moreau. Merci d'avoir attendu."
(Good morning, Madam Moreau. Thank you for waiting.)
Her eyes widened.
Then softened instantly.
"Vous parlez français?"
(You speak French?)
John gave the smallest shrug.
"Un peu. Avec courage."
(A little. With courage.)
She laughed lightly for the first time since arriving.
Even Joseph blinked.
Since when?
They sat.
Katherine spoke first.
"Je veux utiliser un de vos romans."
(I want to use one of your novels.)
She explained that she was launching a new clothing line inspired by melancholy cinema, tragic romance, and urban elegance.
One of Precious' lesser-known novels matched the tone perfectly.
She wanted one of her models cast in the adaptation, while her clothing line would style the film wardrobe.
John listened carefully.
Then replied.
"C'est élégant… mais risqué."
(It is elegant… but risky.)
She nodded.
He continued.
"Le roman n'est pas le plus populaire. Il est triste. Lent. Intense."
(The novel is not the most popular. It is sad. Slow. Intense.)
"Exactement," she said.
(Exactly.)
She leaned forward.
"Les gens sont fatigués des choses vides."
(People are tired of empty things.)
That answer impressed him.
John folded his hands.
"If the film fails, your brand suffers. If the styling fails, the story suffers."
She answered immediately.
"Le business sans risque est un hobby."
(Business without risk is a hobby.)
Joseph, who understood none of this, whispered:
"Did she insult us?"
"No," John said calmly. "She impressed me."
The atmosphere changed.
Respect entered the room.
They moved into specifics.
Schedules.
Casting timelines.
Licensing rights.
Promotional appearances.
Wardrobe exclusivity.
Cross-brand media rights.
She presented rough sketches.
Long dark coats.
Muted evening gowns.
Structured citywear.
Pieces designed for characters carrying emotional wounds.
John studied each page.
They fit.
Pain with elegance.
Loss with style.
Very marketable sadness.
After nearly an hour, terms were drafted for legal review.
John closed the folder.
"Bon. Nous allons rencontrer l'auteure bientôt."
(Good. We will meet the writer soon.)
Katherine smiled.
"Je suis contente d'être venue."
(I'm glad I came.)
Then she lifted the herbal tea can Joseph had placed on the table earlier.
"You drink this every morning?"
Joseph straightened proudly.
"Yes."
She laughed.
"Très sain."
(Very healthy.)
Both she and John had nearly finished it during the meeting while discussing terms.
When they stood to leave, she shook John's hand firmly.
"Aujourd'hui, j'ai choisi correctement."
(Today, I chose correctly.)
Outside the room, Joseph grinned.
"Congratulations."
John adjusted his cuff.
"Nothing is final."
"But it is movement."
They walked down the corridor.
Staff moved aside quickly.
Then John spoke without looking at him.
"When are you giving me your novel draft?"
Joseph nearly tripped.
"My what?"
"Mary told me you're almost done writing one."
"That woman talks too much."
"I want the draft by end of day."
Joseph stared in horror.
"You always act loud but become shy when serious things appear."
John's tone remained calm.
"Send it."
Joseph groaned dramatically.
"This oppression in friendship must stop."
John kept walking.
For the first time in weeks, his body felt stable.
His mind alert.
Business moving.
Future opening.
And somewhere behind all the deadlines, a quiet thought remained:
Perhaps healing did not always arrive through medicine alone.
Jennifer smiled so brightly that morning it almost startled her.
Happiness still felt unfamiliar when it arrived without warning.
In her hands, held carefully against her chest, was a copy of Twinkle Twinkle.
The cover was worn at the edges from rereading. Blue-themed, with the image of a lone boy standing beneath a night sky full of distant stars. Simple design. Quiet sadness.
She had traced that cover many nights in prison.
On nights when the cell was too loud.
On nights when shame crawled over her skin.
On nights when death had seemed easier than tomorrow.
Today, the same book felt different in her hands.
Lighter.
Hopeful.
She stood before the mirror in Jessica's small room and adjusted her clothes for the third time.
Nothing flashy.
Nothing that begged attention.
She had chosen soft jeans, white sneakers, and a long-sleeved pale pink blouse that covered the scars along her arms. Her black hair was tied loosely back. Minimal makeup. Enough to feel polished, not noticed.
Today she did not want to be beautiful.
She wanted to feel ordinary.
Like every other woman attending a book signing.
Like someone with a clean past.
Like someone no one stared at twice.
Her stomach fluttered.
This was her first real public outing since her release.
Not job hunting.
Not church.
Not market errands.
An event.
A crowd.
People laughing.
Cameras maybe.
Freedom in motion.
She was nervous enough to shake.
And excited enough to laugh.
Behind her, sprawled lazily across the bed, Jessica watched with folded arms.
"You've changed clothes four times."
"I changed three times."
"That means I'm right."
Jennifer ignored her and picked up the book again.
Her fingers brushed the title softly.
If she had not stabbed that bully in a burst of blinding rage…
If she had walked away…
If she had screamed instead…
Then prison would never have happened.
But regrets did not reverse doors once locked.
She only knew one truth:
During the worst season of her life, this novel had kept something inside her alive.
Twinkle Twinkle was not some childish fantasy despite the sweet title.
It was the story of a boy born into cruelty, who made terrible choices trying to survive. He lied. Fought. Ran. Failed. Hurt others. Hurt himself.
Yet he never surrendered.
He rose through pain with humor sharp enough to hide wounds.
Psychologically raw.
Emotionally strange.
Beautifully stubborn.
That was why people loved it.
That was why she loved it.
Because broken people recognized themselves fastest.
"Why are you dragging me along again?" Jessica complained dramatically.
They were now seated in a yellow keke rattling through Lagos traffic, the small tricycle buzzing like an angry insect.
Warm wind slapped their cheeks.
Road noise surged around them.
Buses honked.
Street sellers shouted.
Music blasted from a nearby danfo.
Jennifer clutched the side rail with one hand and Jessica's wrist with the other.
"I need to hold someone's hand if I get nervous."
Jessica stared at her.
"You? Nervous?"
Jennifer nodded seriously.
"Yes."
"I have seen you threaten a man with a frying pan."
"That was confidence."
"You chased another man with pepper spray."
"That was justice."
"You once argued with a landlord for forty minutes."
"That was rent."
Jessica burst into laughter.
Jennifer frowned.
"This is different."
She looked down at the book.
"I'm meeting someone whose words mattered to me when nothing else did."
Jessica's teasing softened immediately.
Ah.
So that was it.
Not celebrity worship.
Gratitude.
"You really like this writer."
Jennifer's eyes widened.
"Of course! His writing is the best I've read. I've finished four of his books. But Twinkle Twinkle…" she hugged the novel tighter, "…that one is mine."
Jessica smiled quietly.
Jennifer continued in one breath:
"And I'm nervous because I'll meet him face to face and what if I say something stupid or trip or sweat too much or cry or forget words—"
"Breathe."
"And thank God I could afford the tickets because if they sold out I would have cried for three business days."
The keke driver laughed loudly.
"Madam, na true fan you be."
Jennifer grinned without shame.
"Yes! Please drive faster!"
"Oga road no be airport," the driver replied.
Jessica nearly doubled over laughing.
The ride continued through shifting parts of Lagos.
Busy roadside stalls.
Glass buildings.
Flyovers.
Crowds moving like tides.
Jennifer kept adjusting her blouse, then her hair, then the book, then sitting straight, then slouching, then straight again.
Jessica watched in delight.
She had seen Jennifer angry.
Quiet.
Ashamed.
Protective.
But fangirl?
New experience.
"You're acting like a teenager."
"I'm twenty-four."
"Exactly."
Jennifer gasped.
"That is still youthful."
Jessica nodded solemnly.
"True. Mentally you are sixteen."
Jennifer slapped her shoulder.
The keke swerved slightly as the driver laughed again.
As they neared the venue district, traffic thickened with decorated cars and pedestrians carrying books, posters, and event wristbands.
Large banners hung outside the center:
BETTER CHOICE PRESENTS
TWINKLE TWINKLE BOOK SIGNING & FAN EXPERIENCE
Jennifer went still.
Her pulse kicked harder.
This was real.
She was here.
Not in a cell.
Not hiding.
Not surviving one day at a time.
Here.
In public.
Going to something joyful.
Jessica noticed her sudden silence and reached for her hand properly this time.
Jennifer squeezed back tightly.
"As promised," Jessica said softly. "I'm here."
Jennifer swallowed emotion.
"Don't leave me if I faint."
"I'll drag you stylishly."
Jennifer laughed shakily.
Then looked ahead at the entrance doors, crowds gathering under sunlight, excitement spilling everywhere.
For the first time in years, anticipation felt stronger than fear.