Zara didn't read the invitation again.
She set it down where it had been, slightly apart from the rest of her things, and let her attention move on.
Taye watched her for a moment before speaking.
"The shirt," he said. "Is it still at your place?"
Zara paused, her fingers resting lightly against the edge of the desk.
"I think so."
It was the closest thing to certainty she could offer.
Taye nodded once.
"How about I have someone run prints on it?" he said. Then, after a brief beat, "Unless you already have an idea who might've sent it."
"No."
A short pause.
"You can go ahead."
Taye leaned back slightly, studying her.
"Could it be tied to your father's side?" he asked. "Someone trying to get your attention?"
Zara's gaze lifted to his.
"If it was," she said, "it wouldn't be this indirect."
That was all she gave.
Taye didn't push.
"Alright."
Zara picked up her phone.
"I'll send someone with the key," she said. "They'll meet your people, hand it over, and leave."
"Okay."
"And when they're done, they call me," she added. "I'll have the key collected."
"That works."
She dialed.
"I'm sending you an address," Zara said when the call connected. "Go there. Someone will meet you—give them the key and come back."
A pause.
"Yes. Don't stay."
Another pause.
"I'll call you when to return for the key."
She ended the call and set her phone down.
Taye stepped aside, making his own call, his voice low and controlled.
Zara turned toward the table.
The food had already been set aside earlier—covered, untouched.
She pulled the lid back.
Jollof rice.
Fried plantain.
Grilled chicken, the spice still faintly sharp in the air.
She picked up the fork, pausing briefly before taking the first bite.
Slow. Measured.
By the time Taye finished his call, she had taken a few bites.
"It's set," he said.
Zara nodded once, not looking up immediately.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The quiet settled naturally between them.
"I don't want this going through the police," Zara said after a moment.
"It won't."
She didn't repeat herself.
She didn't need to.
A few seconds passed.
Zara set the fork down.
Her gaze lingered on the table for a second—
then she straightened slightly.
"There's a camera outside," she said.
Taye looked up.
"At the entrance," she added. "It should've picked it up."
"Check it."
Zara was already reaching for her phone.
She unlocked it, opened the app, and scrolled back through the timestamps until she found what she needed.
She pressed play.
They watched.
A figure stepped into frame.
Covered.
No hesitation.
The box was placed carefully at the door.
Not dropped.
Placed.
Zara's eyes narrowed slightly.
The person didn't look around. Didn't acknowledge the camera.
Just turned—
and walked away.
Zara paused the video.
"No face," Taye said.
"No."
She exited the footage.
"Tell your people not to touch anything they don't have to," she said. "I don't want things moved around unnecessarily."
Taye nodded once. "They won't."
Her gaze shifted to him.
"They're careful?"
"They're professionals," he replied. "They know what they're doing."
A brief pause.
Zara nodded once.
"Fine."
That settled it.
Taye glanced at his watch, then reached for his jacket.
"I need to get to the office," he said. "I'll update you."
Zara nodded.
"Okay."
He paused briefly.
"You'll be fine?"
Zara looked at him.
"Yes."
Simple. Steady.
He held her gaze for a second, then nodded.
"I'll see you."
"Later."
The door closed behind him.
Zara didn't move immediately.
The room felt quieter now.
She picked up her fork again, but didn't eat this time.
Just rested it lightly against the plate.
Then she stood.
Walked back to her desk.
Her phone was still in her hand.
She unlocked it again.
The feed shifted.
Inside.
Her living room.
Empty.
For a moment.
Then movement.
Two men entered.
Focused. Efficient.
No unnecessary movement.
They went straight for the box.
Zara watched.
Silent. Still.
One of them opened it again, slower this time.
Gloves.
Careful handling.
The shirt was removed.
Contained.
Nothing else was touched.
Good.
Zara watched a few seconds longer.
Then locked her phone and set it down.
Her gaze shifted.
Back to the invitation.
She picked it up again.
Read it.
Slower this time.
The Chairman requests the honor of your presence at a private showing.
No name.
No signature.
Nothing to place.
Zara turned the card slightly between her fingers.
She knew the names in this space.
The ones that mattered.
This wasn't one of them.
But it wasn't careless either.
She placed the invitation back down.
Not ignored.
Just… waiting.
Zara didn't leave immediately after Taye.
She stayed back long enough to finish what was in front of her, though "finishing" felt more like clearing space than actually engaging with the work. Emails were answered, notes reviewed, a few instructions passed along—but none of it held her for long.
By the time she stepped out of her office, the gallery had started to quiet.
The hum of earlier activity had softened into something slower. Staff moved in smaller clusters now, conversations lower, the kind that came at the end of a long day.
Chinny's office door was still open.
Zara paused briefly, then walked in.
Chinny looked up, a pen still in her hand. "You're still around."
"So are you."
Chinny smiled faintly, closing the file in front of her. "I had a few things to wrap up." Her eyes moved over Zara for a second—not intrusive, just observant—before settling again.
Zara reached into her bag and placed the card on the desk.
"I got something."
Chinny glanced at it, casual at first.
Then her attention shifted.
"…You too?"
Zara's gaze lifted slightly. "You got one."
Chinny picked up a similar card from beside her laptop and held it up. "Came in this morning. I thought it was just me."
Zara didn't respond immediately.
That detail mattered more than she showed.
Chinny turned the card over in her hand. "Private showing," she murmured. "No name. No signature."
"But not unfamiliar," Zara said.
Chinny nodded slowly. "I've been hearing things."
Zara leaned slightly against the edge of the desk, arms folding loosely. "About?"
"Nothing solid," Chinny said. "Just talk. Someone new trying to break into the circle quietly. Private listings, controlled access… the kind of thing that builds curiosity before anything else."
"Outside?" Zara asked.
"Most likely."
Chinny placed the card down, tapping it lightly with her fingers. "If it's real, it's not small."
Zara's gaze rested on the card for a second longer.
Then—
"You shouldn't go," she said.
Chinny blinked, then leaned back in her chair. "Why?"
"We have the auction," Zara replied. "There's still work to be done."
Chinny let out a quiet breath, almost amused. "Zara."
Her tone shifted slightly.
"You're the one saying that?"
Zara didn't react.
Chinny tilted her head. "I'm usually the one running around to these things, remember?"
A pause.
"This time, you go."
Zara's expression remained the same. "It's not necessary."
"It is," Chinny said simply. "You've been in work mode for too long."
Zara didn't answer.
Chinny watched her for a moment, then softened just slightly. "One night won't affect anything. If it's worth it, good. If it's not, you leave early."
Zara exhaled quietly—not quite a sigh.
"I'll think about it."
Chinny nodded once. "That's all I'm asking."
Zara picked up the invitation again, sliding it back into her bag.
She didn't linger after that.
The drive home was uneventful.
The city moved around her—traffic lights, passing headlights, familiar turns—but none of it held her attention for long.
Her phone buzzed once.
Taye.
It's done. I'll call you later.
She read it, then locked the screen without replying.
When she got home, the difference was immediate.
The air felt still.
Clean in a way that wasn't entirely comforting.
She stepped inside, her heels softer against the floor this time, her gaze moving across the room without urgency.
Everything was in place.
Nothing out of order.
She set her bag down slowly.
Her eyes moved—almost without intention—to the spot near the door.
Empty.
Zara looked at it for a moment.
Then turned away.
The shower wasn't long.
Just enough.
Warm water, steady pressure, something physical to anchor her to the present instead of wherever her thoughts kept trying to go.
By the time she stepped out, her mind had quieted—not completely, but enough to move.
She changed into something simple, comfortable.
In the kitchen, she didn't overthink it.
Leftover rice from earlier in the week.
She reheated it, added a little sauce, sliced a piece of grilled chicken she had stored in the fridge. It wasn't elaborate, but it was enough.
She ate at the counter.
No distractions.
No scrolling.
Just small, steady bites.
When she finished, she rinsed the plate immediately, wiped the surface clean, and stood there for a second longer than necessary.
Then moved.
Her room felt calmer.
Familiar.
The journal sat exactly where she had left it.
Zara picked it up and sat down.
For a moment, she didn't open it.
Her fingers rested lightly on the cover.
Then she did.
She didn't try to write everything.
Just the parts that mattered.
Short lines. Clear. Controlled.
A delivery.
A gap.
An invitation.
Her pen paused once, hovering over the page.
Then continued.
When she was done, she closed it without reading back.
Set it aside.
Her phone buzzed again.
Taye.
She let it ring once before answering.
"I was going to call earlier," he said.
"It's fine."
"They've taken it in. I'll let you know if anything comes up."
"Okay."
A brief pause.
"You good?"
Zara leaned back slightly.
"I'm fine."
He didn't question it.
"Get some rest," he said.
"You too."
She ended the call.The room settled into silence again.
Zara reached into the drawer beside her bed and brought out the medication.
She held it for a moment.
Not hesitation.
Just awareness.
Then she took one.
Set the glass down.
Turned off the light.
And lay back.
Sleep didn't come immediately.
But when it did—
it held.Morning came quietly.
Zara woke before her alarm, eyes opening without urgency. For a moment, she stayed still, letting the silence settle before the day began.
Then she reached for her phone.
Nothing urgent.
Good.
She got up, moving through her routine with the same quiet precision. The bathroom light flicked on, soft against the early morning. Everything was where it should be, untouched, in order.
By the time she stepped back into her room, her mind had already shifted forward.
Closet doors slid open.
She didn't linger.
Work didn't require anything complicated today, but it still required presence.
Her hand moved with certainty—white blouse, structured but soft, paired with tailored black trousers. Clean. Controlled. Enough.
She dressed, fastening her watch last.
Jewelry stayed minimal.
Her bag sat where she had left it. She checked it once, then picked it up and stepped out.
The gallery was already active when she arrived.
Voices low but steady. Movement controlled.
"Good morning, ma."
Zara acknowledged it with a slight nod as she walked in, her attention already scanning the space.
Lighting.
Spacing.
Placement.
Nothing obvious.
But she noticed anyway.
"Zara."
She turned slightly.
Chinny was near the far end of the gallery, standing beside a partially installed piece—one of the new arrivals for the upcoming auction. A technician stood a few steps away, waiting.
"You're just in time," Chinny said. "We're still adjusting this."
Zara walked closer, her gaze settling on the piece.
It was slightly off.
Not visibly.
But enough.
"Shift it," she said, her voice calm. "Two inches to the left."
The technician moved immediately.
Chinny watched the adjustment, then glanced at Zara. "That's exactly what I said."
Zara didn't respond.
But her gaze stayed on the piece until it was done.
Then she gave a small nod.
"Better."
Chinny dismissed the technician with a brief gesture before turning fully to her. "Final confirmations are almost done. Two collectors are still holding back."
"Give them until tonight," Zara said.
Chinny nodded. "Already planned."
They moved away from the piece together, walking slowly through the gallery.
"The guest list?" Zara asked.
"Sent again this morning," Chinny replied. "You'll probably see it before you sit down."
Zara's phone vibrated faintly in her hand.
She ignored it.
Chinny glanced at her briefly. "Are you staying late today?"
"No."
A pause.
"Leaving when?" Chinny asked.
"Early afternoon."
Chinny nodded once, accepting it without question. "Alright. I'll stay on this side."
Zara glanced at her. "You always do."
Chinny smiled faintly. "Exactly."
They walked a little further in silence before Chinny spoke again.
"So… the invitation."
Zara didn't look at her. "What about it?"
"You're going."
It wasn't a question.
Zara's expression remained unchanged. "I haven't decided."
Chinny gave a quiet hum. "You have."
That earned her a glance.
"If it's what I think it is," Chinny continued, "you should be there."
"And here?" Zara asked.
Chinny gestured lightly around them. "Handled."
Simple.
Confident.
Zara studied her for a second.
Then gave a small nod.
Decision made.
She stayed until a little past two.
Long enough to review everything properly.
Short enough not to lose control of the rest of her day.
By the time she left, the gallery was fully in motion—but she had already stepped out of it.
Home felt different in the afternoon.
Quieter.
Still.
Zara set her bag down and stood there for a moment, her gaze moving across the room.
Everything was in place.
Unchanged.
Her eyes paused briefly near the entrance.
Then moved on.
She didn't rush.
That was the difference.
There was time.
She showered, slower this time. Let the water run longer than necessary. Let the quiet stretch.
Afterward, she moved into her room, a towel wrapped loosely around her shoulders.
Closet doors opened again.
This time, the decision carried weight.
Evening.
Her hand moved across fabrics before settling on a black dress—sleek, fitted, structured enough to hold shape without effort.
She laid it on the bed.
Shoes followed.
Then her bag for the night.
Everything placed neatly.
Prepared.
Makeup came after.
Controlled.
Intentional.
Nothing excessive.
Just enough to sharpen what was already there.
When she was done, she studied her reflection for a second longer than usual.
Then stepped back.
Her phone buzzed.
Taye.
She looked at it.
Didn't pick it up.
By the time she dressed, the light outside had shifted.
Evening settling in.
Zara slipped into the dress, adjusting it once before reaching for her jewelry.
Minimal.
Precise.
She picked up her bag and stepped out.
The air had cooled.
The city had changed.
Lights coming alive in quiet patterns.
She got into her car, the movement familiar.
The invitation sat inside her bag.
She didn't take it out.
Didn't need to.
The drive took her further than usual.
Less crowded roads.
More controlled spaces.
And when the building came into view—
it didn't need attention.
It carried presence on its own.
Private.
Intentional.
Zara slowed slightly before pulling in.
Parked.
Turned off the engine.
For a moment, she stayed still.
Then she stepped out.
Heels steady.
Posture straight.
Expression composed.
Zara.
And as she walked toward the entrance—
there was that feeling again.
Quiet.
Persistent.
Like something was already waiting.The entrance didn't look like much.
No crowd. No unnecessary display.
Just a quiet checkpoint—two staff members, a list, and a brief glance at her invitation before they stepped aside without question.
"Good evening."
Zara gave a slight nod and walked in.
The difference was immediate.
The lighting was softer than most exhibitions she had attended—intentional, controlled. Not dim, just… selective. Each piece held its own space without competing with the others.
The room wasn't crowded.
Curated.
That was the word.
Every guest looked like they belonged there. No excess. No noise. Conversations stayed low, measured. The kind of environment where people didn't need to prove anything.
Zara moved through it slowly.
Not aimlessly.
Observing.
She recognized a few faces—collectors, a curator she had seen once or twice, someone from a Lagos gallery she had done business with before. They acknowledged her with small nods, brief greetings.
Nothing that held her.
Her attention shifted from piece to piece, taking in textures, brushwork, framing choices. Some were impressive. Some tried too hard.
None of them stopped her.
Until one did.
It wasn't the largest piece in the room.
It didn't demand attention.
But it held it anyway.
Zara stopped in front of it, her gaze settling without movement.
The painting was quiet.
Muted tones, layered in a way that didn't reveal everything at once. At first glance, it looked simple—almost restrained. But the longer she looked, the more it shifted.
There was tension in it.
Not loud.
Not obvious.
But there.
Like something had been held back… deliberately.
Zara stepped a little closer.
Her eyes traced the lines, the subtle blending, the way light and shadow sat against each other without fully merging.
It didn't ask to be understood.
It just… existed.
And for a moment—
she forgot everything else.
"You see it too."
The voice came from beside her.
Calm. Measured. Familiar in a way that didn't make sense.
Zara didn't turn immediately.
Her gaze remained on the painting for a second longer before she spoke.
"It doesn't try too hard," she said.
A pause.
Then—
"No," the voice replied. "It doesn't."
Zara turned.
He was already looking at the painting.
Not at her.
Tall. Composed. Dressed simply, but in a way that didn't need attention to be noticed. There was something deliberate about him—nothing out of place, nothing accidental.
Like he understood the room better than most of the people in it.
Zara studied him briefly.
Not too long.
Just enough.
"You know the artist?" she asked.
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question.
"I know the work," he said.
That wasn't an answer.
Zara noticed.
But she didn't press.
Her gaze returned to the painting. "It feels incomplete."
Another pause.
"Or controlled," he countered.
Zara glanced at him again.
This time, he met her gaze.
There was no hesitation in it.
No curiosity either.
Just… recognition.
Not of who she was.
Something else.
Zara held it for a second.
Then looked away first.
"It's holding something back," she said.
"Everything does," he replied.
The response came easily.
Too easily.
Zara let that sit for a moment.
Then—
"What do you think it's holding?" she asked.
A small shift.
Not in posture.
In attention.
He looked at the painting again before answering.
"Depends on who's looking."
Zara almost smiled.
Almost.
"That's convenient."
"It's accurate."
Their conversation didn't feel forced.
But it wasn't casual either.
There was a rhythm to it.
Measured.
Deliberate.
Zara folded her arms lightly, her gaze still on the painting. "You sound like you've had this conversation before."
"Not this one."
She glanced at him again.
"And yet you came prepared."
This time, there was the faintest hint of something in his expression.
Not amusement.
Not quite.
"Observation doesn't require preparation," he said.
Zara held his gaze for a second longer.
Then—
"Zara."
She didn't offer more.
Didn't need to.
He nodded once.
Like he had expected it.
"Damilola."
The name settled easily.
Zara repeated it once, quietly, as if testing it.
"Damilola."
He didn't correct her.
Didn't add anything.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The space between them wasn't uncomfortable.
But it wasn't empty either.
It carried something—
unspoken.
Across the room, a subtle shift began.
Movement. Attention redirecting.
Someone near the center tapped lightly against a glass.
"Ladies and gentlemen…"
The voice carried just enough to gather the room without raising itself.
Zara's gaze lifted slightly.
Damilola didn't move.
"…we'll be beginning shortly. But first…"
A pause.
"Allow me to introduce the man behind tonight's private showing."
Zara's attention sharpened.
Not visibly.
But enough.
She turned slightly—
just as the speaker continued.
"Our chairman."
A brief silence.
Then—
"Mr. Damilola Adebayo."
Zara turned fully.
But he was no longer beside her.
Her gaze shifted across the room.
And then she saw him.
Standing at the center now.
Calm. Composed. Unmoved by the attention that had just settled on him.
Like it belonged there.
Like he always had.
"…we're honored to have him here tonight…"
The words continued.
But Zara wasn't listening anymore.
Her mind replayed the last few minutes—
the conversation
the tone
the way he had looked at her like—
like nothing about this was new.
Her fingers tightened slightly against her arm.
Not visibly.
But enough.
Because the invitation had been clear.
Our chairman will be honored.
Not introduced.
Not revealed.
Honored.
And yet—
he had been standing beside her
like a stranger
discussing a painting
like none of this mattered.
Zara didn't move.
Didn't react.
Her expression stayed exactly the same.
Controlled.
But her gaze remained fixed on him.
And for the first time that night—
something didn't align.The applause faded quickly.
Zara didn't join in.
Her attention stayed on him until he stepped down.
The room slowly returned to itself—low conversations, quiet movement, glasses lifted, people drifting toward pieces that now seemed more important simply because he had been attached to them.
Zara didn't move.
Not immediately.
Her gaze returned to the painting in front of her, but her focus wasn't as still as it had been before.
Now, there was context.
And context changed things.
"You're looking at it differently."
His voice again.
Zara didn't turn this time.
"Should I not?" she asked calmly.
A brief pause.
Then—
"I expected you would."
She turned.
Damilola stood beside her again.
Same position.
Same composure.
Only difference—
now she knew exactly who he was.
"You could have said something," she said.
"I could have."
No apology.
No explanation.
Just acknowledgment.
Zara studied him for a second.
"You let me speak to you like I didn't know who you were."
"And you did," he replied.
Her gaze held his.
"You don't find that strange?"
"No."
That answer came too easily.
Zara noticed.
A short silence followed.
Not awkward.
Just… deliberate.
Then he shifted slightly—not away, not closer. Just enough to change the direction of the moment.
"I've heard about you," he said.
That made her pause.
Zara's eyes narrowed slightly—not defensive, just attentive.
"From where?" she asked.
"Your gallery," he replied. "Your acquisitions. The way you price pieces without inflating them for attention."
A brief pause.
"You're selective."
Zara held his gaze.
That wasn't something people usually noticed.
"And you listen to people talk about me?" she asked.
"Only when it's worth listening to."
That almost sounded like a compliment.
Almost.
Zara looked back at the painting briefly, then back at him.
"And what did they say?" she asked.
"That you don't attend things like this."
A beat.
"And when you do, there's a reason."
Zara didn't respond immediately.
Because that—
was accurate.
"So which is it tonight?" he asked. "Curiosity… or something else?"
Zara's expression didn't change.
"Does it matter?"
"Not yet."
That answer lingered.
Zara exhaled quietly, shifting her weight slightly.
"I received an invitation," she said. "That was reason enough."
Damilola nodded once.
"Of course."
Another pause.
Short.
Controlled.
Zara glanced around the room briefly.
Then back at him.
"You don't usually introduce yourself like that?" she asked.
"Like what?"
"Like it doesn't matter who you are."
A faint shift in his expression.
Not quite a smile.
"Most of the time, it doesn't."
Zara held that for a second.
Then—
"And tonight?"
His gaze stayed on hers.
"Tonight… I was curious."
That landed.
Zara didn't react immediately.
Didn't ask what he meant.
She just held his gaze a second longer—
then looked away first.
"About the painting?" she asked.
A small pause.
"Partly."
Zara let that sit.
Didn't push it.
Across the room, movement shifted again—guests beginning to drift toward other sections, conversations expanding, the structure loosening slightly.
Zara adjusted her grip on her clutch.
"I won't be staying long," she said.
Damilola nodded.
"I didn't expect you to."
She glanced at him once more.
Measured.
Then—
"If there's something you wanted me to see," she said, "you could have just said it."
A quiet pause.
"I just did," he replied.
That answer was too clean.
Too intentional.
Zara studied him for a second longer.
Then gave a small nod.
"Alright."
Damilola reached into his inner pocket.
Pulled out a card.
Simple. Minimal. No unnecessary detail.
He held it out to her.
Zara looked at it briefly before taking it.
"If you're still curious," he said, "you can reach me."
No pressure.
No insistence.
Just… offered.
Zara turned the card slightly between her fingers.
Then looked up at him.
"I usually don't follow up on vague invitations," she said.
"I know."
That made her pause again.
Just for a second.
Zara slipped the card into her bag.
"Then you'll understand if I don't," she said.
Damilola nodded once.
"I will."
Another brief silence.
Then Zara stepped back slightly.
Not dismissive.
Just enough to signal movement.
"It was… interesting," she said.
The closest thing to acknowledgment she was willing to give.
Damilola inclined his head slightly.
"Enjoy the rest of your evening."
Zara didn't respond.
She turned—
and walked away.
But she didn't leave immediately.
Instead, she moved through the space again—
slower this time.
More aware.
More deliberate.
Because now—
she knew this wasn't random.
And even if she hadn't decided to follow up—
she knew one thing for certain.
He hadn't approached her by accident.He hadn't approached her by accident.
That thought stayed with her longer than she expected.
Not loud.
Not distracting.
Just… present.
Zara didn't rush her exit.
She moved toward the door at the same measured pace, acknowledging no one beyond a brief nod when necessary. The room remained controlled behind her—quiet conversations, soft laughter, the kind of environment that pretended nothing shifted even when it did.
Outside, the air felt different.
Cooler.
Less curated.
She stepped down, heels steady against the pavement, and made her way to her car.
For a moment, she just stood there.
Hand on the door.
Not thinking.
Just… still.
Then she got in.
The drive back was quiet.
The city had settled into night—lights sharper now, movement slower, everything stretched just slightly thinner than it had been earlier.
Zara didn't turn on the radio.
Didn't check her phone.
Her focus stayed forward.
But her mind didn't stay empty.
Damilola.
The conversation.
The way he had spoken like none of it needed to be explained.
Her fingers tightened slightly against the steering wheel.
Then relaxed.
By the time she pulled into her compound, her expression had already reset.
Composed.
Controlled.
Zara.
The gate closed behind her.
She stepped out.
Locked the car.
And that was when she noticed it.
A car.
Parked a little off to the side.
Not directly in front.
Not hidden either.
Her gaze rested on it for a second longer than necessary.
Then she walked forward.
The door opened before she got close.
Taye stepped out.
He didn't speak immediately.
Just looked at her.
Quick. Direct.
Checking.
"You're back," he said.
Zara stopped a few steps away.
"I live here," she replied.
A brief pause.
Taye exhaled quietly.
Not irritated.
Just… something else.
"I figured you'd be done earlier," he said.
"I wasn't."
That ended that.
Another silence settled between them.
This one heavier.
"You didn't pick up," he added.
Zara met his gaze.
"I saw."
"And?"
"I chose not to."
That landed exactly the way she intended it to.
Taye looked away briefly, then back at her.
"Right."
A pause.
Then—
"How was it?" he asked.
Zara tilted her head slightly.
"Since when do you care about art shows?"
"I don't," he said. "I care about you walking into something with no background."
That was closer.
Zara held his gaze for a second longer.
"It wasn't what you think," she said.
"What do I think?" he asked.
She didn't answer that.
Instead—
"It was controlled," she said. "Intentional."
A brief pause.
"And planned."
Taye's attention sharpened slightly.
"You're saying it wasn't random."
Zara didn't respond immediately.
Then—
"No," she said.
Silence.
That changed something.
Taye shifted his weight slightly.
"You want me to look into it?" he asked.
Zara's answer came immediately.
"No."
Not harsh.
Just final.
"I've already seen what I need to," she added.
Taye studied her for a second.
Like he knew there was more she wasn't saying.
But he didn't push.
"Alright," he said.
Another pause.
Then—
"You okay?" he asked again.
Zara almost smiled.
Almost.
"You've asked that twice," she said.
"I didn't get an answer the first time."
She held his gaze.
"I gave you one."
"That doesn't mean it was true."
That—
hung there.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Zara stepped past him.
Not brushing.
Not avoiding.
Just moving forward.
"I'm fine, Taye," she said.
Softer this time.
Not for him.
Just… because she was done with it.
She reached the door.
Unlocked it.
Paused.
Then, without turning—
"You don't have to wait next time."
A quiet exhale behind her.
"Yeah," he said.
Zara stepped inside.
Closed the door.
And just like that—
the night shifted again.
Because now—
she was alone.
But not entirely untouched.
The silence inside felt different.
Not empty.
Not calm.
Just… aware.
Zara set her bag down slowly.
Her fingers lingered against it for a second—
then slid away.
And for the first time since she left the gallery—
she didn't move immediately.
She didn't turn on the lights right away.
Just stood there for a second—letting the stillness settle back into place.
Then she moved.
Set her bag down.
Slipped out of her heels.
Outside, she could still hear the faint sound of a car engine.
Taye hadn't left yet.
Zara didn't go back to the door.
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced at it.
Taye.
For a second, she considered ignoring it.
Then she picked up.
"I thought you said you were leaving," she said.
"I am," he replied.
A brief pause.
"They just got back to me."
Zara didn't speak.
"No usable prints," he continued. "Apart from mine."
A slight shift in tone.
"Whoever sent it knew what they were doing."
Zara leaned lightly against the counter.
Silent.
"That doesn't change anything," she said.
"It changes enough," Taye replied. "It means it wasn't careless."
Zara's gaze lowered slightly.
Not reacting.
Just… registering.
A brief pause settled between them.
"I'll keep looking into it," he added.
"No," she said.
That stopped him.
"I've seen enough for now," she continued. "Let it sit."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"Alright," he said finally.
Zara didn't soften it.
Didn't explain.
"I'll call you if anything comes up," he added.
"Okay."
A beat.
"Goodnight, Zara."
She didn't answer immediately.
Then—
"Drive safe."
The line went quiet.
Then ended.
Zara lowered the phone slowly.
Set it down.
The house felt still again.
Too still.
Her gaze drifted—briefly—to the entrance.
Then away.
The invitation.
The painting.
Damilola.
And now—
no prints.
No trace.
No mistake.
Zara exhaled quietly.
This wasn't random.
None of it was.
And whatever had started—
wasn't finished.