Chapter 215 084
MORNING arrived in its usual chaos of alarms, half-folded uniforms, and the smell of toast drifting from downstairs.
The twins were already awake— an unusual occurrence that did not go unnoticed by Wendy.
She stepped out of her room tying her hair into a neat ponytail, her school blouse tucked in perfectly, skirt pressed, socks crisp white. Being a year older than the twins meant she carried herself with just a little more composure, more control, more awareness.
Or at least she tried to.
She nearly collided with both boys standing suspiciously outside her door.
“Why are you two here?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
Gabriel cleared his throat.
“We were… passing.”
“Passing?” Wendy folded her arms. “Outside my door?”
Gaddiel quickly jumped in.
“We wanted to make sure you were awake.”
She raised a brow.
“I have an alarm clock.”
“Alarms fail,” Gabriel said confidently. “We don’t.”
She stared at them for a second before shaking her head with a small smile.
“You two are unbelievable.”
They grinned in perfect sync.
Both were already in uniform, their ties slightly crooked in identical fashion. Gabriel subtly nudged Gaddiel out of the way and held out a hand.
“Your bag,” he offered. “I can carry it.”
Before Wendy could respond, Gaddiel intercepted.
“No, I will carry it. He dropped his own bag yesterday.”
“That was strategic,” Gabriel protested. “I was testing the zipper.”
Wendy laughed despite herself.
“You both need help.”
“From you?” Gaddiel asked quickly.
Gabriel shot him a glare.
“Ignore him. He is immature.”
“I’m immature?” Gaddiel gasped. “You practiced saying good morning in the mirror!”
“That was posture practice!”
Wendy blinked.
“You what?”
“Nothing,” Gabriel muttered quickly, shooting daggers at his brother.
They began walking down the hallway together.
“By the way,” Gaddiel said casually, trying too hard to sound casual, “you braided your hair differently today.”
Wendy touched it instinctively.
“It’s just a ponytail.”
“It’s… a sophisticated ponytail,” Gabriel corrected smoothly.
She stopped mid-step and stared at both of them.
“You two are acting strange.”
“We are not,” they said in unison.
She squinted. “You are.”
They resumed walking.
“So,” Gabriel began, adjusting his tie unnecessarily, “do seniors have any special activities today?”
“It is just a literature presentation,” Wendy replied.
Gaddiel's eyes widened.
“You like literature, right? I like literature too.”
“You said books are boring,” Gabriel exposed immediately.
“That was before I matured.”
“Overnight?”
“People grow.”
Wendy burst into laughter again.
“You two are ridiculous.”
“But impressive,” Gabriel added.
“Charming,” Gaddiel corrected.
She rolled her eyes affectionately.
As they reached the staircase, Gabriel quickened his pace to walk beside her while Gaddiel strategically positioned himself on her other side, effectively sandwiching her between them.
“So,” Gaddiel said, lowering his voice slightly, “hypothetically speaking… would you ever consider going to prom with someone a year younger?”
Wendy nearly missed a step.
“Hypothetically?” she repeated.
Gabriel shot Gaddiel a warning look.
“He means academically younger. Not emotionally.”
“I’m emotionally advanced,” Gaddiel argued.
Wendy shook her head, smiling despite herself.
“You are both impossible. And prom is still very far for us.”
“We plan ahead,” Gabriel said firmly.
Gaddiel nodded.
“Strategic thinking.”
She looked from one to the other, amused and slightly overwhelmed.
“You do realize I’m older than both of you?”
“Age is a number,” Gaddiel declared confidently.
“Grades are temporary,” Gabriel added.
“Reality is permanent,” Wendy replied dryly.
They reached the bottom of the stairs just as the smell of eggs and pancakes drifted toward them.
“Breakfast!” Gaddiel announced dramatically.
“After you,” Gabriel said, stepping aside for Wendy.
Gaddiel quickly nudged him out of the way and gestured grandly instead.
“Ladies first.”
Wendy sighed.
“If I go first, will you two stop competing?”
They looked at each other.
“No,” they answered honestly.
She laughed and walked ahead toward the dining area.
The morning sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a warm glow over the dining table already set with plates and glasses of juice.
George wasn't in sight and neither was Adrian.
So Gabriel pulled out a chair for her.
Gaddiel immediately adjusted it slightly.
“It wasn’t aligned properly.”
“It was fine,” Gabriel hissed.
“It was crooked.”
“It was artistic.”
Wendy sat down, shaking her head as she reached for a glass of juice.
“You two realize this is school morning, not a talent competition?”
Gabriel leaned forward slightly.
“We are just being… attentive.”
“Supportive,” Gaddiel added.
She sipped her juice, hiding a smile behind the glass.
“Well,” she said after a moment, glancing at both of them, “if you are going to be this attentive, you can start by passing the pancakes.”
Both boys reached for the plate at the same time, hands colliding.
They froze.
Then slowly looked at each other.
Wendy watched, amused.
Breakfast had begun.
Afternoon in The Bahamas felt deceptively calm.
Sunlight spilled across Amelia’s suite in soft gold layers, the ocean glinting lazily beyond her balcony doors. But inside, the atmosphere was anything but leisurely.
Her laptop sat open on the desk. Documents. Emails. Timelines. Notes she had been compiling for weeks.
She adjusted her glasses slightly and leaned closer to the screen, reviewing a report one more time. A name circled. A connection mapped. A quiet strategy forming. Every step she was taking here required precision. One wrong move, one premature decision, and months of planning would collapse.
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced at it briefly, it was an unknown international number. She declined it without hesitation and returned to her work.
Focus.
She typed out a final email, attached the necessary files, and exhaled slowly as she hit send.
By the time she shut her laptop, the afternoon had softened into early evening. The sky outside was transitioning from pale blue to streaks of coral and lavender.
She stood, stretched lightly, and walked toward the mirror.
It had become almost unspoken now— this routine.
Work in the day.
Bar in the evening.
And him.
She chose a simple cream blouse this time, tucked into tailored high-waisted trousers. Minimal jewelry. Hair half-pinned back, the rest cascading freely. Effortless, but intentional.
She paused briefly at her reflection.
Why was she looking forward to this?
She didn’t answer herself.
—
The bar was glowing again when she entered.
And there he was.
As though he had been placed there deliberately for the scene.
Ifeanyi looked up mid-conversation with another guest, and when his eyes found her, something in his expression warmed instantly.
“Good evening,” he greeted once he was free, that familiar ease in his voice.
“Good evening,” she replied, settling onto her usual stool.
“It’s becoming a routine,” he teased lightly. “I should start reserving this seat.”
“You should,” she said. “I might leave a review if it is ever occupied.”
He chuckled.
They exchanged a few light comments about the day before she tilted her head thoughtfully.
“You know,” she began, “I have been calling you Ifeanyi this whole time without properly asking.”
He raised a brow. “Asking what?”
“Your name. Properly. I mean— what does it mean?”
His expression shifted, not dramatically, but noticeably. It became softer and more grounded.
“I have said it before but I guess you probably weren't paying attention, “ he laughed.
“You can say that again.”
“Ifeanyi,” he repeated. “It’s Igbo.”
“Igbo?”
“I’m Nigerian,” he said. “Igbo, specifically.”
Her interest sharpened.
“I didn’t know it was that deep.”
He smiled slightly.
“Now you do.”
“And what does it mean?”
“It means ‘Nothing is impossible with God.’”
She blinked, impressed.
“That is… powerful.”
He shrugged modestly.
“Our names carry weight. They carry stories, they carry prayers.”
She leaned her chin into her palm. “Tell me more.”
And just like that, the conversation opened wider.
He told her about Nigeria, the energy, the noise, the color. About jollof rice debates that could start wars between countries. About egusi soup thick with flavor. About suya sold on late evenings, smoky and spicy.
“You haven’t lived until you have argued about whose jollof is superior,” he said seriously.
She laughed.
“I feel like that is a very passionate topic.”
“It is. Deeply political.”
She shook her head, smiling.
He spoke about family structure— how elders were greeted first, how respect wasn’t optional but woven into everyday life. About storytelling traditions where grandparents gathered children at night to tell folktales filled with lessons.
“My grandmother,” he added thoughtfully, “was the best storyteller.”
“Was?” she asked gently.
“She still is,” he corrected with a small smile. “Just older now.”
He wiped the counter absently as he continued.
“My mother’s mother is American. That is how my mom moved. She met my grandfather while studying abroad.”
“So you are a blend,” Amelia observed.
“In a way.”
“And how did you end up here?”
“I moved to The Bahamas to work. Save. Build something solid.” He met her eyes briefly. “I want to further my education.”
“In what?”
“International business management.”
She stilled slightly.
“And where do you plan to study?”
He hesitated just enough to be noticeable.
“In the city you reside in.”
Her brows knit together.
“How do you know where I reside?”
He blinked.
“Oops,” he said slowly. “I think that came out unexpectedly.”
“But it did anyway,” she replied with a small grin. “So start talking.”
He laughed, running a hand over the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m ashamed to say it.”
That piqued her curiosity immediately.
“Oh, now you have really drawn me in,” she said, leaning forward. “You have to spill.”
He exhaled.
“I did a little… interview.”
“Interview?” she repeated carefully.
“Well, not formally. I may have had a little pleasure of time to glance through some information tied to your booking profile.” He winced slightly. “City of residence was listed.”
She stared at him.
He braced himself.
Then she smiled.
“Now that is intrusion of privacy.”
“I know.”
“And you can be jailed for that.”
He straightened dramatically.
“I would be glad to go to jail for your sake.”
She laughed, shaking her head.
“Well,” she said lightly, “then you won’t need accommodation. You can stay at my place.”
He laughed, but this time his eyes softened in a way that lingered.
“I will remember that.”
Before she could respond, her phone buzzed on the counter.
She glanced at it, and declined immediately.
He continued speaking about his culture— about community weddings, about markets that never truly slept.
Her phone buzzed again, and she silenced it politely. “Sorry.”
“No worries.”
It buzzed again, this time lighting up brightly against the wood surface.
A familiar name flashed across the screen. She paused only a fraction of a second.
Then she ignored it.
The phone rang again. And again.
Without breaking her smile, Amelia slowly turned the phone face down.
Ifeanyi had noticed, and he tilted his head slightly.
“Should I let you pick that?” he asked gently.
“Oh! No, no,” she waved lightly. “Go on. It is not important.”
He studied her briefly, just enough to register the deliberate dismissal, then shrugged.
“As I was saying,” he continued, “in my culture, storytelling isn’t just entertainment. It’s how we preserve identity.”
She listened— really listened.
And as he spoke, she found herself paying attention to every little detail. The way his voice lowered when he mentioned family. The pride that subtly colored his tone when he spoke of Nigeria. The careful way he chose his words around her.
They were getting comfortable.
Not recklessly nor intensely, but steadily.
The air between them was no longer tentative, it was now warm with familiarity.
And as the evening stretched on, Amelia realized something quietly unsettling:
She wasn’t just coming down to the bar out of habit anymore.
She was coming down for him.
And that awareness lingered long after the music changed and the night deepened.