Chapter 95

The joy and celebration cut like someone had sliced a wire, instant tension filling the space. Suddenly, the air hummed with anger and danger.

Samantha’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. “Ugh. Absolutely not.”

Kaleb moved before Neema could blink. The other guard closed in from the side, creating a wall around Mona and preventing her from coming any further into the café or near Neema.

Mona lifted both hands, palms out. The older woman’s voice came out clear without a tremor in sight, despite now being faced with two trained men. “I come in peace. I swear. I just came to apologize.”

Neema’s body went cold. Apologize? Was the woman joking? For what? Slapping and threatening Neema? Or perhaps her son’s behaviour? None of it could be solved by a simple apology. Not that she believed for a second that Mona genuinely wanted to apologize.

“No,” Neema said, voice firm but calm. “I don’t want to hear whatever you want to say. You have no right to be here. Leave.”

Mona’s eyes widened. “Neema, just hear me out…”

“Not today,” Neema said sharply. “Not ever. Escort her out,” she addressed the last part to her bodyguards.

Kaleb didn’t hesitate. He stepped behind Mona, gesturing toward the door. The other guard closed in tighter, making sure Mona knew there was no other option on the table.

For a moment, Mona’s mouth tightened as if she wanted to argue. Neema braced herself for it, but to her surprise, the woman didn’t push it. Instead, she backed toward the exit with slow, careful steps.

Before leaving, though, she looked at Neema once more. “I really did come to apologize.”

Neema stared back without blinking. “And I really don’t care.”

Then she was gone, and Kaleb shut the door firmly behind her.

Silence filled the cafe like a thick fog. The air felt tense, like the room was holding its breath.

A minute ticked by. Samantha took a shaky inhale. “What the hell was that?”

Neema could only shake her head, rubbing her arms as goosebumps erupted all over her skin. “I don’t know,” she said truthfully.

“How did she even know you were here?” Samantha asked. “This place isn’t even open yet. We didn’t post about being here.”

Neema looked toward the new front window, suddenly less comforting than before. “I don’t like it,” she whispered. “Mona has too much pride to apologize. Especially with her son now wanted by the police.”

“Maybe she came to ‘apologize’ so that you help get her son free,” Kaleb suggested, a frown creasing his forehead.

Neema thought about it, but shook her head no. “She must know there is no helping Jerome after what he has done. Not that I would. The man cheated on me, for heaven's sake.”

“Do you still suspect Mr. Snider might be behind the attacks?” Kaleb asked.

Samantha frowned. “If not him, then who?”

The question hung in the air like a storm cloud.

Neema swallowed hard, her pulse drumming in her ears. “I don’t know,” she said. “But someone is behind all of it.” A shiver ran through her. And suddenly she wished Quinton were standing beside her, holding her and lending her his strength and calm.

Neema barely remembered the drive. One minute she was pacing the half-finished café with Samantha, trying not to hyperventilate over Mona’s unexpected visit; the next, she was pushing through the front doors of Quinton’s home, her heartbeat hammering like she’d sprinted the whole way.

Kaleb called after her, probably asking if everything was alright, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t slow down. Not until she reached Quinton’s home office, where she’d last seen him before she left for the café.

Lucky for Neema, Quinton was still there. As usual, he was seated at his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his eyes narrowed in concentration at something on his laptop screen. He didn’t even hear her come in, too lost in whatever report held his attention in a vise grip.

Neema didn’t bother announcing herself.

She crossed the room in three wide steps and practically launched herself at him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck. Her force knocked him back in his chair, making it roll a few inches, giving her the perfect opportunity to climb onto his lap.

For a beat, Quinton froze. “Neema? W-what happened?” Alarm sounded in his voice. His hands quickly moved to her waist, steadying her and drawing her closer to his body. Then his hands skimmed over her arms, as if checking for injuries.

“Nothing happened,” she managed, her voice shaking more than she wished. “Nothing serious. Nothing bad.”

But her pulse was racing. Her chest felt tight. Her fingers trembled where they fisted the back of his shirt.

Quinton’s brows pulled together. “Then why do you look like you ran through a hurricane?”

She let out a breath that shook. “Because I…” Neema stopped and bit her lips for a second, wondering how she was supposed to put this into words. “Because I realized I don’t want to do this thing where we… Fight. Or avoid each other. Or pretend we don’t care when we do.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t want tension between us. Not ever again.”

Quinton blinked, taken aback.

And before she could lose her courage, before nerves could choke the words back down her throat, Neema blurted out, “I love you.”

It shot out like a bullet, messy, unplanned, and too honest.

Quinton’s breath hitched.

Neema continued, the dam fully broken now. “I love you, Quinton. And if you want to talk about marriage again… I want that too. Even if it’s this afternoon under a random tree. I don’t care. I just don’t want to feel like I can’t call you just because I need a hug.” Her voice cracked at the end. Embarrassingly.

Quinton stared at her for three painfully silent seconds. Neema thought she would have shuddered to pieces if his grip on her waist hadn’t tightened, like he was anchoring himself as much as her.

“You love me?” he whispered finally, almost disbelieving.

She nodded, cheeks burning. “Pretty sure. Like ninety-nine percent. Maybe ninety-eight. But the number keeps getting bigger.” Neema couldn’t help the grin that spread across her lips, especially when she saw his lips curl up, the smile touching his eyes and her heart.

Without saying a word, Quinton lifted a hand and brushed his thumb over her cheek, tracing the warm flush there. “Well, that’s good because I think,” he said slowly, “I might be in love with you too.”

Her breath caught. Had he really said that? She wanted to ask him to repeat it, just so she was certain, but Quinton wasn’t done.

He leaned in, resting his forehead gently against hers. “But you were right. We shouldn’t rush into marriage yet. Not because I don’t want it,” he quickly said when she tensed. “Because I do… But because I want our decision to be… Grounded. Real. Not made out of fear or tension.”

Then, before she could respond, he kissed her.

And just like that, all the swirling thoughts in her mind dissolved, pushed aside by the warmth of his mouth, the certainty in the way he pulled her closer. He kissed her like the conversation could wait, like whatever came next could only begin with this.