Chapter 207 076
AMELIA hadn’t realized how much time had slipped through her fingers until her eyes drifted to the corner of her screen.
9:52 PM.
She blinked.
“Already?” she murmured to herself.
The ocean breeze had grown cooler, the once golden horizon now swallowed in deep indigo. The soft glow from lanterns lining the pathway cast long shadows across the sand. She had finished her dinner nearly an hour ago, but somewhere between replying to emails she couldn’t completely ignore and scrolling mindlessly through articles she wasn’t reading, time had quietly betrayed her.
She exhaled and pushed herself up from the beach chair.
The plates had long been cleared. The wine glass stood half-finished. The night had deepened.
As she made her way back toward the building, heels in hand and sandals dangling from her fingers, she told herself she would just stop briefly at the bar. Just to say thank you again. A polite gesture. Nothing more.
Just appreciation.
The lobby lights shimmered softly against the marble floors as she stepped inside. The murmur of conversations drifted from the bar lounge. Crowd had dwindled a bit. Soft jazz hummed in the background.
She slowed unconsciously.
For some reason, she expected to find him exhausted, perhaps leaning lazily against the counter, tie loosened, movements slower than earlier. It was late. Surely he would be winding down.
But fate had its own amusement planned.
Ifeanyi wasn’t tired.
He was alive. He was bubbling.
He stood behind the counter animatedly speaking with a group of guests, laughter spilling easily from him. His sleeves were still rolled just enough to reveal those strong forearms, his movements precise yet relaxed. He polished a glass, slid it effortlessly across the counter, winked at a joke someone cracked.
And then his eyes found her.
They lit up.
He excused himself with a graceful nod and leaned slightly forward across the bar.
“Well, well,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “I was beginning to think the ocean had decided to keep you.”
Amelia raised a brow, pretending composure.
“I nearly let it,” she replied lightly. “But I remembered someone might take offense if I vanished without saying thank you.”
He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest.
“Offense? I would have launched a search party.”
She shook her head, amused despite herself.
“I just wanted to appreciate you again for dinner. It was… thoughtful.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“Just thoughtful?”
“Very thoughtful,” she corrected.
“Better,” he said with mock approval.
She had intended to remain standing. A quick exchange. A polite goodbye. That had been the plan.
But somehow, the stool beside the counter seemed inviting.
And somehow, she found herself sitting.
“So,” he began, resting his forearms lightly on the polished wood. “How does the night compare to your city nights?”
She leaned back slightly, considering.
“Quieter. Less urgent. No constant traffic. No phones ringing every five minutes.”
“No chaos?” he teased.
She gave him a knowing look.
“There is always chaos. It just hides better in some places.”
His smile softened slightly at that.
A couple approached the counter and he moved efficiently, mixing a drink while still half-facing her.
“You see,” he said as he worked, “this is my favorite hour. Late enough that things slow down. Early enough that no one is overly dramatic.”
“Overly dramatic?” she echoed.
“You would be surprised what people confess to bartenders after midnight.”
She laughed.
“I’m sure you keep secrets.”
“Always.”
The word lingered a moment longer than necessary.
She found herself asking about the other staff, how long they had worked there, where they were from. He answered easily, weaving small anecdotes between preparing drinks. He pointed discreetly toward a young bartender near the end of the counter, he wasn't present the first time he unofficially introduced his colleagues to her.
“First week on the job,” he whispered. “Terrified of mixing anything beyond soda.”
She smiled.
“And you?” she asked. “How long have you been here?”
“Five years. Said this before.”
She rolled her eyes.
“And you still look that enthusiastic at ten PM?”
He chuckled.
“You make it sound suspicious.”
“It is suspicious.”
“I enjoy people,” he said simply. “And I enjoy observing them.”
“Observing me too?” she asked lightly.
He paused just a fraction before replying.
“Especially you.”
The words weren’t heavy. They weren’t inappropriate. But they landed somewhere deeper than surface banter.
She looked away first.
A half hour slipped by unnoticed.
Thirty minutes of light teasing. Of conversations about travel. Of laughter that felt surprisingly unforced. She asked about the music that played nightly. He told her the manager insisted on jazz because it “made people tip better.”
She nearly choked laughing.
Finally, she glanced again at the time.
“Alright,” she said, sliding off the stool reluctantly. “If I don’t leave now, I might forget I have a schedule tomorrow.”
“And what is on that schedule?” he asked.
“Rest. More rest. Possibly excessive rest.”
“A very demanding itinerary.”
“It is.”
He stepped slightly back from the counter, offering that practiced half-bow again.
“Then I won’t keep you.”
She studied him for a second longer than she intended.
“Goodnight, Ifeanyi.”
“Goodnight, Amelia.”
She hesitated, then added softly,
“Have a great day tomorrow.”
His smile shifted into something warmer now.
“And you,” he replied. “Try not to let the ocean steal you again.”
She turned before she could overthink the way that line made her feel.
The elevator doors closed behind her, and for the first time since she arrived, she realized something quietly unsettling. She hadn’t meant to stay that long.
The school courtyard buzzed with early morning chatter as students streamed in through the gates, some dragging their feet, others laughing too loudly for that hour of the day. The faint chill of the morning still clung to the air.
Hazel stood by the lockers, adjusting the strap of her backpack when she saw Amaka hurrying toward her, hair bouncing, eyes bright with curiosity.
“Hazel!” Amaka called in a hushed shout. “Wait up!”
Hazel turned, forcing a smile.
“Morning.”
Amaka stopped in front of her, hands on her hips as she scanned her friend dramatically.
“So? How is life as a boarder treating Her Highness?”
Hazel let out a long, exaggerated sigh.
“Like prison with better uniforms.”
Amaka burst out laughing.
“You are so dramatic.”
“I’m serious,” Hazel muttered. “I just can’t wait for the weekend. I’m counting hours at this point. If I have to hear that wake-up bell one more time at five-thirty in the morning, I might actually lose my mind.”
“Five-thirty isn’t that bad.”
Hazel shot her a look.
“You don’t sleep in a room with four girls who snore in different rhythms.”
“That sounds… musical.”
“It sounds like a malfunctioning orchestra,” Hazel replied flatly.
Before Amaka could respond, a girl approached them hesitantly. A boarding student as well. She was clutching something in her hand, a small folded slip of paper and a thin paperback book.
“Hazel,” the girl said awkwardly. “The matron said to give this back to you.”
Hazel stiffened.
Amaka glanced between them.
“What is that?”
The girl held out the items.
“Your novel. She found it under your pillow during inspection. And… this.” She handed over the folded paper. “It is a warning note.”
Hazel snatched both quickly.
“Thanks.”
The girl gave a small shrug and walked away.
Amaka’s eyes widened.
“You got written up already?”
Hazel unfolded the paper dramatically and read aloud in a mock stern voice, “‘Personal items not permitted after lights-out. Further disobedience will result in detention.’”
Amaka laughed so hard she had to lean against a locker.
“You hid a novel under your pillow? Hazel!”
“What was I supposed to do?” Hazel snapped, though there was humor under her irritation. “Stare at the ceiling and contemplate my misery?”
“You are so unbelievable.”
“And that’s not even the worst part,” Hazel continued. “Yesterday one of the girls asked me if I was sent here as punishment, again.”
Amaka’s laughter faded slightly.
“Again?”
“It’s always. She said most students who switch to boarding midterm are ‘troubled.’” Hazel air-quoted the word. “Apparently, I look troubled.”
Amaka scoffed.
“They don’t know you.”
“Exactly. And I’m not troubled. I’m just… stuck.”
Amaka nudged her gently.
“It will be over soon. Weekend is almost here. Then you will be home.”
Hazel exhaled slowly.
“That is the only thing keeping me sane. But then, I will be back again, Sunday.”
“That one isn't escapable, my dear.”
There was a brief pause as students brushed past them toward their classrooms.
Then Amaka’s expression shifted.
“Oh! That reminds me,” she said, lowering her voice. “Yesterday was Tuesday.”
Hazel blinked. “Yeah?”
“You usually come home with me on Tuesdays, remember.”
Hazel frowned.
“I know. Don’t remind me.”
“You would have seen something.”
Hazel tilted her head.
“Seen what?”
Amaka glanced around as if making sure no one was listening, then leaned closer.
“That neighbor of mine. The weird one.”
Hazel straightened slightly.
“What about him?”
“He came home yesterday and was shouting at the top of his voice. Like actually yelling. Disturbing my peace.”
Hazel’s brows drew together.
“Huh?”