Officer, two days had passed since the package — that burnt fabric, that cruel note. Two days since I convinced myself it was nothing, a prank, a Lagos joke dressed in smoke. I buried it deep in my drawer and deeper still in my chest. I worked harder, laughed louder with my apprentices, cut fabric until my fingers burned. And every night I let Gregory scorch the memory from my body with his mouth, his hands, his voice. By dawn, I almost believed the shadow had passed. Almost.
Then she walked in.
Heels clicking against polished tiles, each step slow, deliberate, echoing like a drumbeat that made the air itself hold its breath.
Natasha.
The name didn't leave my lips, but it pulsed through my blood like an old wound pressed open.
She had come, she claimed, to collect her already-sewn curtains and duvets. She'd refused delivery with a light excuse of "I'm hardly ever home." But I knew better. She wanted to see the shop. The fire had made the rounds of every customer's lips, and she was one of them. New, yes. But curious. Too curious.
Gregory was with me that afternoon, leaning against the edge of my desk, sleeves rolled, calm etched on his face. But the moment her shadow stretched across the doorway, the air thickened. Too still. Too taut. I felt it in the falter of the apprentices — hands that paused mid-stitch, voices cut short in half-born laughter. Even the hum of the sewing machines seemed to dull.
"Natasha," Gregory said smoothly. His voice was casual, but it carried a warmth, a familiarity, that snagged at something inside me.
"Gregory," she murmured back, silk over stone. No surprise. No hesitation. Her eyes slid to me, landing with deliberate weight. "Miss Timi."
Miss Timi. Formal. Distant. Each syllable polished sharp, as if no curtain or duvet could stitch me into her orbit.
Her gaze swept across the shop — glass fronts, shining counters, bolts of fabric stacked in precise lines. A smile curved her lips, but it sharpened at the edges. "It's beautiful."
I forced my lips to answer, though my pulse thudded like a drum in my throat. "Thank you. It's been… a lot of work." My hands itched to adjust the damask rolls, to ground myself in something ordinary, but I held still. I would not give her the satisfaction of seeing me restless.
She moved further in, each step a glide, perfume threading through the air like smoke. Her fingers brushed over folded curtains, trailing lightly — too lightly — like a rival stroking your hair before cutting it.
Gregory didn't move. He remained composed, shoulders relaxed, as though her intrusion was nothing. That easy comfort between them — unspoken, old, practiced — tightened my chest.
She lifted one duvet, letting the fabric spill like water between her fingers. Her hum of approval was faint, barely audible. But her eyes didn't stay on the stitches. They flicked to him. Always to him. Watching. Measuring. Claiming.
"Lovely workmanship," she said at last, her voice smooth as poured honey. She set the duvet aside as if it were hers to assess. Then she looked at him, not me. "You always had an eye for detail, Greg."
The words pricked. She wasn't praising me. Not really. Every syllable curved back to him. My shop, my sweat, my resurrection — all of it bent into the shape of *their* story.
Gregory smiled. A small smile, but one I thought was mine alone. My blood surged hot. And then her hand rose, graceful, deliberate, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve. Too light. Too long. Not an accident.
I saw it. She wanted me to.
My breath caught sharp. I bent over the counter, folding curtains with obsessive care, pressing edges flat until my knuckles blanched. Anything to keep my hands from shaking.
"I'll take my orders today," Natasha said at last. She set her handbag down, as though she had every right to. Her tone was effortless, without weight, her voice gliding across the room like silk across polished wood.
Her eyes swept me again, sharp, appraising. Then — with a curl of her lips too slight to name but too pointed to miss — she smiled at him. Not me. Him.
A smile too small for me to claim. Too private for me to touch.
She lingered. That was the worst of it. She didn't rush. She stayed. She savoured her presence like wine, conversation light but sharpened beneath the skin. Work, fabric, Lagos traffic — harmless words that still coiled with intent. Every sentence was a marker: I know him. I am here. You are late.
When she finally gathered her curtains and duvets and turned for the door, the click of her heels struck harder than thunder. Each retreating sound embedded deeper into my chest.
Silence spilled behind her. Thick. Heavy.
Gregory straightened, his voice low. "She's thorough, isn't she?"
I forced steadiness. "Yes. Very thorough."
But, Officer, I knew it wasn't thoroughness. It was something else. Control. Observation. Power wearing perfume.
That evening, when I counted cash at the counter, her laugh hovered above the hum of memory. When Gregory leaned close his sleeve brushed mine and I felt her hand again, sweeping invisible lint. When my apprentices whispered in clusters, their eyes darting to me, I knew what they were asking without words: who is the side chick?
I wanted to sweep her away. Wanted to take a broom to her shadow, dust her from the counters, fold her into one of the fabric bags and hurl her into the lagoon. But shadows don't sweep. They cling. They wait.
Natasha lingered. Not in the shop, but in the corners of my mind, in the pulse of my chest.
And deep down, I knew: she didn't just have a corner in Gregory's life. She had a whole room.