The days that followed were quiet. Uneventful. Routine.
Wake up. Go to work. Come back. Eat good food. Sleep.
Rinse. Repeat.
Food had become my new best friend. A loyal, delicious companion. When emotions twisted my chest, I'd sauté them with onions. When I felt empty, I baked. Saturdays and Sundays became my sacred kitchen days. After church, I'd tie my apron, crank up some Makossa, and get lost in recipes I didn't even know existed. I experimented like a scientist. Except this time, my lab was lined with spices instead of chemicals.
And not to brag, but my culinary skills?
Michelin chefs could cry. I had that 'chef with heartbreak experience' touch. The kind that adds a little sadness to the sauce and makes it magic.
The product launch for Menostill was delayed—apparently, they wanted to host it in D City, the economic capital. Makes sense. Bigger city, bigger stage, bigger impact.
So, shopping was a must.
Not shoes—God knows I had enough high heels I didn't even wear in the lab. No, what I needed was a dress. Something simple, something classy. I wasn't there to steal the spotlight, just… to look like I belonged in the room. I may have been just a research assistant, but they'd invited me because my contribution mattered. And I wanted to look the part.
A week before the event, I headed to the biggest supermarket in B-town.
Dress after dress. Too tight. Too flashy. Too boring. Too dramatic. I was about to give up when I saw it.
The dress.
White. Form-fitting. Elegant but reserved. It whispered sophistication. It said, "I know what I'm worth, but I don't need to scream it."
Just as I made my way over, someone snatched it off the rack.
My jaw dropped.
I pouted. Walked up to the salesgirl.
"Any other pieces of that dress?" I asked.
She shook her head. "That was the last one."
Sigh.
I squared my shoulders and approached the girl holding my dress. She was curvy, dressed in neon, and had nails long enough to dial God directly.
"Hey, can you leave that dress for me?" I asked politely.
She narrowed her eyes. "Why should I?"
"I just think… you won't fit in it," I said without thinking.
"What?" she screeched. "Are you calling me fat?"
"No, no! Don't get me wrong. I mean—look at you! Curvy, blessed, with enough nyash to cause accidents. Where's the fat?"
She paused. Then grinned. "Ah, you're right. This my bumbum sef can come in the way sometimes." She handed me the dress.
Success.
I turned to walk away—then froze.
Mark.
The seafood guy.
The one I'd told 101 lies to and vanished on. Standing right there, talking to the same girl who just gave me the dress.
Oh no.
I told myself to act normal. Just walk away.
But Mark spotted me.
"Catherine?" he called, walking toward me. "Didn't you see me?"
I blinked, pretended confusion. "I'm not Catherine. That's my twin sister."
Mark squinted. Not buying it.
Plan B.
"Let me go. So what if I'm Catherine?" I said sharply.
His eyebrows rose. "You gave me the wrong number, fake address, fake job. Pretty sure your name's fake too. You did all that just to make me pay your bill, right?"
Excuse me?
I furrowed my brows.
"Firstly, I'm not Catherine. Secondly, did my sister put a gun to your head to make you foot the bill? Be serious."
Then I turned to the curvy girl. "Is this your man? How did you end up with someone who shamelessly admits he tried to pick up another girl?"
The girl looked stunned. Then furious.
She slapped Mark across the face.
"It's over between us!" she shouted, and stormed out.
Mark let go of me and ran after her like a lost puppy.
I held back my laughter, turned around and whispered, "Oh, I'm so good."
Dress secured. Drama served. Confidence: 100%.
I paid, walked out of the store feeling like a heroine from a telenovela.
As I stepped out, I heard a car horn.
It was the same curvy girl—now seated in a sleek, tinted ride.
She rolled down the window. "Hey! You need a ride?"
I blinked. "Sure."
I got in.
She smiled, adjusted her seatbelt, and said, "Thanks for helping me realize Mark was a clown."
"Anytime," I replied.
That ride changed everything.
Her name was Isabella. Two years older than me. Came to B-town to visit family and met Mark during her stay. She said they'd been dating for about five days before she started suspecting he was shady.
Apparently, she was the Prime Minister's daughter.
I blinked at that one.
She said it so casually I thought she was joking. But her car… her phone… her driver's card casually lying in the cup holder? All of it screamed not a joke.
What shocked me most wasn't her status. It was how fast she spoke, how open she was. She told me more in thirty minutes than I knew about half my family.
She mentioned how she'd be traveling the next day because her brother had impregnated another minister's daughter, and her presence was needed to "witness the drama."
That's an actual quote.
What shocked me more?
She said she'd miss me.
We'd just met.
I wasn't used to people like Isabella. So bubbly. So open. So loud.
But weirdly… I liked her.
I didn't try to cozy up though. I didn't know how to cozy up. I'd always been a lone wolf. No close friends. Just acquaintances. And someone like Isabella? She seemed like the type to make you her bestie in 24 hours if you smiled the right way. I didn't want to get too close to anyone.
As we got to my building, I said goodbye. I was ready to disappear forever.
But Isabella wasn't done.
"Let's exchange contacts!" she said.
I gave it to her, thinking it was a formality.
Two hours later, she texted.
"Hey boo! Just got home. Getting ready to travel like I said. Palava dey. I'll miss you ❤️."
I stared at the text. Speechless.
Who was this human?
But something inside me smiled.
She was dramatic. Too honest. Terrible at secrets.
And yet…Sweet.
Maybe, I could let someone in.
A girl like me.
I won't run. Not again.