Chuka sat in the quiet of his office, staring at the framed painting on the wall without really seeing it. His mind was miles away, tangled in the conversation he had with Amaka the night before. She had shown strength, grace, and restraint, but beneath it all, he had seen the flicker of hurt. It was the kind of hurt that did not scream or lash out. It simply settled, deep and unyielding. He had gone over every word she said, every shift in her tone, every slight movement of her eyes, and he knew she was still carrying the weight of what he had done.
The office, usually a place of sharp focus and clean decisions, now felt like a cage. The morning meeting had passed without incident, but his attention had been elsewhere. Even as the board discussed projections and strategies, he kept drifting back to her. He knew he had taken Amaka for granted all those years ago. He had allowed pride and ambition to drive a wedge between them. He had chosen the company over her, chosen his ego over their love. Now she was back, not as the woman he used to know, but as a version of herself that was fiercer, more guarded, and beautifully self-assured.
On the other side of the building, Amaka was reviewing reports from the finance department. Her fingers moved quickly over her keyboard, her expression neutral. But deep down, her thoughts were no less turbulent than Chuka's. She had spent years building herself up, rising from rejection, heartbreak, and betrayal. She had made a promise to herself that she would never let a man, especially Chuka, hold that kind of power over her again. Yet, here she was, seated in the very building where their love once bloomed and later withered. She was no longer the young woman who had waited for his calls or cried over his indifference. She was a woman who knew her worth, yet her heart had not fully learned how to forget.
When the intercom on her desk buzzed, she reached for it instinctively. Chuka's voice came through, calm but distant. He asked her to join him in his office for a private discussion. There was no emotion in his tone, just the formal crispness of a CEO addressing his employee. She stared at the receiver for a few seconds after the call ended, weighing whether she should go. Then, with a quiet breath, she stood, smoothed her skirt, and made her way down the hall.
Chuka rose when she entered. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his trousers, his face unreadable. He gestured to the seat opposite his and waited for her to sit before taking his place behind the desk. For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them like a thread pulled too tight, one that could snap at any moment.
"I did not call you here for business," he said finally. "I wanted to talk about us."
"There is no us," Amaka replied, her voice soft but firm. "There used to be, but not anymore."
He nodded slowly, not in agreement, but in understanding. "I know. But I need to say some things. You do not have to respond. Just listen, please."
Amaka said nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on him, unreadable, calm.
"I was young, arrogant, and too obsessed with success. I thought love could wait. I believed you would always be there, that you would understand. I hurt you, and I never even gave you the courtesy of an explanation. I just disappeared into work and shut you out." He paused, his throat tightening. "I regret it every day."
"You made your choice," Amaka said, her fingers clenched tightly in her lap. "I begged you to talk to me. I waited. You made it clear where your heart stood, and it was not with me."
"I was a fool," he whispered. "And I know sorry is not enough. But I never stopped thinking about you. Every woman I met after you reminded me of what I lost. None of them were you. None of them understood me the way you did."
Amaka looked away, blinking fast. She had not expected to hear those words. Not from him. Not like this. She had imagined apologies, imagined what she would say, but in this moment, everything felt different. The weight of the years hung heavy in the room.
"I did not come back here for this," she said after a long pause. "I came to work. I came because I earned the position and I believe I can make a difference."
"I know," Chuka said. "And I admire what you have become. You are stronger, more confident, and everything I knew you would be."
Silence again.
"I am not asking for anything," he continued. "I just needed to be honest, for once. You deserved that much."
Amaka stood. Her heart was beating faster than it should, but her face remained calm. "Thank you for your honesty. But the past is where it belongs. I am not that girl anymore, Chuka. I cannot afford to be her."
She walked out before he could say anything else. Her heels echoed down the hallway, steady and unhurried, but inside, she was trembling. The words he spoke had cracked something in her, a dam she had spent years reinforcing. She returned to her office and closed the door quietly behind her. Only then did she allow herself to exhale deeply.
The next few days passed with a tense quietness between them. At meetings, they remained professional, never letting their gazes linger too long. They spoke when necessary, exchanged reports, and reviewed data, all while carefully avoiding any hint of emotion. The team noticed the shift but said nothing. The board was pleased with their performance, and that was all that mattered on paper.
But behind the scenes, something was changing. Chuka found himself watching her when she was not looking, noticing the way she bit her lip when focused, how she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Amaka caught herself pausing at his door sometimes, drawn by a memory or a scent. They were both aware of the pull, the magnetic field between them that had never truly vanished.
One evening, after most of the staff had left, Amaka stayed behind to finalize a budget proposal. She was deep in her spreadsheet when she heard a light knock at her door. She looked up to find Chuka standing there, holding two cups of coffee.
"I figured you might be here late," he said, offering one of the cups.
She hesitated for a moment, then took it. "Thanks."
He sat across from her, not saying much. They drank in silence. For the first time in days, it felt less strained. The quiet was not heavy now, just present. A small reminder of who they were and who they used to be.
"I remember you always liked working late," he said eventually.
"I still do. Fewer distractions."
He smiled slightly. "Same."
They talked for a while, mostly about work, sometimes about trivial things. It was not emotional, not personal, but it was easy. It reminded them of the days before their romance became complicated, when they were just two young professionals chasing dreams side by side.
When Amaka finally stood to leave, Chuka walked her to her car. It was a short walk, the parking lot dimly lit, quiet. She turned to thank him, but he was already watching her with that familiar look, the one that used to make her heart flutter.
"Goodnight, Chuka."
"Goodnight, Amaka."
She got in, started the engine, and drove off. But in her rearview mirror, she saw him still standing there, watching, as if trying to hold on to something he was afraid to lose again.
The road home was silent, the city lights flickering past her windows. Amaka gripped the steering wheel tightly, her mind spinning with everything unsaid. She had promised herself she would never fall for him again. But the heart, stubborn and unpredictable, had its own plans. And as she drove into the night, she realized she was no longer sure if keeping her distance was still the right thing to do.