Chapter 7: Wardrobe Malfunction Monday
Monday mornings in Lagos always felt like a personal attack, but today Zara was determined to win. She had survived the voice note breakup, the viral humiliation of her rant, the laptop apocalypse, and Chidi's petty glow-up parade. Today was the client redo pitch—the one that could either save her job or send her CV flying back into the job market. She needed to look untouchable.
She stood in front of her wardrobe at 6:15 a.m., the fan doing its usual half-hearted rotation. After twenty minutes of indecision, she settled on the power outfit: crisp white blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers, gold hoop earrings, red lipstick for that "I'm here to collect" energy, and her favorite black blazer with subtle shoulder pads. Professional. Sharp. Unbothered.
She checked the mirror one last time. "You got this," she told her reflection. "No more average. No more settling."
Traffic was mercifully light. She arrived at the office at 8:12 a.m., coffee in hand, mood board USB ready, confidence level at 87%.
Then she walked past the reception desk.
And heard the rip.
It started small—a tiny tearing sound at the seam of her trousers, right at the inner thigh. She froze mid-step. Prayed it was her imagination.
It wasn't.
She took another step. The tear widened. By the time she reached her desk, she could feel cool air where there should be fabric. The split had raced upward like it had a personal vendetta—now a solid eight-inch gash exposing skin and the edge of her black lace underwear.
Zara dropped into her chair so fast the wheels squeaked. Heart hammering. Face burning. She crossed her legs tightly, praying no one had noticed.
Temi appeared thirty seconds later, holding a smoothie and a grin.
"Babe, you look like you just saw a ghost. What's—oh." Her eyes dropped to Zara's lap. "Jesus. The trousers betrayed you?"
"Shhh!" Zara hissed, pulling her blazer over her thighs like a blanket. "It ripped on the way in. I can't stand up. I can't walk. I'm literally finished."
Temi bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Okay, okay. Breathe. We fix this. Safety pin? Stapler? Duct tape?"
"None of those are in my drawer."
Across the floor, the creative team was starting to trickle in. Phones out, morning greetings, someone already blasting Burna Boy. Any minute now someone would walk past her desk and get an eyeful.
Zara's phone buzzed.
**KianOkoyeSnaps:** Here early for final light check. Where you at? Need your eyes on this conference room setup before the client arrives.
Zara stared at the message like it was a lifeline and a grenade at the same time.
**ZaraCreates:** Stuck at my desk. Small emergency. Don't come over yet.
Too late.
Kian appeared at the end of the aisle, camera already around his neck, scanning for her. Their eyes met. He started walking over.
Panic surged.
She typed frantically: **STOP. WARDROBE MALFUNCTION. DO NOT APPROACH.**
He paused mid-step, read the message, looked up at her again. Raised one eyebrow in question.
She mouthed: **Help.**
He nodded once—subtle, calm—then veered toward the supply closet instead of her desk. Thirty seconds later he was back, holding a black roll of gaffer tape (the photographer's best friend) and a spare navy hoodie from his bag.
He crouched beside her chair like he was checking a camera lens, voice low.
"Stand up slowly. Use me as cover."
Zara swallowed. "You sure?"
"Trust me. I've fixed worse on set."
She uncrossed her legs carefully, stood with her back to the partition, blazer draped low. Kian positioned himself directly in front of her, blocking the view from the rest of the floor. He handed her the hoodie.
"Put this on backward—zip it like a skirt. Then I tape underneath."
She slipped the hoodie around her waist, zipped it up so the sleeves hung like a makeshift belt. Kian tore off a long strip of gaffer tape with his teeth (why was that oddly hot?), knelt just enough to reach the tear without making it obvious, and taped the seam shut from the inside—neat, tight, invisible from the front.
"Done," he murmured, standing up. "It'll hold till end of day. Maybe longer if you don't do splits."
Zara exhaled shakily. "You're a lifesaver. Again."
He shrugged, but his eyes lingered a second too long on the red lipstick, the gold hoops, the way the blazer hugged her shoulders. "You look good, by the way. Power move."
She managed a small laugh. "Even with emergency tailoring?"
"Especially with emergency tailoring." He stepped back, gave her a once-over. "Ready for the pitch?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
The client arrived at 10:45. Zara presented—voice steady, slides smooth, mood board popping on the big screen. Mrs. Adebayo actually smiled (a rare sighting). The client nodded, asked smart questions, and by the end said the magic words: "This is exactly what we needed. Let's move to contract."
When the conference room cleared, Zara sagged against the wall in relief.
Kian lingered by the door, packing his gear.
She walked over—carefully, tape still holding.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For the rescue. For the tape. For… everything lately."
He zipped his bag, looked up. "You don't have to thank me every time I show up. I like showing up."
A beat of silence. The office noise faded into background hum.
Zara tilted her head. "Why?"
"Because you're worth showing up for." Simple. No smirk. Just truth.
Her chest tightened in the best way.
Temi appeared behind them, smoothie gone, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Wardrobe crisis averted? Hero mode activated again?" she teased.
Kian chuckled. "Just doing my part."
Zara rolled her eyes at Temi but couldn't hide the smile.
Later, as the day wound down, her phone buzzed.
**KianOkoyeSnaps:** Tape holding? If not, I've got more in the van. Also… dinner tonight? No client, no pitch. Just jollof, fish gang supremacy, and zero emergencies.
Zara stared at the message.
Typed.
**ZaraCreates:** Tape is solid. Dinner sounds perfect. Pick me up at 7? My place this time—no office drama.
**KianOkoyeSnaps:** Deal. See you at 7, Zara. Wear whatever you want. You always look good.
She locked her phone, heart racing.
Monday had started with disaster.
But somehow, it was ending with possibility.
End of Chapter 7