Page 15 of Shattered Oath
Then I pulled away, my breath coming too fast, my heart pounding too hard.
"Not on the first date," I said, trying to keep my voice light, trying to pretend I wasn't affected when we both knew I was lying.
His eyebrows rose. "First date?"
I stepped back, putting necessary distance between us before I did something stupid like kiss him again. My driver had materialized beside my car, holding the door open, waiting.
"Goodnight, Mr. Davies."
"So you'll go out with me again." It wasn't a question. His voice was warm with certainty, with hope.
I glanced over my shoulder as I walked to my car, let the smile spread across my face—slow, deliberate, a promise and a threat all at once. "Goodnight, Femi."
I slid into the backseat and my driver closed the door with a decisive click. Through the tinted window, I could see him standing there on the pavement, hands in his pockets, grinning like he'd won something.
Maybe he had. I wasn't sure yet.
My phone buzzed before we'd gone two blocks.
Same time Thursday?
I typed back:We'll see.
His response came immediately:That's not a no.
I put my phone face-down on the seat and watched the city lights blur past the window. The familiar streets of London flowing by like a river—my city, my home, the place I'd built my life after leaving him behind.
One date at a time, I'd said. I could do that. I could keep this casual, keep it light, keep my heart safely locked away while I figured out if this new Femi was real or just another version of the same man who'd wanted to cage me.
Probably.
Maybe.
God, I hoped so.
The week that followed was a blur of fittings and meetings and the particular chaos that preceded a major launch.
I was debuting a capsule collection at a charity gala—twelve pieces, all proceeds to a foundation supporting young designers from underrepresented backgrounds. The kind of event that required my full attention.
And still, somehow, Femi managed to infiltrate every corner of my consciousness.
Femi texted every day. Small things. A photo of a restaurant he thought I'd like. A link to an article about sustainable fashion. A single line at midnight:Thinking about you.
I didn't always respond. When I did, I kept it short. Friendly, yet noncommittal.
He didn't push. That was new. The old Femi would have pushed. He would have called when I didn't text back fast enough. He would have shown up at my studio demanding answers.
Femi seemed content to exist in the margins of my life. To send his little messages and wait for my sporadic responses and trust that I'd come to him when I was ready.
I didn't know what to make of that.
Thursday came and went. I had a fabric emergency—a supplier had sent the wrong shade of ivory, and I'd spent four hours on the phone sorting it out. By the time I remembered Femi's implied dinner invitation, it was nearly ten.
Rain check?I texted.
Of course. Work comes first. I remember.
I smiled. I loved this new Femi. At first, he hadn’t quite understood my thirst for success. Or the fact that I’d been more than willing to push love aside just so I could kick off my fashion career. But now, he seemed to get it.
