Chapter 21

The car ride home from the shoot was quiet, but Zara felt anything but still. Her chest swelled with a cocktail of relief, excitement, and disbelief. The shoot had gone way better than she imagined. Even without Kemi’s usual backup, she pulled it off—and when she spotted her best friend in the crowd with that familiar smirk, it felt like her wings spread wide again.

But now, with her makeup cleaned off and her hoodie wrapped tightly around her braids, she looked and felt like the normal Zara again—just a girl from Surulere with a father who didn’t want her to dream too loud.

When she walked into the house, nothing felt off. The atmosphere was normal. Her mum was in the kitchen humming as she fried plantain, and her dad was on a call in the sitting room, his glasses hanging low on his nose. Zara quickly greeted him and walked to the kitchen to steal one or two pieces of plantain, then helped set the table.

Dinner that evening was one of the few peaceful ones they’d had in a while. Her father talked about politics, her mother chuckled softly at some joke she half-heard on the radio earlier that day, and Zara only nodded, secretly wishing they could be like this more often.

After dinner, she washed up, watched a few YouTube videos with half her attention, then drifted off to sleep.

The next morning came with the smell of ogi and akara wafting through the house. A soft Saturday sun filtered through the curtains, and for a moment, all felt calm again—until she heard her father’s voice.

“Zara!!!”

His voice didn’t just call—it commanded. It rang through the walls and sliced through the peaceful silence of the house. Zara’s heart skipped. She flew out of bed, quickly throwing on her slippers, and rushed downstairs.

He was sitting in the living room, a newspaper in his hand, glasses balanced properly this time, his face thunderous.

“What is the meaning of this rubbish I’m seeing?” he barked, slapping the newspaper onto the center table.

Zara paused mid-step. “Sir?”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me! Come and explain what this nonsense is!” he pointed at the bold headline in the paper:

“Meet the New Face of Lagos: Zara Tunde Shines at Ajah Modeling Audition.”

Underneath was a picture of her—poised, confident, elegant. She hadn’t even seen the article herself. Zara’s eyes widened in shock. “Wait… I—” she stammered, trying to reach for the paper.

He pulled it back. “I’m talking and you’re still stretching your neck like a confused chicken to look inside! Have you lost your senses?”

“Daddy, please… Just let me explain—this was the audition I told you about, and I didn’t even know it was going to make the news. I didn’t even check the internet!”

Her voice shook, but her eyes were bright. A spark of pride flickered in them as she looked at her own image again—this was big. This was more than she expected.

“Can’t you see the potentials?” she said, stepping closer. “Dad, this is what I’ve always dreamed of. This is my chance. If they’re already putting me in papers, imagine what’s next—”

“What stupid potentials?!” he exploded. “Is it this one-legged profession you call a dream? You better wake up! You’re resuming work on Monday. I’ve told you before, I’m telling you again. Monday morning, I don’t want to hear stories. As I’m leaving this house, you’re leaving with me. You’re starting at the firm, and that’s final!”

Zara felt the fire in her chest dim just a little. Her father got up, walked past her, and headed for the backyard, still muttering angrily.

Her mother, who had been silently watching from the corridor, walked into the sitting room and sighed. She placed a hand gently on Zara’s shoulder.

“Go to your room. I’ll talk to him.”

A few minutes later, her mum came into her room, quietly closing the door behind her.

“Zara,” she started softly, sitting beside her on the bed. “You see how your father is. Sometimes he hears only what he wants to hear. But you… you’re smart, baby. You can juggle both. Start work like he wants, just to keep the peace for now. But that doesn’t mean you should throw away what makes your heart beat.”

Zara looked down, picking at the skin on her thumb.

“I’m not saying you should give up,” her mum continued, “I’m saying play the game. Play it well. Do your nine-to-five if you have to. But never let that stop you from walking the runway in your heart.”

Zara felt a tear escape and her mother wiped it away.

“And go before your father returns from the office that day,” her mum added with a small smile. “I’ll cover for you. Even if he shows up early.”

Zara nodded slowly, her chest tight but grateful.

Monday morning came too quickly.

Wearing her best blouse and fitting pencil skirt, she packed her braids neatly, added a subtle gloss to her lips.Zara arrived at the office that Monday morning, dressed in a crisp black blouse tucked into tailored high-waisted trousers, her hair tied back in a sleek bun. She had barely slept the night before. Between the adrenaline from her surprise modeling breakthrough and her father’s unrelenting insistence that she resume work at the firm, she felt like she was juggling two versions of herself—one that lived for the spotlight and another slowly wilting in routine.

Mr. Amadi, her new boss, welcomed her with the easy charm of someone who didn’t take life too seriously. “Miss Tunde,” he said with a warm smile, “we’re glad to have you on board. I trust you’ll settle in quickly. You’ll be working under Mrs. Adebayo in the media communications unit.”

Zara nodded, clutching her notepad. “Thank you, sir. I’m ready.”

“Good. And one more thing—you’ll be working closely with Imani. I believe you’ve met?”

Zara blinked, stunned. Her heart dropped. Of all the people to work with…

“Yes,” she forced a smile. “We’ve met.”

Moments later, Zara was led to the open-floor office space where she spotted Imani by a sleek desk, typing on her laptop with her usual composed elegance. When Imani looked up, her reaction was pure theater—a surprised smile, a small tilt of the head, then the slow rise from her seat like a queen greeting an unworthy guest.

“Zara Tunde,” she said, her voice sugary sweet, “What a small world.”

Zara clenched her jaw, forcing herself to smile. “Hi, Imani.”

Their handshake was brief, polite, and ice-cold. If Imani was surprised to see her here, she didn’t show it beyond that first theatrical welcome. She gestured to the empty desk next to hers. “Looks like we’ll be desk buddies.”

Zara nodded, seating herself carefully and unpacking her things. The next few hours passed in a blur of emails, onboarding documents, and team introductions. The media unit was a tight, driven group of young professionals who all seemed to have known each other for years. Zara smiled, shook hands, and laughed where necessary, but the pit in her stomach stayed.

Imani never said another word to her all morning, but Zara could feel her eyes on her constantly. Every time she made a mistake or asked a question, Imani would glance up, her expression unreadable. Zara tried to focus on her work, pretending not to feel the heat of silent judgment.

At lunchtime, she slipped into the restroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She had survived worse, she reminded herself. This was just a stepping stone. A detour. Not the destination.

She returned to her desk just in time to hear murmurs rippling through the office.

“Is that Regan Kareem?” someone whispered.

Zara’s spine stiffened.

She looked up—and sure enough, Regan strolled into the office holding a brown file envelope. His tall frame moved with effortless confidence, dressed in a sharp navy suit, his expression unreadable. She could see the tension in his shoulders though—his body language just a little off.

He didn’t seem to notice her at first. His eyes scanned the room casually until they landed on her—and then stopped, wide in disbelief.

Zara sat up straighter, swallowing hard.

Regan took a slow step forward, blinking like he’d seen a ghost. “Zara?” he said, too loudly.

Heads turned.

Zara stood up slowly, arms crossed in front of her. “Hi, Regan.”

“I… I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Apparently, we’re both full of surprises.”

There was an awkward silence.

Imani stood up too, walking over with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Regan,” she purred, “what brings you here?”

He looked between the two women, his surprise poorly hidden. “Just came to drop a file for Mr. Amadi. Didn’t know I’d be interrupting… a reunion.”

Zara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Well, you’ve made quite the entrance.”

Imani chuckled. “Always does.”

“I should go,” Regan said quickly. He gave a curt nod, then turned and walked off, faster than he came.

Zara sat down slowly, exhaling.

Imani looked down at her with a smirk. “You two have history?”

Zara didn’t answer. She didn’t owe her that.

That evening, Zara got home feeling emotionally drained. Her parents were watching TV in the living room. Her father didn’t even glance her way. She greeted them quietly and went upstairs.

She showered and collapsed into bed, staring at the ceiling.

She still hadn’t checked her phone. It was buzzing with messages all day, but she had been too nervous. She finally opened it and scrolled through—dozens of reposts, mentions, and comments. “New face of Lagos,” the headlines read. Her picture was everywhere from blogs to modeling pages to news sites. Her name was finally echoing beyond her room.

Her heart beat faster.

She wanted to share this with someone—but Kemi still wasn’t talking to her. Regan was the last person she’d call, and Chantel was out of town.

She sighed and turned off the screen.