Damn, this relaxation is out of this world. I haven't felt this level of bliss in my entire life.
No wonder I overslept—this bed practically cradles you.
It's a whole different ballgame compared to what I had back in Ado Ekiti.
Seriously, calling that thing a bed would be a stretch. It's more like a flimsy mat.
It's so flat it feels like you're sleeping on the ground, and when you wake up, your spine feels like it's been through a war zone.
There's no bed frame—what's that thing called again? Oh right, a wooden base. Too cumbersome to keep saying that.
Anyway, the moment I hit the sheets last night was unforgettable, but waking up on this king-size bed has set a new standard for joy.
I stretched my arms wide, letting out a blissful yawn.
This bed—my personal paradise—is just everything.
Make sure to tag this as my #ComfortZone.
Hold on, it feels like I've missed something.
Oh right!
How could I forget the things I wanted to tell mom last night? She must be worried all through the night that I didn't return. She's probably been blowing up my phone, and I had it switched off during that argument.
Speaking of argument, where is—
I glance to my side, greeted by an empty expanse.
Maybe he just went out.
I shrug. At least I'm free from his nagging for a bit. Hopefully, he stays away for a while.
Still in last night's outfit?
I shook my head, sliding out of bed and feeling the chill of the pristine white tiles beneath my feet.
All I brought with me were myself, my phone, charger, and house key. No spare clothes, slippers, or underwear.
So, this is it? Shower and put on the same outfit? But at least I can swap out the underwear.
Don't look at me like that. I didn't plan on being a prisoner here.
Sure, I thought I'd be hanging out with friends, not getting tangled up with some mysterious yet oddly familiar guy.
Ugh.
I caught a whiff of myself and, yep, definitely not fresh. Maybe that's why he bolted so early—couldn't handle the body odor.
If only he'd let me go home to grab my stuff or, better yet, go shopping.
I'm not even familiar with this place. How the hell do I find the—
I was about to say 'bathroom.'
Great, just great.
As I scanned the room, I spotted a small white door in the distance. That has to be the way—or maybe not.
Just inches away, another door caught my eye. This one seemed like it might lead to a closet or changing room.
Curiosity got the better of me, so I padded barefoot across the room, turning the doorknob with a sense of anticipation. To my surprise, it was a closet packed with men's clothes. I shut the door gently and turned to the other one.
This time, I found the bathroom. But why was there a narrow passage leading to it?
The space was immaculate, with white tiles covering the walls, floor, and even the ceiling. I ran my hands along the pristine surfaces, marveling at the luxury that seemed straight out of a movie.
A medium-sized mirror caught my attention, and I stared at my reflection—beautiful Bummi, though not quite fresh. The scent of the bathroom was pleasant, making my own body odor stand out even more.
The bathroom door itself was like one of those heavy-duty, bulletproof doors you see in TV ads—except this one looked even more high-end. Its transparency meant anyone could catch a glimpse of you showering.
No privacy here, not even in the bathroom?
I glanced towards the end of the passage where I spotted some towelettes, my only consolation for now.
A bunch of white, neatly hung towels greeted me.
Alright, time for a shower.
I shut the bathroom door and locked it, then peeled off my clothes, letting them drop to the floor.
I slid the shower door open and stepped in for a brisk, cold shower. In and out in no time.
What do you expect? I'm allergic to sponges. My skin is too delicate for that. Micro-tears are a real risk, and you know what that means—bacteria invading my pores. Not happening.
So, soap and water will do, with my hands for any extra care.
I grabbed my dirty underwear and washed it with bar soap. But now what? I can't walk around without it drying first.
As I pondered my options, I noticed a white box attached to the wall above the washbasin. Could it be a hand dryer?
I'd seen these before at my old job, but never used one myself. Now seemed like the perfect time to figure it out.
I moved closer and spotted two buttons on the side. Without thinking, I pressed one. Nothing happened. Maybe the button was broken?
I tried the other one, but still no response. Could the batteries be dead?
Given this guy's wealth, I'd expect him to maintain his equipment.
I shrugged and grabbed a towel to dry off a bit. I wrapped my underwear in the towel and squeezed it, but it remained damp.
Just as I was about to resign myself to wearing the wet underwear, I felt a breeze from the white box. It made a soft, almost mechanical sound—like a new air conditioner.
Curious, I placed my hand where the air was coming from and realized it was working automatically.
I grinned and placed my black underwear in front of the air vent. After a few minutes, the cold air had dried it completely, as if it had been in a freezer.
I got dressed after feeling pretty good about my makeshift towel ensemble. I wrapped one towel around my chest and used the other to cover my head. I picked up my dress from the floor and planned to check out the closet before charging my phone to call Mom and catch up with Lola and Ojo.
With my clothes clutched to my chest like someone fleeing a lover's place—though, thankfully, I had a towel— I stepped out of the bathroom.
And then I saw him sprawled on the bed, casually typing away on his phone, completely oblivious.
What if I had walked out with my pants down, thinking I was alone?
"Excuse me, Monsieur, could I have some privacy?" I called out, suddenly second-guessing my curiosity about the closet. If he was rude, I might just kick him out.
Without even glancing up, he muttered, "The closet is behind you. Do what you need to."
Seriously?
I decided to skip the closet and replied, "Sorry if I'm being rude, but I'd like to change here."
Still not looking at me, he said, "I'm not bothering you."
"Are you—" I cut off, dropping my clothes on the chair by the vanity. "I'm going to repeat myself since it seems you're not listening." I stood beside his bed, glaring at him. "I need privacy to change."
He finally looked up, his annoyance evident, and then—"Hey! Give me that—" His grumpy expression shifted to stunned as I grabbed his phone.
Why was he staring at me like he'd never seen a beautiful woman before?
Oh.
I removed the towel from my head and wrapped it around my shoulders. Following his gaze, I realized he was eyeing me up and down in the towel, practically undressing me with his eyes.
He quickly looked away, reaching for his phone with a scowl.
"Give me my phone, now," he demanded, his tone soft but devoid of any respect.
He wanted his phone but had no intention of respecting my privacy.
I glanced at the screen—it was a football match. Soccer was always dull to me, and I couldn't understand why guys like it so much, especially Nifemi. No way I'd let him become a soccer player.
I hid the phone behind me. "Agree to leave the room, and you'll get your phone in a second."
He glared at me, clearly annoyed. "Really?" He stood up, his towering presence looming over me. "This is my mansion. You're only here temporarily, and you have no right to order me out of my own room."
"First, I'm glad you recognize I'm just a temporary guest. Second, I'm not asking you to leave. I'm politely requesting a moment of privacy."
"And I said use the damn changing room!" he snapped, raising his voice and pointing towards the closet.
"And I said I'm not!" I shot back, determined to escalate the argument.
He paused, glaring at me with intense focus. Then he extended his hand, saying, "Give me back my phone." Why was he suddenly so calm and polite?
I refused, keeping the phone behind me and pretending to examine my nails like Ojo does.
If he wants to waste time, I'll play along.
Seeing my stubbornness, he warned, "You're not giving it back, are you?"
I stayed silent, feigning ignorance.
Before I knew it, he grabbed the phone from me with such force that I nearly felt my fingers snap.
"Oww…." I winced, but he didn't even glance my way. He just stormed out, looking furious.
He returned momentarily to snatch his car key from the locker.
"You're not even going to apologize?" I expected him to say something, but instead, he flipped me off and slammed the door.
I flinched at the gesture.
No problem. If he wants to play games, I'll make sure he gets an equal dose. He'll throw me out without anyone's consent if he's not careful.
**********
After getting dressed, I called Mom to fill her in on the situation. I wasn't surprised when she sided with him, prioritizing his wealth over her own daughter.
How could she choose a stranger over me?
I was upset. We talked for a while, and I asked her to give Lola my clothes in case she stopped by.
I also caught up with Lola on a video call. She mentioned that Ojo went on a lunch date with his ex, Jimmy.
"Have they reconciled again for the fifth time?" I asked.
Lola, multitasking with laundry, sighed in Nigerian pidgin, "My dear, I'm tired of their drama. You know you can't really say anything about their situation."
"Ojo…" I shook my head. "This guy, Jimmy—he's bisexual and has cheated on Ojo with both men and women."
"Even I'm fed up with trying to advise Ojo. Love is blinding him," Lola said.
"Hmm. I guess," I shrugged.
"So, what's up? Where are you?"
"Where else would I be but hiding in this Rapunzel castle? Omo, I still dey here oh. Wetin I go do now?" I sighed wearily in Nigerian pidgin.
Lola chuckled. "I know you're not thrilled there, but just hang in there. It's only temporary."
Temporary? How long is this "temporary" going to last?
When I recounted the earlier incident, Lola laughed so hard I thought she might burst.
"I'm serious, it's not funny," I said, heading towards the stairs to explore the mansion and get to know the staff.
Lola's laughter continued, almost turning into a cough. "You can't be serious, B. I was expecting some juicy drama like 'Oh, we ended up in bed together,' not just a petty argument. You're hilarious."
So she wanted me to sleep with that hedgehog? "If you were in my shoes, you'd probably do what you just suggested," I said, leaning on the stair rail.
She gasped, her eyes wide with imagined shock. "Madame, if I were you, I'd have pushed you to do it." Really? "Come on, that guy is too cute."
Lola, Lola, Lola.
I rolled my eyes.
I heard the washing machine stop and Lola squeezing out clothes. "Do you know how many girls would kill to be in your position?"
"Including you, Lola," I cut in before she could finish.
"Eh, somehow sha—"
"Not somehow, Lola. You want to get laid. I can see it. Tell me if you want me to contact Ojo to find you a one-night-stand stripper."
"Geez, no!" I imagined her shaking her head.
I tried to suppress a smile, pretending to be serious. "Then tell me, what's so alluring about him that you want me to—"
"Ma'am, your attention is needed." A burly guy in black, who seemed to always follow Damian, interrupted me, cutting off the conversation.
I pulled the phone away from my ear. "Sorry, who's asking?"
"Just follow me to the patio."
"O…kay…" I said, putting the phone back. "Lola, it looks like my judgment day has arrived. They're taking me to the execution ground," I joked.
She laughed. "Okay oh. I wish you the best of luck with that, but please don't scream my name or Jesus Christ if it turns out to be a night of passion. I don't want to be here doing laundry and sneezing while you call my name."
I rolled my eyes. "So all those times you've been sneezing unexpectedly, you thought it was me having sex?" Lola really is something.
"Maybe—oh."
I shook my head in disbelief and hung up, facing the awaiting guy. "Sorry for keeping you waiting."
He nodded and led me to the patio.
There, I found a group of people—both women and men with a gay-like appearance—standing as if waiting for royalty. They greeted me with such reverence, I felt like a queen.
The guy who led me backed away, leaving me alone with these strangers. I was met with racks of clothes—countless expensive outfits hanging on poles.
Had Damian turned part of his mansion into a boutique?
The clothes were far more luxurious than anything I'd ever worn.
One of the women approached with a bright smile. "Mrs. Ayomide, please follow me so we can find outfits that suit you best."
Mrs. Ayomide? Really?
This guy was going to ruin my reputation. But wait, do I even have one?
She guided me in without waiting for a response. Clearly, Damian was up to something—probably trying to make amends or beg for my forgiveness.
Another woman gestured for me to sit like a queen as they began their work.
The selection was overwhelming—dresses, signature bags, designer purses, shoes, and more.
As I sat there, letting them take my measurements, I glanced at one dress on the arm of the chair. The price tag almost gave me a heart attack.
Was Damian really wasting money on such extravagance? My net worth couldn't even cover a single shoe here. The cost of one dress was enough to rent an apartment in Mushin, Lagos.
And don't get me started on the shoes, bags, purses, and wigs.
Two of the men, accompanied by a woman who seemed to be their boss, approached. She smiled brightly. "Mr. Ayomide would be delighted to have a beautiful woman like you at the dinner banquet tonight."
Dinner?
So this whole charade was about me joining him for dinner?
Not another night of horror.
I noticed the woman's ring, which hinted that her flattery wasn't just for Damian's sake but for my benefit.
After what felt like an eternity, they finished with the selection, including my makeup and hairdo.