Chapter 4 The Moment Before the Mask Slipped

The rain was still coming down hard when Kola pulled up to Beth's Jewelry Store.

He looked at me, then at the storm outside, and sighed dramatically. "Here goes nothing."

Before I could respond, he was out - dashing into the downpour like it owed him money. I watched him run, arms flailing, soaked in seconds.

He looked absolutely ridiculous. I smiled anyway, something warm blooming in my chest.

The car was quiet without him. The rain tapped against the windows, steady and hypnotic. For a moment, I let myself sink into the silence, into the leather seats that smelled like his cologne.

This feels dangerous, I thought. This feels too good.

He came back dripping wet, holding a small, neatly wrapped box like a trophy. "That was brutal," he said, shaking water off his sleeves with theatrical flair.

"You look like a stray dog," I laughed, covering my mouth.

"Rude." He smirked, eyes dancing with mischief. "But worth it. My mum's going to cry happy tears."

We pulled back onto the road. He reached for the radio, and just like magic - or maybe it was planned - Shayne Ward's Breathless started playing.

"I love this song," we said at the exact same time.

We looked at each other, genuinely surprised, then burst out laughing like teenagers.

"You've got taste," he said, voice softer now.

"So do you."

For the next few minutes, we fell into perfect rhythm. Talking. Laughing. Naming every love song from our childhood that still made us feel something deep in our souls.

"Djinee's Ego?"

"Yes!"

"Paul Play's Forever?"

"Please, that's a classic."

"P-Square's I Love You?"

"That was my childhood everything."

He laughed so hard at that one, head thrown back. "I performed that in SS2 - full performance, backup dancers and all."

I stared at him in disbelief. "You're lying."

"I swear on my father's grave. My crush never looked at me the same after that."

"You're completely insane."

"You love it."

I did. God help me, I really did.

I hated how easy it felt - like we weren't strangers at all. Like he already knew where all my cracks were and exactly how to pour himself into them, filling spaces I didn't even know were empty.

By the time we pulled up to my dad's house, I had forgotten the rain, the cold, and the voice in my head that kept whispering be careful, be careful, be careful.

He parked and turned to me, suddenly serious. "Your number."

I hesitated. Just a second. Just long enough for my instincts to scream one last warning.

Then I gave it to him anyway.

He typed it in with careful fingers, saved it, and said, "I'll call you once I'm home."

I smiled, already missing him. "I'll hold you to that."

As I stepped out, the rain had softened to a gentle drizzle. The air felt clean. Light.

I hadn't felt this light in so long.

And then the gate opened.

Kiki screamed. I screamed. We ran into each other like children - all arms and laughter and pure love.

It was the perfect ending to a perfect moment.

But memory's cruel, isn't it?

Because now, sitting here with divorce papers and bruises that have finally faded, I remember what came next.

I remember Kiki's warning. Her exact words, spoken over wine that same weekend:

"Be careful with Lagos men, Amara. They don't just charm you - they make you believe you're the exception. And that's when you're most vulnerable."

We laughed when she said it. Clinked our glasses. Thought the only danger was heartbreak.

We didn't know some men don't just break hearts.

They collect souls.

And maybe that's why, even as she warned me about men like him...

I never told her about Kola.

That secret would cost me everything.