The boat ride back to the mainland felt different.
There was no thrill now, no shared secret. Just the slow, inevitable pull of reality. Lagos loomed in the distance like a challenge neither of them had trained for.
Tunde barely spoke. He sat beside Amaka, sketchbook on his lap, headphones in. But his hand never moved to draw. She didn't push him. Silence between them had always said more than noise.
When they docked, the chaos returned instantly—blaring horns, aggressive vendors, a wall of hot, impatient air. Amaka's phone buzzed again. This time, she checked it.
Another headline:
"CEO Turned Muse? Amaka Okoye's Beach Romance Raises Eyebrows Amidst Company Crisis."
Below it, a blurred photo of her and Tunde standing close by the infinity pool. She couldn't tell if it was intimacy or exhaustion in the way they leaned toward each other—but to the press, it didn't matter.
They had a story. And she was the headline.
They took a cab back to her apartment in Ikoyi—glass walls, minimalist furniture, a life designed for clarity. But it didn't feel like home anymore.
Tunde stood at the balcony, looking down at the city, while Amaka scrolled through dozens of new messages.
Her lawyer wanted a statement.
The board demanded a video apology.
Her PR team suggested framing the "romantic getaway" as a "mental health reset."
"I hate this," she muttered.
Tunde turned. "Then don't play their game."
"They think I've failed. That I ran."
He stepped closer. "Then show them what it looks like to rise."
Amaka stared at him. "And you? You okay being part of this now? Public attention, interviews, think pieces about the mysterious widower artist?"
He smiled—tired, but honest.
"I've lived in the shadow of grief for three years. I can handle a little light."
The next morning, Amaka called a press conference.
It wasn't what her lawyers wanted. It wasn't the scripted apology her PR team drafted. But it was her voice. Raw, steady, and unscripted.
She stood alone at the podium. Dressed simply. No designer flair. Just presence.
"I didn't run away," she said, voice clear. "I paused. Because sometimes, when the world turns you into a villain overnight, the most radical thing you can do is reclaim your humanity."
The room went quiet.
"Yes, I spent a weekend with someone I care about. And no, it wasn't a PR stunt. It was a lifeline. One I didn't ask for, but needed."
She glanced at the cameras. Somewhere behind them, Tunde watched from the wings.
"I built something worth protecting. I won't let gossip—or fear—destroy it."
Flashbulbs clicked. A few reporters nodded.
And for the first time since it all began, she didn't feel small. She felt seen.
Back at the apartment, Tunde was packing.
"You're leaving?" she asked, a sudden panic flaring in her chest.
He zipped the bag slowly. "I need space. Time. I didn't plan for this… any of it."
Amaka tried to stay calm. "So what was this? A beautiful detour?"
He stepped closer. "No. This was real. But it was never meant to fix us."
Her throat tightened. "You said you were with me."
"I still am," he said. "Just not in a way that depends on proximity."
Then he kissed her—soft, final, grateful.
And walked out the door.