Love In Borrowed Accents & Legal Ink

The glass doors close behind Amara with a hush that feels louder than a slam.

Warm air brushes her face—wine, perfume, citrus cleaner, something metallic beneath it all. The hall is already full, voices overlapping in careful enthusiasm, laughter clipped at the edges. She pauses just inside the entrance, fingers still wrapped around the strap of her bag, and listens.

She does not move yet.

This is the first thing she does at any event: listen long enough to decide which version of herself will survive the night.

The accent comes first.

She loosens her jaw slightly, lifts the soft weight of her tongue from where it naturally rests. Neutral. Mid-Atlantic, leaning British. Rounded vowels sanded down. No music in it. No warmth that could invite questions.

Her shoulders follow. She rolls them back—not too straight. Straight suggests trying. Trying invites inspection. She lets her spine settle into something that looks like ease but costs her effort to maintain.

Then the face.

A small smile, already tired. Brows relaxed. Eyes alert but not curious. Curious women are asked things.

She steps forward.

The room opens up: high ceilings, chandeliers pretending not to be ostentatious, exposed brick softened by strategic lighting. Men in navy suits gathered in confident clusters. Women in heels that click decisively, dresses that say they understand the assignment. Name tags gleam like tiny permissions.

Amara adjusts hers.

AMARA ADEBAYO

Communications Consultant

She presses it flat against her dress, as though it might try to peel itself away and reveal something else underneath.

Her phone vibrates in her bag.

She doesn't check it.

Checking suggests waiting for someone. Waiting suggests dependence.

She moves toward the drinks table, because movement is safer than stillness. Stillness invites approach.

A woman beside her is already laughing, head tipped back, glass raised. Amara catches a fragment of conversation drifting past.

"...just pivoted to ESG, obviously—"

"—so much opportunity if you frame it properly—"

Frames. Pivots. Opportunity. Words that float, buoyant, unattached to consequence.

Amara reaches for a glass of white wine, fingers steady. She does not drink yet. Holding a glass is enough. Drinking too early dulls the edges she needs sharp.

She turns slightly, surveying the room again, cataloguing exits. There—near the coat check, a side door she could slip through if necessary. There—bathrooms down a short corridor, mirrored, private. Worst case scenario, she could hide in a stall until someone forgets her.

Her mouth tightens at the thought.

She reminds herself: This is not a courtroom. No one is here to convict you.

Still.

Her gaze drifts to a cluster near the centre—older men, silver at the temples, voices carrying. Gatekeepers. She notes the way younger professionals angle themselves toward them, bodies turned, laughter sharpened.

She has done this long enough to know where not to stand.

A shadow falls across her name tag.

"Hi."

The voice is female, bright, well-meaning. Early thirties, maybe. The kind of friendliness that assumes safety.

Amara turns, already smiling.

"Hi."

The woman gestures at the tag. "Amara. That's beautiful. Is it—Italian?"

There it is.

The question sits between them, small and polite and dangerous.

Amara does not hesitate. Hesitation is how stories unravel.

"It's Nigerian," she says, lightly, as though it is an accessory, not a history. Her voice lands exactly where she practiced it—no apology, no invitation.

"Oh! That's lovely," the woman says quickly, relief flickering through her face at having chosen the correct response. "I thought it might be. You don't sound—" She stops herself, flushes. "I mean—"

Amara lifts her glass slightly, rescuing her.

"I've lived here a while."

A while is a miracle word. It explains everything and nothing.

The woman laughs, grateful. "Right, of course. Well, welcome—if that's still appropriate to say." She gestures vaguely at the room. "Are you enjoying the evening?"

"Yes," Amara says, because enjoyment is expected. "It's well organised."

The woman beams, as though she personally arranged the chandeliers. "It is, isn't it? I'm Claire."

They exchange the briefest handshake. Claire's grip is firm, confident. Someone who belongs.

"What kind of communications do you do?" Claire asks.

Amara answers smoothly. She has rehearsed this in mirrors, on buses, in her head at three in the morning.

"Strategic messaging. Mostly corporate. Some public-facing campaigns."

"Impressive."

"Thank you."

She lets the compliment pass through her without settling.

Claire glances over Amara's shoulder, attention tugged elsewhere. "Oh—I should say hello. But it was lovely meeting you."

"Likewise."

Claire disappears into the crowd, leaving behind the faint scent of something floral.

Amara exhales, slowly, only now aware she had been holding her breath.

One question. Neutralised.

She takes her first sip of wine. It tastes sharp, expensive, not meant to be savoured.

As she lowers the glass, she feels it—the subtle prickle at the back of her neck. The sense of being observed.

She does not turn yet.

Instead, she straightens her name tag again, fingers brushing the letters of her surname. Adebayo. She mouths it silently, just once, the way it sounds when she says it at home. Full. Unedited.

Then she lifts her chin and steps deeper into the room.

Unaware that, across the hall, a man she has not yet met has already noticed the precision of her stillness.

Amara reaches the edge of a tall cocktail table and claims it with a casual lean, one heel hooked lightly behind the other. She places her glass down, fingers resting against the stem as though it might wander off without her. Around her, the noise swells and ebbs in waves—laughter cresting, then dissolving into murmurs.

She lets her gaze drift again, deliberately unfocused. Looking too intently suggests hunger.

"Sorry—can I join you?"

The voice comes from her right, male, tentative but confident enough to assume permission. British. Soft consonants. The sort of voice that has never been corrected mid-sentence.

Amara turns.

He is younger than she expects—late twenties, perhaps. Sandy hair cut carefully but not fashionably, suit slightly too eager. His tie is knotted just a bit too tight, as though he's afraid it might escape.

"Of course," she says, shifting a fraction to make space. Her tone is warm but neutral. Neutral is safety.

"Thanks." He exhales, grateful. "These things can be a bit—" He gestures vaguely at the room. "A lot."

"They can," Amara agrees. Shared observation. Low risk.

He smiles, relieved again. "I'm Mark."

"Amara."

They exchange nods instead of shaking hands. He glances at her name tag, then back up, eyes bright with curiosity he hasn't yet learned to hide.

"So," he says, settling his glass on the table, "what do you do, Amara?"

She answers easily. This is familiar ground.

"And you?" she asks in return.

"Consulting," he says quickly. "Strategy, mostly. Boring, really."

"It pays," she says, lightly.

He laughs, surprised. "It does. Which helps."

They stand in companionable silence for a moment, watching the crowd shift. Mark takes a sip of his drink, then glances at her again, something flickering behind his eyes. She recognizes it instantly—the moment when curiosity outweighs caution.

Here it comes.

"So," he says, as casually as he can manage, "where are you from?"

The question lands softly. Almost kind.

Amara feels her body respond before her mind does—a minute tightening beneath her ribs, a recalibration. She has answered this question in more ways than she can count, depending on the room, the listener, the stakes.

She does not rush.

"London," she says first, because it is true enough to be useful.

Mark blinks. "Oh. Right." He laughs, embarrassed. "I meant—originally."

There it is. The narrowing of the lens. The insistence.

She tilts her head, considering him as though the question is interesting rather than intrusive.

"I grew up in Nigeria," she says. She does not specify where. Specifics invite follow-ups.

"Oh," he says, a little too brightly. "That's—wow. I've never been."

"It's large," she says. "You could spend a lifetime trying to understand it."

He nods enthusiastically, as though he might attempt it one day. "Your accent—I mean, you sound—" He falters, catches himself, cheeks colouring. "Not what I expected."

Amara smiles, just enough to put him at ease.

"I've been told."

She lifts her glass, takes a measured sip. Gives him time to retreat.

He doesn't quite.

"So did you—" He stops, then tries again. "I mean, did you come here for work? Or school?"

The questions are stacking now, one atop another, each balanced on the assumption that she will continue to oblige.

Amara sets her glass down carefully.

"For school," she says. This, too, is true. "After that, work followed."

"Oh, that's brilliant." He beams. "Must have been a big change."

"It was."

"And your family—are they here as well?"

There it is. The edge of the map.

Amara feels the familiar urge to step back, to close something down. She does not owe him this. She knows it. Still, the room watches invisibly, always ready to reward compliance.

"My family is mostly back home," she says, pleasant but firm. A full stop disguised as a comma.

Mark nods, absorbing this. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, sensing—perhaps for the first time—that he has reached a boundary.

"Sorry," he says quickly. "I didn't mean to pry."

"It's all right," Amara replies, because that is easier than explaining that prying often wears a friendly face.

They lapse into silence again. This one is less comfortable.

Across the room, someone laughs loudly. Glasses clink. A waiter slips past with a tray of canapés. The evening presses on, indifferent.

Mark glances at his watch, then back at her. "Well—I should circulate. But it was really nice talking to you."

"Likewise."

He hesitates, then adds, "You have a—very calm way about you."

She smiles. "Practice."

He laughs, unsure whether she's joking, then drifts away into the crowd.

Amara watches him go, her expression unchanged until he disappears completely. Only then does she let her shoulders relax, just a fraction.

She reaches for her wine again, but pauses, distracted by a shift in the air around her. Not sound—attention.

She looks up.

For the first time, she notices the man standing near the far wall, half-turned away from the room, as though he has chosen observation over participation. He is tall, dark-haired, dressed with an ease that suggests expense without announcement. One hand rests in his pocket; the other holds a drink he hasn't touched.

Their eyes meet.

It is not a dramatic moment. No spark, no jolt.

Just a look held a second longer than necessary.

His expression is unreadable—curiosity, perhaps. Or assessment. He does not smile.

Amara looks away first.

She lifts her glass, takes a longer sip this time, and tells herself she is imagining things.

Still, she feels it—an awareness, like a finger tracing the edge of her composure.

She straightens, adjusts her posture once more, and turns back toward the room, scanning for a familiar face she might anchor herself to. She doesn't find one. Instead, she finds motion—someone approaching with a deliberate lack of urgency, as though time is something he owns in surplus.

She senses him before she hears him.

A shift beside her. The faint displacement of air. The smell of something understated—soap, maybe, or clean wool warmed by body heat. Not cologne. Or not much of it.

"Excuse me."

The voice is low, controlled, pitched just loud enough to reach her without demanding attention.

Amara turns.

He stands close enough that she can see the fine crease at the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes—grey, she notes absently—have already taken stock of her face. He is taller than she expected from across the room, his presence contained rather than expansive. The kind of man who doesn't lean; he occupies space without needing to announce it.

"Yes?" she says.

He gestures lightly to the table. "May I?"

She glances down. There is room. Of course there is.

"Go ahead."

"Thank you." He places his glass down, careful not to let it touch hers. White wine as well. He hasn't drunk from it yet.

They stand side by side now, angled slightly toward one another, an arrangement that looks conversational without committing to it.

"I'm Edward," he says, after a beat. "Edward Harrington."

"Amara Adebayo."

He nods, as though the name confirms something rather than introducing it.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," he adds.

She thinks of Mark, already gone, his curiosity dissipated into the crowd. "No."

Edward's mouth curves—not quite a smile. More like an acknowledgment.

"These events," he says, eyes drifting briefly over the room, "have a way of feeling urgent without actually being important."

Amara lets out a small breath of a laugh before she can stop herself. It surprises them both.

"That's one way of putting it."

He glances at her then, sharper now, as though he's clocked the unscripted reaction. "You disagree?"

"No," she says. "I was just thinking it's impressive how many conversations can happen at once without anyone saying anything."

His eyes warm a fraction. "You noticed that too."

They lapse into a quiet pause. It is not awkward. It is watchful.

Edward lifts his glass, finally, and takes a sip. He winces faintly. "Too acidic."

Amara raises an eyebrow. "You sound personally offended."

"I am," he says, solemn. "At this price point, one expects cooperation."

She smiles despite herself. It's brief, but real.

He watches it happen.

"So," he says, after a moment, "are you enjoying the evening?"

There it is again. The expected question. The polite entry point.

"Yes," she replies, defaulting automatically. Then, because something about him invites deviation—or perhaps because she's tired—she adds, "In moderation."

He chuckles quietly. "A sensible approach."

They stand there, the noise of the room washing around them like a tide that never quite reaches shore. Amara becomes aware of the way he listens—not waiting for his turn to speak, not scanning the room for someone better. Just... present.

It unsettles her.

"What brings you here?" she asks, because deflection feels safer than curiosity.

"Obligation," Edward says without hesitation. "Yours?"

"Networking," she replies. "Survival, if I'm being honest."

He studies her for a second, then inclines his head. "Fair."

She notices the restraint in him—the way his hands stay still, the way his posture suggests both ease and control. This is not a man unused to scrutiny. Nor is it a man who enjoys it.

A woman passes behind him and claps him lightly on the shoulder. "Edward! There you are. Your father's looking for you."

Something flickers across his face. Too quick to name. Annoyance, perhaps. Or something colder.

"I'll find him," Edward says calmly.

The woman nods at Amara, then disappears.

Edward turns back. "Apologies."

"No need."

He hesitates, as though deciding whether to stay or go. Then he looks at her again, more directly this time.

"May I ask you something?" he says.

Amara's spine tightens, almost imperceptibly.

"That depends."

He notices. Of course he does.

"Forgive me," he says, adjusting smoothly. "You don't have to answer."

She considers him. The measured politeness. The awareness. The lack of assumption.

"Yes," she says finally. "You may ask."

He holds her gaze. "Is this—" He gestures lightly between them, the room. "—something you enjoy? Or something you endure well?"

The question lands differently. No demand for origin. No excavation of her past. Just this moment.

Amara is quiet for a beat too long.

"I endure it well," she says at last.

Edward nods, as though that confirms something important. "So do I."

Another pause. This one heavier.

"Well," he says, picking up his glass, "I should rescue myself from paternal oversight."

She smiles faintly. "Good luck."

He returns the smile, brief and restrained. Then, as if on impulse, he adds, "Perhaps I'll see you again this evening."

"Perhaps."

He steps away, his departure as unassuming as his arrival, swallowed quickly by the crowd.

Amara watches him go, a faint crease forming between her brows.

She tells herself it was nothing. A polite interruption. A conversation that will dissolve by morning.

Still, she finds herself replaying his question—not the words, but the way he asked it, as though he already knew the answer.

She lifts her glass again, but doesn't drink.

Somewhere in the room, Edward Harrington turns back once, just long enough to locate her by the table.

Their eyes meet again.

This time, neither of them looks away immediately.

The moment stretches—not enough to be conspicuous, but long enough to register as deliberate. Amara feels the faint, irrational urge to straighten her spine again, as though posture might recalibrate perception. She doesn't. She lets herself remain exactly as she is, one hip leaned into the table, glass untouched.

Edward is the first to break the gaze. He turns smoothly, disappearing into a cluster of people who seem to part for him without quite realising they're doing it.

Amara exhales through her nose.

She tells herself she's reading too much into it. People look at each other all the time. This is what rooms like this are for—mutual appraisal, silent judgments traded like currency.

Still.

She shifts her weight, picks up her glass at last, and takes another sip. The wine hasn't improved.

She moves away from the table, drifting toward the edge of the room, pretending to study a framed print on the wall. From the corner of her eye, she watches him.

Edward stands with three other men now. One older, silver-haired, posture rigid with authority. The father, presumably. The resemblance is not obvious until she looks closer—the same line of the jaw, the same economy of movement. But where the older man fills space aggressively, Edward seems to manage his, holding it in check.

He listens more than he speaks.

When he does speak, the others lean in slightly.

Amara notes this with the same detached interest she might reserve for a documentary. This is not attraction, she tells herself. This is pattern recognition. Survival instinct dressed up as curiosity.

She turns away, scanning the room again.

Near the drinks table, Mark is laughing too loudly at something a woman in red has said. Claire stands nearby, animated, her hands punctuating every sentence. People orbit one another, collide briefly, then drift apart.

Amara edges toward the corridor that leads to the bathrooms, not because she needs them, but because the space there is quieter. The sound dulls, the air cools.

She pauses near the doorway, pretending to read a sign about emergency exits.

Behind her, she senses movement again.

Not close enough to startle her. Just enough to register.

She does not turn this time.

"Are you hiding," Edward's voice says, low and conversational, "or escaping?"

She closes her eyes for half a second, then turns.

He stands a few steps away, one shoulder lightly braced against the wall, his glass now half-empty. His tie has loosened slightly. The effect is subtle, but it changes something—suggests a shedding of formality rather than its absence.

"Hiding would imply fear," she says. "Escaping suggests intelligence."

His mouth curves. "I had a feeling you'd say that."

She raises an eyebrow. "We've only spoken for five minutes."

"Sometimes that's enough."

She studies him openly now. The calmness. The way he doesn't crowd her, doesn't angle his body to block her exit. This is a man accustomed to being listened to, but careful not to demand it.

"Did you find your father?" she asks.

"I did." A pause. "I also found an excuse to leave him."

She smiles faintly. "Congratulations."

"Thank you. It required minimal dishonesty."

Her gaze sharpens. "Only minimal?"

He shrugs lightly. "I try to keep it efficient."

They stand in companionable quiet again. The hum of the event feels distant here, muffled by walls and intention.

"You're watching the room," Edward says after a moment.

"So are you."

"I'm watching you watch it."

That earns him a look—cool, assessing.

"Careful," she says. "That could sound like an accusation."

"Is it one?"

"No," she replies, evenly. "Just an observation."

"Then we're even."

Another pause. This one feels different. Less cautious. More curious.

Edward takes a step closer—not invading, just closing the gap enough that she can see the faint line between his brows, the mark of concentration rather than age.

"I hope this doesn't sound strange," he says, "but you seem very... deliberate."

Amara lets out a short laugh. "Most people use less flattering words."

"Such as?"

"Guarded. Calculated. Difficult."

"And do you agree?"

She considers him. The question is not invasive; it's offered, not demanded.

"I think," she says slowly, "that people who don't have the luxury of carelessness are often mistaken for being difficult."

Edward nods once. "That makes sense."

Something in his expression shifts—not softening exactly, but sharpening with interest.

"And you?" she asks. "You seem very... composed."

He smiles, almost wryly. "Most people mean 'aloof' when they say that."

"Are they wrong?"

"Sometimes," he says. "Sometimes not."

They share a quiet moment of mutual assessment, each fitting the other into provisional categories that will later prove inadequate.

A burst of laughter from the hall punctuates the silence. Someone calls Edward's name from across the room.

He glances in that direction, then back at her.

"I should probably reappear," he says. "People start assuming things when you vanish too long."

"Such as?"

"That you're plotting. Or enjoying yourself."

She smiles. "Both dangerous assumptions."

"Indeed."

He hesitates, then adds, "I'm glad I interrupted earlier."

"So am I," she replies, surprised to find she means it.

He inclines his head, a small, precise gesture. "Enjoy the rest of the evening, Amara."

"You too, Edward."

He steps away, then stops, turning back just enough to say, "For what it's worth—I don't think you're difficult."

She holds his gaze. "For what it's worth—I think you're more interesting than you let on."

He smiles at that—properly this time—and disappears back into the noise.

Amara remains where she is, listening to the echo of his footsteps fade into the general hum.

She tells herself, again, that this is nothing. A fleeting connection in a room full of them.

Still, when she returns to the hall, her awareness has shifted. The room feels smaller now, its edges more defined.

And somewhere within it, Edward Harrington moves with quiet purpose, occasionally glancing in her direction without realising she's doing the same.

The hall feels suddenly heavier, as though the walls themselves are leaning in to observe. Amara sips the last of her wine, noting the sharp, metallic tang she's come to dislike. She sets the glass down carefully, making sure the stem rests evenly on the table.

Her eyes scan the crowd one last time. Faces blur together: conversations she won't be part of, laughter she won't share. Polished shoes click across polished floors, and chandeliers scatter fractured light over everything. She knows the exits without thinking—each one a lifeline disguised as convenience.

The side corridor calls to her. The one with the muted carpet and mirrors along the wall. Quiet. Safe. She drifts toward it, flowing with the natural pull of the crowd, sliding past clusters of people who are too engrossed in their performance to notice her.

Near the coat check, a young man attempts to catch her attention. She glances at him, smiles faintly, and walks past. She does not break stride, does not pause to explain herself. Explanation is a liability.

As she reaches the corridor, the crowd thins. The lights here are cooler, harsher—less forgiving. She notices her reflection in the mirrored wall: carefully adjusted posture, neutral expression, eyes alert. She barely recognizes the version of herself looking back. The one who survives by rules, by observation, by silence.

Halfway down the hall, she hears the faint scrape of polished shoes behind her. Reflexively, she stiffens but doesn't turn. The sound fades. Probably someone heading for the bathrooms.

She reaches the secondary exit, the one leading to the quiet street beyond. Hands on the door, she hesitates just a fraction. The chill of London night air presses in like a promise of safety, and she inhales, tasting freedom in the sharp mix of exhaust, wet stone, and distant tobacco smoke.

A soft shadow falls across the doorway. She notices movement in the corner of her vision. Another presence—someone deliberately quiet, deliberately unannounced. Her heartbeat quickens slightly.

Then the moment passes. Footsteps retreat. She doesn't look back. She has enough practice to know when to let attention fade on its own.

Pushing open the door, she steps outside. The cold wraps around her like a cloak, carrying the faint hum of traffic and the occasional shout from a street corner. She walks quickly, deliberately, without glancing at the building she's leaving behind. Polished voices and chandeliers and whispered judgments are locked inside now. She is outside, and she is alone.

Halfway down the street, she allows herself a small exhale. Her hands find her bag strap again, the weight reassuring. She glances at her reflection in the glass of a shop window. Still the same neutral voice, the same carefully measured body. Still Amara, survivor of rooms that never pause.

Unaware, entirely, that the man she had observed in the hall—the one who had watched her as much as she watched him—has followed her gaze longer than he should have. Not now, not on the street, not obvious. But in memory, in calculation, in quiet awareness. Edward Harrington has noticed.

And he will not forget.

Amara rounds the corner, the streetlights casting her shadow long behind her, blending it into the city's rhythm. She walks without looking back. The night has not changed, but something within her—something she cannot yet name—has shifted.

And that is enough.