Chapter Eight

The Tailor's Shop

By noon, the streets of Surulere had reclaimed their usual rhythm.

Danfo buses honked impatiently at every junction. Street vendors balanced trays of fruit on their heads while calling out to passersby. The aroma of roasted corn mixed with the scent of fresh bread drifting from a nearby bakery. Lagos had a remarkable gift, it never stayed quiet for long.

Amara unlocked the door to her tailoring shop just after dropping Lily at home with her elderly neighbor, Mama Bose.

The doctor had insisted Lily rest for at least another week, but the little girl had begged not to stay in the hospital another night. After one final examination that morning, they had been discharged with medication and strict instructions.

Before leaving, Amara had settled every outstanding hospital bill.

Or rather, she had tried to.

The cashier had smiled apologetically.

"Mrs. Okafor, your account has already been cleared."

"I know someone paid the admission deposit."

The cashier shook her head.

"I'm talking about everything else."

"The medication."

"The laboratory tests."

"The doctor's fees."

"The room."

"Everything."

Amara had stood speechless listening to the cashier.

Whoever had arranged it had left nothing unpaid.

She didn't need anyone to tell her whose name was behind it.

Now, as she stepped into her small shop, familiar comfort welcomed her.

Rows of colorful Ankara fabrics lined one wall. A mannequin dressed in a half-finished emerald gown stood proudly near the entrance. Her trusted sewing machine occupied the center of the room, surrounded by neatly arranged threads, scissors, measuring tapes, and sketchbooks.

It wasn't much.

But every corner carried a piece of her determination.

She ran her hand over the sewing machine.

"I'm back."

As if it understood, the old machine remained silently faithful.

A knock sounded on the open door.

"Madam Amara!"

She turned to find her assistant, Kemi, rushing inside.

The twenty-three-year-old barely gave Amara a chance to speak before pulling her into a careful hug.

"Thank God you're okay!"

Amara laughed.

"I'm the one standing. You should be asking about Lily."

"How is she?"

"Much better."

Kemi clasped her hands together.

"I've been praying since yesterday."

"I know."

"I even closed the shop early."

"You didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

Amara smiled warmly.

That was Kemi.

Loyal to a fault.

Kemi suddenly lowered her voice.

"Something happened while you were away."

Amara frowned.

"What happened?"

"A man came looking for you."

Her heart skipped.

"What man?"

"I don't know."

"He was wearing a very expensive suit."

"Looked important."

"He asked if you owned this shop."

"What did you tell him?"

"I said yes."

"And?"

"He smiled."

Kemi frowned as though trying to remember every detail.

"Then he asked if you had been working here for a long time."

"What else?"

"He looked around for a few seconds."

"And then..."

"He left."

Amara's fingers tightened around the tape measure in her hand.

She didn't have to guess.

Ethan.

He had come and somehow, she had been relieved they hadn't met.

At almost the same moment, Ethan stood in the executive parking garage beneath Cole Dynamics.

His driver opened the rear door of the SUV.

"Home, sir?"

Ethan looked toward the busy road beyond the gates.

"No."

"Where to?"

He hesitated only briefly.

"Surulere."

The driver nodded without asking questions.

As the vehicle pulled into traffic, Ethan rested his elbow against the window.

He hadn't planned to visit Amara's shop earlier that morning.

His meeting nearby had ended sooner than expected.

His curiosity had done the rest.

He hadn't gone inside intending to speak with her.

He only wanted to see the life she had built, the small shop, the neatly arranged fabrics. The sketches pinned to the wall. He had recognized her touch immediately. Everything was simple. Everything was elegant, exactly like her.

He remembered one sketch in particular. A wedding dress, delicate and timeless in the bottom corner, signed in neat handwriting, were the words: Designed with hope.

He wondered whether she still believed in hope. His phone vibrated.

David.

"Sir."

"Go ahead."

"We've hit a dead end regarding Lily's father."

Ethan remained silent.

"No records."

"No legal documents."

"No witnesses willing to say anything.”

"Almost as if..."

David stopped.

"As if what?"

"As if someone deliberately made sure no one knew."

The line fell quiet.

That possibility had crossed Ethan's mind too.

"Keep looking."

"I will!."

"And David..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't let anyone know we're investigating."

"Understood."

As the call ended, Ethan looked out the window again.

His instincts had built a billion-naira company.

They had warned him away from bad investments.

Exposed dishonest partners.

Predicted market crashes.

Those same instincts were now whispering something else.

The story he had believed for seven years was incomplete.

Across the city, Vivian entered an old colonial-style house hidden behind high walls and iron gates.

A house very few people knew existed.

An elderly man sat in the garden feeding pigeons.

Without looking up, he said,

"I wondered how long it would take before you came."

Vivian removed her sunglasses.

"You've heard."

"I hear many things."

She sat opposite him.

"Ethan found her."

The old man sighed deeply.

"I was afraid of that."

"He can't know the truth."

The man finally looked at her.

His eyes were calm, but they carried the weight of too many secrets.

"The truth has a habit of surviving."

"Not if we bury it again."

He shook his head.

"You buried letters."

"You buried phone records."

"You buried evidence."

"But you cannot bury people forever."

Vivian leaned forward.

"Then help me."

The old man studied her in silence.

Finally, he asked the one question she feared most.

"What if the little girl is his?"

Vivian's face lost its color.

She had asked herself that question a hundred times.

Hearing someone else say it aloud made it terrifyingly real.

For the first time in years, she had no answer.