I came home from work that evening feeling the usual exhaustion—traffic in Abuja had been brutal, and all I wanted was a cold beer and Zara curled up next to me on the couch. 

She was in the kitchen when I walked in, stirring something on the stove, wearing that short sundress that always made my pulse kick up a notch. She turned when she heard me, a bright smile on her face, but there was something in her eyes—mischief, maybe excitement.

“You won’t believe who I ran into today,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel.

“Who?”

“Chike.”

The name hit me like a slow punch. Chike. Her...