Chapter Fifteen: In The Boutique
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11:42am.
Josie stared at the stack. Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she gathered the envelopes. They fit in one hand. Thin. Perfumed. Heavy.
Orwell was already at the door. She followed.
The car was black and sleek, inside still holding the ghost of AC. Leather. New. Smelled like him. He didn’t speak when she got in. Just waited for her seatbelt to click before he pulled out.
The envelopes sat in her lap. Her thumb traced the wax seal on the top one.
The question burned her tongue. She wanted to ask if he was indirectly saying he liked her style, that she was attractive without trying. She glanced at him. Profile sharp, eyes on the road, knuckles loose on the wheel.
She hitched. Swallowed the words.
Orwell’s gaze flicked to her. One second. Too knowing.
Josie flinched. Turned to the window fast.
The engine purred. He drove in silence until they pulled up to a glass-front building on Akin Adesola. Gold lettering: *Étoile Atelier*.
Ladies’ boutique. Mannequins in silk. The kind of place where prices weren’t on tags.
He killed the engine. “You can pick anything you want in there.”
Blunt. No caveats. No budget. Just command with a crack in it.
12:06pm.
Inside, it was cold and quiet. Racks of dresses that probably cost her tuition. Heels like sculptures. Salesgirls with perfect buns who looked at Josie’s scuffed sneakers and smiled anyway.
Embarrassment crawled up her neck. She didn’t know fabrics. Didn’t know cuts. Didn’t know if she _needed_ any of this.
So she didn’t touch the silk. Didn’t look at the heels.
She found a wall of basics. Left with white leather sneakers, clean lines. And a black oversized tee, soft. For classes.
Just Josie.
Orwell watched. Said nothing. But his jaw eased. Exegesis confirmed. He’d read her right and hated that he was right.
At the counter, as he reached for his card, Josie saw the business license framed behind the register. _Étoile Atelier Ltd._ Owner: _O. Ferguson_.
She blinked.
Ruffled. Impressed. Uneasy. The feelings didn’t sit still.
“I need to meet with the accountant. You can wait for me in reception.” His eyes met hers for half a second, a short lived lingering look, before he turned away.
The reception was all marble and orchids. 12:27pm.
The receptionist was maybe 20. Neat locs. Akwa Ibom nameplate: _Imaobong_. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She looked Josie up and down. The new sneakers. The stack of envelopes Josie had set on the side table.
“You’re not the first,” Imaobong said. Light. Too light. “He brings girls here. For gifts. Before.”
Josie’s stomach dropped.
The orchids smelled sweet. The AC was too cold.
12:34pm. The door to the back office stayed shut.
12:35pm. Josie’s fingers dug into the arm of the marble bench. _Not the first._ The words kept looping.
Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. “How many?”
Imaobong tilted her head, locs shifting. She made a show of thinking. “Let’s see. There was the one with the red hair. Then the tall one. The one who cried in the dressing room.” She ticked them off on her nails. “Four? Five?”
Each name was a pebble dropped in Josie’s chest. Imaobong’s eyes flicked to the hallway again. Hungry. Territorial.
Josie’s jaw locked. _She wants him. And she’s using me to—_
The heat rose fast. Words climbed her throat. Something sharp. Something she’d regret.
“Excuse me.”
A different voice. Softer. Steady.
The other sales girl stepped between them. Late twenties maybe. Honey-brown cardigan. Eyes like still water. Her name tag read _Clara_.
Clara didn’t look at Imaobong. She looked at Josie. “Ima, Mr. Ferguson asked you to restock the Paris shipment. Now.”
Imaobong’s mouth thinned. She shot Clara a glare, then clicked off toward the back in her heels.
Clara turned fully to Josie. “Sorry about that. She gets... protective.” A pause. “Orwell’s been running outreach since he was eighteen. Scholarship funds. Single mothers. Women getting back on their feet.”
She nodded to the envelopes on the table. “The girls he brings here aren’t flings. That one with red hair? She lost her husband last year. We fitted her for a job interview. The tall one is his sister’s friend from uni. She was starting chemo.”
Clara’s gaze was direct but kind. No pity. “He doesn’t explain himself. He figures his actions should be enough. Usually it backfires.”
She gave Imaobong’s empty chair a pointed look. “Some people read it wrong on purpose.”
Josie exhaled. Didn’t realize she’d been holding it.
“Can I get you a coffee?” Clara asked. “I’m on break. We have a machine that doesn’t taste like punishment.”
Josie blinked. Then nodded. “Yes. Please.”
12:41pm.
They sat by the window. Two paper cups. Steam curling. The orchids behind them. The back office door still shut.
Clara sipped. “So. You’re the one who picked sneakers.”
Josie looked down at the white leather. New. Clean. _Just Josie._
“He hates that I’m right about people,” Josie said, before she could stop herself.
Clara smiled into her cup. “Yeah. He really does.”
Outside, Lagos moved. In here, it was just coffee and the truth settling, slow and warm, in Josie’s chest.
12:48pm.
Clara set her cup down. Her thumb ran over the rim, slow.
“I was one of them,” she said. Quiet. No weight on it. Just fact. “Year two of uni. Mum got sick. Fees lapsed. I came in here to sell my phone.”
Josie looked up.
Clara gave a small shrug. “He bought the phone. Then gave it back. Paid my tuition through final year. Never asked for anything.” Her eyes stayed steady. “Anyone in his position would be rocky on the outside. You don’t survive that kind of weight by staying soft.”
Josie swallowed. “I know about his parents.”
Clara nodded. “He took over at eighteen. Covenant Pages and Étoile Atelier were his mum’s. His heart. The oil company was his dad’s. He doesn’t run that one. An uncle handles it. Orwell says he has no head for it. Or heart.”
_Oil company. Mum’s businesses. Eighteen._
Josie’s grip on the paper cup tightened. There were whole continents of him she’d never mapped.
Clara leaned forward then, elbows on her knees. Her voice dropped, but it wasn’t gossip. It was assessment.
“So what are you two?”
Josie froze.
Clara didn’t blink. “He hasn’t done outreach in months. Hasn’t set foot in this boutique since March. Now he walks in with you. With letters. With sneakers.” Her head tilted. “So I’m asking. What are you?”
Josie’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. Her face burned. _Flustered_ wasn’t big enough for what hit her.
The back office door clicked.
Orwell stepped out. Black tee. Watch glinting. Face unreadable as always. He scanned the reception. Orchids. Clara. Imaobong’s empty chair. Josie on the marble bench, paper cup in one hand, envelopes clutched in the other.
He seemed oblivious. Or chose to be.
Walked straight to her. Stopped two feet away. Gentleman. Always.
“Ready to leave?”
His voice was even. No command this time. Just a question.
Josie nodded. Couldn’t form words. Stood too fast.
He turned, expecting her to follow. Then paused.
His hand came up. Light. Barely there. Settled at the small of her back.
Josie’s breath caught.
He’d never touched her. Not once. Not a handshake. Not a brush of fingers. And now his palm was warm through the cotton of her tee, guiding her toward the glass doors.
Possessive. Brief. Gone by the time they hit sunlight.
But it stunned her.
12:55pm.
The door to Étoile Atelier shut behind them.
12:56pm.
The Lagos heat hit her face the second they stepped outside. The car was right there, sleek and waiting. But Josie couldn’t move past the doorway.
“Why did you buy me these?” The words slipped out before she could catch them.
Orwell stopped. Turned. His eyes dropped to her feet, then back up.
“Your shoes are worn through at the front.” Blunt. Factual. No cruelty in it, but it landed like a stone.
Josie’s cheeks went hot. _Stupid question. Of course he noticed._ She looked down at her old sneakers, now tucked in the Étoile bag. The scuffs she’d tried to ignore for months.
His jaw shifted. He read her flush instantly.
“Not to shame you,” he added, quieter. “Just stating it.” A beat. “Are you hungry? Do you want lunch?”
She nodded fast, grateful for the out. In her head she was already bracing for the drive back to his place. Him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled. Or her at the stove while he watched, critiquing her salt levels again.
She reached for the passenger door.
His fingers closed around hers.
Josie froze.
Warm. Firm. Deliberate. The second time he’d touched her today, and it sent a jolt straight up her arm. She looked at their hands like they belonged to strangers.
He didn’t let go. Just tilted his head, not toward the car, but to the left.
“Here.”
Beside Étoile Atelier was another glass-front building. *Le Rouge*. Gold script. No sign of prices. Just valet in black suits and the low hum of money.
_Does he own this too?_ The thought flashed before she could kill it. But his grip on her hand wasn’t proprietary. It was guiding.
He pushed the door open. A wall of cold AC and soft jazz hit them.
Inside was all dark wood and low lighting. Crystal chandeliers threw fractured light across linen tablecloths. The tables were spaced wide, like privacy was part of the menu. Men in tailored agbada. Women in silk wraps and diamonds that weren’t fake. The clink of cutlery was muffled. Conversations were murmured.
It smelled like truffle oil and expense.
Josie became hyper-aware of her new tee. The fresh sneakers. The stack of perfumed envelopes still in her hand. She felt like a smudge on a painting. Every woman who glanced up seemed to catalog her in half a second. Hair not done. No makeup. No clutch. Just Josie, holding Orwell’s hand.
A host in a slim suit materialized. “Mr. Ferguson. Your table.”
_Mr. Ferguson._ Not _Orwell_. Not _O_.
He led them through the room. Josie kept her eyes on Orwell’s back, trying not to trip on marble that probably cost more than her rent. His hand was still around hers. Anchoring. Or claiming. She couldn’t tell.
The host pulled out a chair for her. Orwell let go only to slide it in once she sat.
Josie set the envelopes on the empty seat beside her. Her palms were damp.
Around her, Lagos wealth breathed. And she was sitting in the middle of it, wondering how a pair of scuffed sneakers had led her here.
