{ Be soft as petals, strong as roots,
A partner in every truth...
But when they don't meet expectations đź’”,
The petals wilt, the roots lose grip.}đź’š
Sophia's POV
Silence reigns, thick, suffocating, soaked by our presence. But really, it is not our presence. It is his. Khalid's. His eyes are fixed on mine with a sharpness that could slice glass. It feels like we are engaged in some silent contest, a standoff of wills. And me? I refuse to blink first. If he wants to measure my strength by eye contact, then let him drown in it.'
He finally breaks the silence. "What do you think of the artworks?"
Expected. I already saw this question walking towards me. It seems casual, but I know better. Questions like this are never casual when men like Khalid ask them. It is a test, a subtle probe into the mind. And, maybe, into the soul.
"Exquisite," I reply, my voice calm. Short. Not wordy. I am not about to perform unnecessary gymnastics in praise. Lagos elites love theatrics, yes, but sometimes brevity carries more weight than a sermon.
He tilts his head slightly, thumb grazing under his chin. "I see you talk. I almost thought you were mute. You don't say much." His tone is stiff, unreadable.
I say nothing. Because what do you want me to say to that? That my silence is deliberate? That sometimes words are nothing but weakness wrapped in sound? My mother once told me silence is a woman's armor, and I've learnt to wield it well. Sometimes.
Two maids glide into the room like shadows, carrying trays. They set down steaming cups of tea, one before me, one before him, and they leave swiftly.
Tea. Of all things, tea. Right now, I think I've never loved tea this much in my life. The warmth spreads through me, pulling me back to earth. It is also the first thing I am taking today aside from the pineapple juice Adenike forced down my throat earlier. She had rattled on about digestion, bloating, side effects. Adenike always has a point, and she can be so persuasive. Honestly, that girl missed her calling, she should have been a lawyer.
Khalid sets his cup down noiselessly. His fingers interlace over his knees, body sinking deeper into the chair. I, on the other hand, maintain my posture. Back straight, shoulders squared, head lifted. Just like Ishola had instructed.
"Don't hang your head, Sophia. Raise it. Let the light see your face." He had smiled, lifting my chin. "Like this."
And how much I miss the voice of that man.
So I raise it, not for Ishola, but for myself. And for the man across from me.
I lock my gaze on Khalid's again. If eyes reveal character, then this man is a vault. And whether I like it or not, I will have to put up with his unfaltering gaze. His aura is cold, deliberate, even alluring in its detachment. Coldness is not a stranger to me, I've always admired it.
'Hot water burns the mouth, but cold water shocks the teeth.' Which is worse? I'm not sure, but Khalid seems to have mastered being both.
He studies me with the kind of stillness that makes my skin prickle. His lips twitch, as if words hover but remain unsaid. Then he finally speaks:
"I'm sure you know the circumstance and the motive behind what we pulled off today. Do you?"
My finger circles the rim of my teacup. "I do." My voice is firm. "I know this is a theatre Khalid, an elaborate stage play. Or is there more to it? Any reason you felt out of every woman in Lagos, you need to acquire me- this wife?"
The word "acquire" slips out sharper than I intend, but I don't regret it. Let him chew on that.
But the question somehow doesn't sound right.
A flicker, small but noticeable passes in his eyes. Interest. Amusement, maybe. His voice drops low. "Go on."
"You sent a text. I need a wife. Those exact words. I know I'm crazy for agreeing. I have my own mess to handle. But I'm curious, what lies beneath this arrangement? Is it merely transactional, or is there something more... personal at play?" My sarcasm is sugar coated on bitter kola. Sweet on the surface, biting underneath.
His eyes narrow under the dining room's dim lights. "Personal?" he repeats, skepticism threading his tone. "What makes you think there can be anything personal about this, Sophia?"
My name on his tongue makes me flinch inwardly. It feels like a hand brushing too close to a wound. I force myself still. "Call it intuition. Or maybe it's the way you look at me. As if I'm a puzzle you're trying to solve."
Khalid expression is impassive, though his jaw twitches. Barely noticeable, but it's there. " Puzzle." He pauses, as if thinking, he's facials neutral. "And if I am?" His voice drop even more, and it's not the kind that makes you melt, maybe more the kind that makes you want to run.
'And if you are, Khalid, then what? Do you think I am a crossword you can fill in with guesses? Or a Rubik's cube you can twist until the colors align?'
But I don't say that. Instead, I lean forward, my voice steady. "Then I suppose we're both solving the same puzzle."
He pauses. His stare is unblinking. "Are we?" He breathes out, sounding bored.
I nod.
Moments stretch before he shifts. "We should draw an agreement reference." His words are crisp, calculated. "This is a marriage show, Sophia. You and I must play our parts to perfection. The audience from my side are observant. They will search for flaws."
Perfection. The word rings sharp in my ears. Lagos people love perfection when it's convenient, but never when it requires sacrifice. 'A goat cannot be cleaner than the house it lives in.'
I raise my hands to the table, fingers interlaced. "Then I should say this. Mr. Komolafe, if a wife material is what you're searching for, then let me save you the stress. I am not measured from that fabric. Not even a quarter yard.Tailors never measured me for domesticity."
The silence after is heavy, almost comical.
His eyes betray surprise, though his face stays composed. "Not a wife material, not even a half yard?" He repeats it neutrally, as if testing the taste of the words. "That's bold, Sophia. Why not?"
"Because no one taught me how to be." The bluntness rolls off my tongue before I can catch it.
He exhales, his gaze steady. "Really." There's something different in his tone now, a hint of disappointment?. His head dips slightly, fingers tapping an invisible rhythm under the table. Then he says, "I'll find you a marriage expert."
I almost laugh. "I won't object." Because honestly, he's not wrong. If this whole drama must work, someone has to coach me, or else it may crash before it even begins.