Chioma's POV
That night, sleep was a distant, stubborn stranger.
I laid out my best outfit twice, then three times, adjusting the collar, smoothing invisible wrinkles. I packed and unpacked my bag until my hands trembled. Between each anxious breath, I whispered little prayers — to God, to my late father, to whatever guardian angel had cracked open this impossible door for me.
DC Restaurant wasn't just a place. It was the place. The name that hung on my vision board for years, the one I'd spoken about to my mother in hushed, hopeful tones, the place I swore I'd work at one day no matter how long it took. And now, by some twist of fate I couldn't explain, I stood in its sleek, intimidating lobby. My palms were sweating through the handles of my cheap tote bag, my stomach churning with a cocktail of excitement and terror.
I caught my reflection in the glossy surface of a polished side table: bright, eager eyes, lips pressed together so tightly I thought they might leave a mark.
You belong here, I told myself. Even if nobody else thinks so.
I adjusted my blouse again and stepped up to the reception desk where a tall, lean woman with a sharp bob and sharper eyes looked up from her phone.
"Good morning," I said, doing my best to keep my voice from trembling.
The receptionist gave me a cursory once-over, her expression as warm as an unopened freezer. "You can go in. CEO's waiting."
I blinked. "I'm sorry… I thought the interview was with HR?"
She rolled her eyes like it physically pained her to explain. "You heard me. The office is right there."
I bit back the urge to ask more. What was her problem? Whatever. I wasn't about to let some stranger's attitude rattle me.
My feet carried me toward the large office door, its golden plaque gleaming: Kelvin D. Akachukwu — CEO. I swallowed the lump in my throat.
The room smelled of leather, aged wood, and something crisp and expensive I couldn't name. He sat with his back to me, his tall frame outlined by the sleek winged chair, shoulders broad and still, head tilted slightly as though deep in thought.
"Good morning, sir," I greeted softly, feeling my earlier confidence slip just a little.
"You can have a seat," he said, his voice low and steady, carrying an edge of authority — but beneath it, something gentler. An unexpected kindness.
I eased into the chair across from his desk, tucking my hands into my lap, willing them not to shake.
"Tell me about yourself."
So I did. About culinary school, the hours spent scrubbing kitchens no one wanted to work in, the late nights and long mornings. I spoke of my passion for flavors, my belief that food was more than sustenance — it was memory, love, nostalgia wrapped in spices and textures. I tried to sound confident, to let my words weave the story of a girl who refused to give up. But the longer he stayed silent, the heavier the room felt, like thick velvet drapes closing in around us.
"Why do you think you're fit for this position?" he asked next.
I launched into the pitch I'd rehearsed a hundred times in front of my mirror. How I was quick on my feet, how my hands were steady even when my heart wasn't, how I believed in the soul of food and how DC Restaurant could be the place where I finally left a mark.
When I paused, waiting for the usual nod or polite thank you, he asked something that made the world tilt.
"Are you single?"
I blinked, certain I hadn't heard right. "Sir?"
"You heard me",he said to assure me that I didn't hear wrong.
"Yes sir" I answered
"How long?" he repeated, this time more measured.
The question hung between us like a dangling thread. Against every instinct, I answered.
"Two years."
He let out a breath I could've sworn sounded like relief. "Okay."
And just like that, the conversation ended.
"You can start tomorrow. Ask Grace to show you around."
I stood, head spinning. "Thank you, sir. Thank you so much."
He didn't respond, only gave the faintest tilt of his head.
Outside, Grace the receptionist was suddenly less icy, eyes gleaming with barely concealed curiosity.
"Have you met him before?" she asked.
I frowned. "No… I don't think so."
"You sure?"
"Yes," I said, firmer now.
"Better," she muttered, turning away.
What was going on here?
I had no answer. But when I stepped into the kitchen, the real kitchen, every question vanished. The sharp scent of herbs, the gleam of steel countertops, the steady hum of ambition in the air — it felt like coming home. I ran my fingertips along the cool marble counter and smiled. I was here. I made it.
No one could take that away.
---
Kelvin's POV
I heard the click of her shoes before I saw her.
Even after all this time, that sound — light, uncertain, careful — made my pulse skip. I turned my chair deliberately, my gaze fixed on the city skyline beyond the glass. I didn't trust myself to face her right away.
The scent arrived next. A mix of fresh soap, warmth, and something subtly floral. I clenched my jaw. God, how could one person still affect me this much?
"Good morning, sir."
Her voice was softer than I remembered, but it still cut through every layer of control I had carefully built over the last year. I waved her toward the chair without looking.
When she began speaking, her words barely registered. I heard pieces — "culinary school," "late nights," "passion" — but all I could focus on was her. The way her voice lifted when she spoke about food, the quiet vulnerability she probably thought she was hiding.
And in my mind, it wasn't this office I saw — it was the night Justin had walked into my restaurant with her at his side.
My best friend.
Justin and I had known each other since university, years of brotherhood forged through chaos, heartbreak, and too many bad decisions. He was closer than family, the one person I trusted beyond reason.
And yet, when he brought Chioma into our world, everything shifted.
I remembered that night like it was yesterday — her laughter bubbling across the table, the way Justin leaned back, saying she was too young, not his type, "not for me." And God help me, I'd asked for her number. Straight-faced, heart pounding.
He'd smirked. "If she finds you, maybe it's meant to be."
I never saw her again.
Until now.
I asked the question before I could stop myself. Are you single?
"Yes sir ,she answered quite hesitantly
How long??I asked.
She hesitated. Then, "Two years."
The exact length since that night.
I let out a breath, equal parts relief and guilt.
"You start tomorrow," I told her.
As she left, I finally turned, unable to resist. She was even more beautiful than I remembered. Time had done nothing to dull the spark.
Maybe fate was finally cashing in on the promise it made that night.
And this time — I wasn't going to let her slip away, NEVER.