It had been two weeks since Japheth resumed officially in the CEO’s office.

Four days since he started seeing the cracks no one else seemed to care about.

Discrepancies in approvals. Contracts that didn’t add up. Signatures on things that should never have left the boardroom.

He wasn’t even sure what his new title meant anymore, “Special Duties” sounded like a favour. A badge of trust, but what it looked like now… was firefighting.

He was still an engineer at heart. He liked problems he could fix with logic and code, not human laziness or corporate sloppiness.

The documents on his desk were appalling. It felt like someone had pulled the brakes off the train and then handed him the wheel.

And Kaweme… she hadn’t been around to even know there was a train to drive.

He checked his watch again. It was 11:02 a.m. She’d given him a meeting slot for 11.

He walked out and approached the secretary’s desk. The woman was tapping away at her keyboard, chewing gum like she had all the time in the world.

“Good morning,” Japheth said politely. “I was supposed to have a meeting with the CEO at 11. Has she come in?”

The secretary looked up with a slight frown. “She’s not in yet. But I’m surprised she gave you 11 o’clock. She’s… usually not in before 12.”

Japheth blinked. “Oh. Alright, thank you. Please let me know when she arrives.”

He returned to his office, more frustrated than surprised. He’d been trying to give her space, especially after Luyando’s reminder about not giving mixed signals. And it was true: he’d seen the way she looked at him sometimes. Like she didn’t quite know whether to cry or lean in.

But whatever she felt, he couldn’t encourage, knowing that he was never going to be able to offer a woman more than friendship. However, staying away wasn’t helping, especially with the fact that the company was at risk, and so he had called for this meeting, which she had clearly forgotten.

When noon rolled into 2 p.m. with still no sign of her, he stopped checking the time.

He sat through a department meeting at 2:30 p.m, representing the CEO’s office. It was mostly complaints disguised as polite concern.

Everyone was too careful to blame her outright, but the tension in the room was sharp.

“Our vendors haven’t received approvals for two weeks.”

“There’s confusion around the licensing renewal.”

“The legal department says they’re getting mixed signals from the top.”

And through it all, Japheth kept quiet. He took notes. Observed. Absorbed. He wasn’t going to defend what was clearly indefensible. But he wasn’t going to throw her under the bus either.

By the time he returned to the CEO’s floor, it was almost 3:30 p.m.

He asked the secretary again. This time, the woman looked up in mild surprise. “She just walked in.”

Then, after a pause, “I’m not sure if she’ll want to see you.”

“I’ll check,” Japheth said.

“No, it’s fine,” the secretary added. “Let me call her.”

A moment later, she nodded toward him. “You can go in.”

He entered the office quietly.

She was seated on the couch, scrolling through her phone. Her outfit was startling: jeans, a loose graphic tee, and a glossy lip. She looked more like a lifestyle influencer than the CEO of a multinational telecom company.

“Good afternoon,” Japheth said, trying to keep his tone neutral.

She looked up and gave a bright smile. “Oh, hey. Thanks for coming.”

He nodded, then gestured slightly toward her clothes. “Are you… headed somewhere?”

She shrugged. “Dinner later with some friends. I figured I’d dress down and go straight from here.”

Japheth hesitated, then said, “You probably shouldn’t dress like this to the office. You’re the CEO. People watch.”

She sighed and leaned back. “Japheth, I’m trying, okay?”

“You came in at 2:45,” he said quietly. “There’s literal fire on the mountain.”

She straightened. “Are you here to school me or to have a meeting?”

“We have a meeting,” Japheth said. “But you asked me to help, and I can’t help if I don’t tell you the truth. There are serious gaps in how things are running. Some of the approvals you’ve signed off on—”

“Fix it,” she said flatly.

He paused.

“What?”

“You’re on special duties, right?” she said. “That’s your special duty. Fix it.”

“No,” Japheth replied, calm but firm. “You’re the CEO. They don’t expect you to know everything, but they need to see leadership, and I cannot lead for you. You need to show effort, even if it’s just you showing up on time, and asking the right questions.”

She stood up now, her voice rising. “And what if I’m grieving? What if I’m confused? What if I don’t even want this job?”

There it was.

The truth beneath the gloss. The ache beneath the arrogance.

“I know,” Japheth said gently. “But if you stay in this seat, you have to carry it. Or hand it over. You can’t have both.”

She folded her arms. “Are you finished?”

He nodded once. “For now.”

He turned and walked out of the office, his heart heavy with frustration, and something else he couldn’t quite name.

Maybe sadness.

Maybe guilt.

Maybe just the slow crumbling sound of respect being eaten away by disappointment.

Yet he wanted to help her. He had to, he just didn’t know how.

Lord help me

—————————————————————————————————————————-

The moment Japheth walked out of her office, Kaweme felt stupid.

Not just mildly embarrassed, truly, completely stupid.

She hadn’t stayed away from the office all morning because she was lazy. She’d been working, just not on spreadsheets or policies or budget reviews. She’d spent the whole morning designing a new palette for her makeup brand. Sketching shapes, debating mirror size, reviewing case samples. The entire vision had come alive in her mind, sleek, soft-edged packaging with gold foil embossing. A tribute to her mother.

But when she glanced at the clock, it was past 1 pm.

In a panic, she threw on the first thing she could find. Something casual, because, well, she hadn’t had any formal meetings scheduled.

Except she had. With Japheth.

And she hadn’t just worn the wrong clothes, she’d worn the wrong attitude. She cringed remembering her own words: “Fix it. That’s your special duty.” Ugh.

Of all the people in her life, Japheth was the one who told her the truth. Everyone else tiptoed around her like she might break. Like a fragile heiress to be indulged. But he… he treated her like she could be better.

So she stood up, wiped her lipstick off with a tissue, and walked out of her office.

His door was ajar.

Japheth was seated behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, leaning into his monitor like someone still used to solving real problems. Not playing political games.

She knocked lightly.

He looked up. His face was neutral.

“You have such a beautiful view,” she said.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “One of the perks of the promotion. I wish I was doing more coding than admin, though.”

She walked in and stood by the window.

“I came to apologize,” she said.

He leaned back slightly, surprised. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You made your point clear.”

“I’m not thinking straight, Japheth,” she murmured. “I’m just… doing nonsense. I don’t want to ruin my father’s legacy.”

“If you’re willing to learn,” he said gently, “you’ll be okay.”

She nodded, slowly. “Then show me. What did I mess up?”

He motioned to a chair. “Come.”

She sat, pulling out her phone, already switching to Notes.

For the next three hours, Japheth turned his office into a classroom. A quiet, strategic masterclass.

He opened files, explained patterns, broke down how contracts moved between departments and how delays built up over time. He showed her how decisions she’d made, often in isolation, had created bottlenecks. Where executives were bypassing her. Where people were sliding documents past her with polite smiles and quiet sabotage.

“You see this?” he said, tapping a tab on a document. “That’s the trick. He’s calling it ‘vendor renewal adjustment,’ but what it really is, is shifting a liability into your quarter.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because you’re new, and they assume you won’t notice, and because it’ll boost his own department’s margins, but you can’t allow it.”

She stared, then reached for her phone again. “Wait, say that again, I want to record it.”

He chuckled, just slightly. “Alright.”

She hit record, and he repeated the explanation with a little more structure, like he was teaching an MBA class.

And then came the part she would remember forever.

“Always ask: Who benefits if I say yes?” he said.

She looked up.

“Every deal, every contract, every smiling director who brings something urgent for your signature, ask that question first. Because if the answer is not the company, then you pause, even if they make it look good, especially when they make it look too good.”

She nodded slowly, the words burning into her.

“And in telecoms,” he added, “watch for long-term vendor contracts disguised as routine renewals. If they ask you to commit for more than twelve months, especially if it includes infrastructure or international partners, check with legal first, and check with me.”

“You make it sound like war.”

“It is war. The quiet kind. The kind that sinks companies before anyone hears the explosion.”

They kept working, long after most of the floor had emptied out.

Her notes were full. Her phone had at least six recordings. But it wasn’t the information that moved her.

It was him.

The way he explained things without ego. The calm in his voice. The safety in his presence.

She found herself staring at his lips as he closed one tab and opened another.

“Thank you, Japheth,” she said softly.

He looked up. Their eyes met. Something hung between them, unspoken but electric.

And in that moment, she knew: she’d fallen hard for him.

Grief hadn’t dulled it. Power hadn’t shielded it. He made her feel safe.

She almost asked if he wanted to join her and Malaika for drinks tonight.

But she didn’t.

Because he’d say no.

So she stood, slid her phone into her bag, and gave him a grateful nod.

“Thank you. Really.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Just keep showing up.”

And she walked out, her heart echoing his words.

Kaweme knew the moment she reached the spot where she and Malaika were supposed to meet that it had been a bad idea to agree to come.

Malaika hadn’t told her she had invited other friends too, and now the place was turning into a mini party. Laughter, chatter, clinking glasses. Bright faces flashing pity-eyes at her, whispering when they thought she wasn’t looking.

Everyone meant well. They always did.

But she didn’t want ‘well-meaning’ tonight.

She wanted quiet. She wanted real.

There was nice music though, someone playing a guitar in the background, a soft, mellow melody that floated over the night like a prayer. It tugged memories out of her. The first time she’d ever been here was with Luyando, for her birthday. That had been four years ago. It had been simpler then. No death. No legacy. No suffocating expectations.

Now, everything was heavy.

The live music shifted to karaoke, and people started to laugh and sing off-key. Someone pulled Malaika away for a group picture, and Kaweme slipped into a corner, hugging herself tightly.

A few minutes later, Malaika came back and spotted her instantly. She pulled her aside.

“I don’t think you’re fine,” Malaika said gently. “What’s going on? I know grief doesn’t have an expiration date and these are still early days, but… I’m worried about you, Kaweme. The pressure of work, the family drama, everything.”

Kaweme’s throat tightened. She stared at the crowd, at the flickering lights, at the illusion of happiness around her.

“It’s more than just that, Malaika,” she whispered. “I’ve fallen in love with a guy… and I don’t think he can love me back.”

Malaika’s eyes widened. “What? Who is this guy, Kaweme? You’re the heir apparent now. If anything, everyone wants you even more.”

Kaweme gave a broken little laugh. “Not this guy.”

Malaika raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Japheth.”

Kaweme said nothing. She didn’t need to.

Malaika sighed, linking their arms. “Are you sure it’s not just gratitude? Maybe you’re mistaking it. The guy has a hero complex, after all, saving people is his thing.”

“It’s not just that,” Kaweme said, voice low and urgent. “It’s… deeper. I’ve prayed to God for a man like him for years. A man of principle. A man of strength. A man who doesn’t just see the world, but tries to fix it. Japheth fits it so perfectly it scares me.”

Malaika studied her carefully. “Then tell him, Kaweme. Don’t hurt yourself by hiding it.”

Kaweme’s heart slammed painfully against her ribs. “Malaika, are you telling me to ask him out? Do you know how pathetic that sounds?”

Malaika smiled patiently. “This is the 21st century, babe. Initiate it. Know where you stand before you bury yourself deeper. Because from where I’m standing, that guy has sister-zoned you so bad… and if you’re not careful, it’ll be impossible to climb out.”

Kaweme pressed her palms into the table again, her breath shaking.

“Malaika, do you know how ridiculous that sounds?” she said, lowering her voice, even though no one was really paying them attention. “Tell him I like him? Ask him out? What if he says no? What if he looks at me with that polite, pitying smile and says he’s flattered but… not interested?”

Malaika tilted her head, resting her cheek against her palm, her big hoop earrings swinging gently.

“And what if he says yes?” Malaika countered. “What if you’re wasting months, maybe years, standing in a corner of your own life, waiting for a man who’s already halfway in, but too scared to make the move?”

Kaweme’s eyes filled with sudden tears. She blinked them back furiously.

“He’s… he’s not halfway in,” she whispered. “He’s polite. Kind. But he’s not looking at me like that.”

“Maybe he’s not looking at you because you’re not giving him permission to look.”

Kaweme stared at her.

Malaika squeezed her hand. “Listen to me. I know you. You’re strong. You’re brilliant. You’re… you’re Kaweme Obadiah Munsonda, daughter of the lion himself. If you want something, go after it, even if it’s terrifying.”

Kaweme swallowed. “It’s just… Malaika, it’s Japheth.”

“So?”

“So he’s… different. He’s not like the boys we went to university with. He’s not playing games. He’s not trying to impress me. He actually cares about things that matter. Integrity, faith, work. He’s… good.”

“And you think you’re not good enough for him?” Malaika’s voice was soft, but firm.

“No.” Kaweme’s voice cracked. “I think he’s already decided what box to put me in. And it’s not that box.”

Malaika smiled softly. “Then shake the box.”

Kaweme laughed through the tears brimming in her eyes. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not easy. It’s terrifying,” Malaika admitted. “But it’s better than living in the ‘what if’ for the rest of your life.”

The karaoke music shifted again, another cheesy love song filling the air. Someone’s off-key voice floated across the rooftop, and for a moment Kaweme let herself imagine it, walking up to Japheth, telling him the truth, seeing his eyes widen, seeing them soften.

Maybe he would smile. Maybe he would say he’d been waiting all along. Or maybe he wouldn’t, but at least she would know.

Kaweme wiped her hands against her jeans.

Malaika leaned closer. “What are you thinking?”

Kaweme smiled tightly. “I’m thinking that if I don’t at least try… I’ll regret it.”

Malaika grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Kaweme stared out into the twinkling lights of the open-air café, her heart pounding.

She was going to do it.

She was going to tell Japheth how she felt.

Even if it scared her.

Even if it broke her.

She would step into the storm, because maybe, just maybe, he would catch her.