When History Repeats Itself

Not Yet, Not Now

** Chris - Jerome Boateng **

I grabbed my car keys and slung my purse over my shoulder, stealing one last glance at myself in the mirror. Aqua green shorts and a white chiffon blouse—casual but flirty. Perfect for whatever Dom had planned. I admired the soft curve of my hips, and whispered to myself, "I got it from my mama."

The mess on my bed—outfits discarded in a storm of indecision—would have to wait. I shut the door and texted Dom. Leaving now.

I knew exactly where my dad would be: at the kitchen table with his nose buried in a stack of business magazines, while Aunt Jamila stirred magic into whatever she was cooking for lunch.

I wasn't about to walk in and announce that I was off to see my boss.. The one I'd started secretly seeing. Especially not after everything that had gone down the night before—Damien's outburst, my confession, the slap, the punch. My father didn't need another reason to be protective.

So I had to play it cool. Just enough noise to invite a question, not a confession.

I walked into the kitchen, casually dropped my purse on the table with just the right amount of volume.

"Where are you going on a Sunday afternoon in those shorts?" Dad's voice cut through the rustle of glossy pages as he set the magazine down and eyed me.

Didn't flinch. Didn't blink. I met his gaze with the calm of a woman who'd rehearsed this.

"My fellow executive assistant invited me to lunch. You know she's the first friend I've made at work."

"You see her Monday to Friday. You even spent the weekend with her at your retreat."

Of course he'd say that.

"Okay, fine. You caught me," I said, straightening my blouse. "I'm going to see Alexa. Our friendship doesn't need to suffer just because of her brother. She took my side, you know."

He didn't press, didn't even look too closely. The mention of Damien was a convenient red herring. He was too busy bristling at the name to notice the lie underneath.

"She's waiting for me," I added, reaching for a cold bottle of water from the fridge. "Are you done with the interrogation?"

"That still doesn't explain the shorts," he muttered, eyes narrowing.

Ugh. He left me no choice.

"I've got my mother's legs. If she gets to flaunt, why shouldn't I?"

That earned me a quick side-eye to Aunt Jamila, who was busy chopping onions and trying to stifle a laugh.

"Sumaya got her mother's legs too," he shot back. "You don't see her showing them off."

Nice one, Dad.

"My grandmother never gave me this much grief," I said, grabbing my purse with flair. "Can I go now, old man?"

He waved me off. "Go. Just... be careful."

"Bye, Dad," I called as I slipped out the door, heart pounding just a little. From behind me, I heard Aunt Jamila chuckling and my dad muttering, "What?" Completely clueless about what just happened.

I had officially pulled it off.

I was somewhere in Blue Cedar Residences, one of the upscale gated estates tucked into the heart of affluent Cantonments. The streets curled past near-identical homes—brick red, chocolate brown, mustard yellow, dusty orange—all so uniformly tasteful they looked like pages from a luxury architecture catalogue. Still, I couldn't tell which one I'd slept in, let alone where Dom actually lived.