MY EX HAS BECAME MY BOSS, I'M DOOMED [Episode 4 - 6]

 MY EX HAS BECAME MY BOSS, I'M DOOMED

MY EX HAS BECAME MY BOSS, I'M DOOMED

                                                              Episode 4

I stood there, in the center of the dance floor, surrounded by laughter and champagne flutes and people who had no idea my entire past had just brushed its lips against my cheek and then walked away. I should’ve followed him. I should’ve let him go. I did neither. I stood still, watching him disappear into the crowd with that same steady walk that used to make me feel safe. I left the gala early. Told his assistant I had a headache. Lied. It wasn’t my head. It was my chest. It was everything I had been trying not to feel for five years, clawing its way back like it had never left. Back in my hotel room, I sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing the black velvet dress, heels kicked off, makeup smudged with saltwater. I replayed the dance. The conversation. His voice in my ear. “You hurt me.” And he was right. I did. Not just with silence, but with my cowardice. I couldn’t stop thinking about the look on his face when I told him I never stopped missing him. Not shocked. Not cold. Just… haunted. At 1:06 AM, my phone buzzed. A message. Lanre: “Are you still awake?” I stared at it. Typed. Deleted. Typed again. Me: “Yes.” A few seconds passed. Lanre: “Come to the rooftop. I want to show you something.” My heart raced. I didn’t ask questions. I just went. The rooftop was quiet. A soft wind blew. He stood near the edge, looking out at the city lights. I walked toward him slowly, unsure of what to say. He didn’t turn. Just spoke. “I used to imagine what I’d say if I saw you again.” I swallowed. “What did you imagine?” “Anger,” he said. “Accusations. Maybe a cruel smile. Maybe nothing at all.” He turned to me then. “I never imagined this.” I stepped closer. “I didn’t either.” “Why did you really run, Adesewa?” My full name on his lips made something inside me ache. “I was scared of becoming someone else. Of losing myself in you. You loved me so fiercely it made me feel small.” “Small?” he asked, hurt flickering in his voice. “I didn’t mean you made me small,” I said quickly. “I mean… I wasn’t ready to be seen the way you saw me. You believed in me more than I believed in myself.” Silence. “You made me feel like I could be everything. And I couldn’t live up to it.” He walked closer. “So instead of growing into it, you disappeared?” I nodded, eyes filling again. “I thought it was mercy.” “It was abandonment.” His words sliced, but I didn’t argue. Because they were true. Then he sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “You want to know the worst part?” I waited. “Even now,” he said, stepping closer, “I still want to protect you.” He was in front of me now. Inches away. “Even now, I want to reach out and…” His hand hovered. “But I don’t trust you.” “You don’t have to,” I whispered. “Just don’t push me away before I show you I’m not who I was.” He searched my face. My mouth. My eyes. Then finally, he reached for my hand. Slowly. Like if he moved too fast, I’d vanish again. “One step at a time,” he said. I nodded, heart pounding. “One step.” His fingers closed around mine, warm and strong. And for the first time in five years, I didn’t feel like running. I felt like staying. The next morning, the flight back was different. He offered me coffee. Made a joke about my sleep hair. Sat next to me, not across. The office greeted us with Monday morning chaos. But I felt lighter. Until I got to my desk. A thick envelope sat on top of my keyboard. Not handwritten this time. Official. From HR. My name typed neatly on the label. I opened it with shaking hands. It was a transfer notice. Effective immediately. I was being reassigned. To the Lagos branch. A different building. A different division. A different boss. At the bottom, in clean, emotionless ink: Approved by: Olalekan Lanre Ajayi. My hands trembled. My eyes burned. I looked up. Through the glass. Into his office. He was watching me. Expression blank. Like nothing had ever passed between us. Like that rooftop never happened. Like I was just another employee.

Episode 5

I stared at the letter like it had slapped me. My vision blurred. The air turned thick. No explanation. No warning. Just reassigned. Just approved by Lanre. My chest tightened as my eyes rose to his glass office, where he sat—calm, unmoved, ruthless. Our fingers had been entwined less than twelve hours ago. He’d held my hand, looked into my eyes, whispered, “One step at a time.” Was this the first step? Pushing me away? My legs moved on their own. I walked straight into his office without knocking. He looked up slowly. “Miss Ade,” he said flatly. “I hope this is urgent.” “You reassigned me?” My voice cracked despite my effort to stay calm. “Yes.” Just like that. “To Lagos?” “That’s what the document says.” “Why?” “You’ve proven yourself,” he said coolly. “The Lagos branch needs stronger leadership. It’s a strategic decision.” “Don’t lie to me, Lanre.” Silence. His jaw tensed. He stood. “This is not a personal matter.” “Everything between us is personal and you know it!” My voice broke. “You asked for closure, and I gave it to you. You asked me to stay, and I stayed. I came back—I gave you the truth I should’ve given you years ago!” He walked around the desk slowly, expression unreadable. “You think a rooftop conversation undoes five years of silence?” “No,” I whispered, “but it meant something.” “To you, maybe,” he said coldly. “To me, it was a reminder of how easily you leave.” My knees weakened. “So you’re punishing me?” “I’m removing temptation,” he snapped. “Before we destroy what’s left of our professionalism.” My heart split. “What happened to one step at a time?” He took another step closer, voice low, eyes locked on mine. “I took a step, and realized I was falling again. And I can’t afford to fall, Adesewa. Not for someone who’s proven she can disappear when it gets hard.” I couldn’t breathe. “So that’s it? You’re throwing me away?” “I’m giving you space to grow. Isn’t that what you said you needed?” His words were like ice. “Maybe I don’t need space anymore,” I whispered. “Maybe I need you.” His expression cracked—for a split second, I saw the pain flash behind his eyes—but then the mask returned. “Well, I don’t need you.” I flinched. He looked away. “The decision is final. Your flight to Lagos is booked. Wednesday morning. Report to the regional director by 9 AM.” My voice trembled. “I thought we were healing.” “So did I,” he said softly, almost too soft to hear. “Until I remembered you only come back when it’s convenient for you.” That one hurt. I turned without another word and left his office. My desk felt colder now. Smaller. Sandra walked past and raised an eyebrow at me. “You okay?” she asked. I smiled tightly. “Peachy.” She rolled her eyes and kept walking. I packed slowly. A pair of earrings in the drawer. My framed photo from my NYSC days. A pen he gave me two weeks ago, engraved with my initials. I almost left it behind. Almost. But something made me take it. That night, I sat in my apartment staring at my packed suitcase. I replayed the rooftop. The dance. Abuja. Port Harcourt. That whisper in the dark: “You hurt me.” I wanted to scream. To cry. But instead, I opened my laptop and wrote a letter. Not an email. A real letter. Lanre,

You say I only come back when it’s convenient. That’s not true. Coming back to you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Staying? Even harder. But I stayed. Not for the job. Not for the comfort. I stayed because I believed we could fix what I broke. I stayed because I still love you. Not in the naive, desperate way I did at twenty-four. But in the quiet, steady way that comes from regret and learning and change. You said you don’t need me. Maybe that’s true. But I need you. And not because I’m weak. Because I’m finally strong enough to choose you and stay. If I board that flight to Lagos, I’m not coming back again. Not because I’m running. But because I’ll know you’ve already let me go. I hope that’s not what you want. But if it is… goodbye.

– Adesewa.

I printed it, sealed it, and left it with the front desk security guard the next morning—marked “Personal. Urgent. For Mr. Lanre Ajayi.” Then I went home, changed into something simple, and waited. For a call. For a message. For anything. Nothing came. Wednesday arrived. I carried my suitcase to the airport, checked in, found my seat. The plane began to taxi. My heart pounded with every second that passed. No call. No message. Just the roar of the engine preparing for takeoff. I closed my eyes, willing myself not to cry. Then… a voice. “Adesewa Ade?” I opened my eyes. A flight attendant stood beside me, holding a phone. “This just came in for you. The gate staff said it was urgent.” I took it with shaking hands. One message on screen. From Lanre.

“Come back. I’m not done needing you.”

Episode 6

The plane was already rolling, the engine humming louder, the runway racing past the windows—but my hands were frozen around Lanre’s message. “Come back. I’m not done needing you.” My pulse thundered in my ears. I stood up. “I need to get off this flight,” I told the flight attendant. “Ma’am, we’re already—” “Please,” I begged, eyes wide. “You don’t understand. I can’t leave. Not yet.” Maybe it was something in my voice, or maybe fate was just tired of playing games. Either way, the pilot stopped. The cabin lights flickered. The plane rolled to a slow, confused halt. I was escorted off. Apologies, questions, curious stares followed me as I left the terminal and stepped into the humid Lagos air again. I called a cab. Not to my apartment. To the office. To Lanre. When I got there, Crest Capital’s lobby buzzed with usual morning chaos, but something felt off. People stared. Whispers rippled. As I stepped into the elevator, I caught snippets—“Did you hear?” “Scandal… confidential files…” “Lanre might be—” The doors closed. My stomach twisted. I stepped into the executive floor. His office door was open. Empty. I turned to his assistant, Nkechi, who looked like she hadn’t blinked in an hour. “Where’s Mr. Ajayi?” “He’s gone,” she said. “Gone?” “They escorted him out this morning.” “Why?” “He’s being investigated for corporate sabotage. Someone leaked internal documents to a rival firm in Dubai. Confidential acquisition plans. It was traced to his terminal.” My mouth went dry. “That’s impossible.” “They said he emailed the files last night at 2:14 a.m.” I froze. 2:14 a.m. That was the exact time he was on the rooftop with me. “It wasn’t him,” I whispered. “It couldn’t have been.” She nodded nervously. “Well, HR doesn’t believe it either, but the board suspended him pending full investigation. He’s unreachable. Phone off. Disappeared.” My heart dropped. Disappeared? Not Lanre. Not the man who lived for structure and control. I ran to my desk. Checked my email. Nothing. No clues. Except… one strange message from an unrecognizable account. No subject. One sentence.

“Tell me, Adesewa… how much do you really know about the man you love?”

Attached: A video. I clicked it. It opened to a grainy security cam view. Lanre’s office. The timestamp: 2:14 a.m. It showed his terminal lighting up. A file auto-sent. And someone’s silhouette—tall, slim, male—moving just outside the glass. Not Lanre. He was on the rooftop with me. Someone was framing him. I ran to IT. Demanded a trace. I didn’t care about protocol. Ten minutes later, we had a partial match. The silhouette’s build, walk, and ID swipe? It matched Dare—Lanre’s childhood friend and business partner. The same man who recruited me. The same man who toasted with us at the gala. The same man who smiled too widely at our Port Harcourt win. Dare. I grabbed my phone. Called Lanre. Still off. I texted:

“You’re being framed. It’s Dare. Please, wherever you are, let me help you.”

No reply. Hours passed. Then a message came. Unknown number.

“If you want to know the truth, come to Room 1207. Grand Pearl Hotel. Alone.”

No name. No sender. Just tension, thick and sharp. I almost ignored it. Almost went home. But I went. Grand Pearl Hotel. Elevator to the twelfth floor. I knocked. The door opened. And there he was. Lanre. Shirt wrinkled. Beard rough. Eyes tired. “You came,” he said, like he wasn’t sure he deserved it. “Of course I did,” I whispered. “Why didn’t you call me?” “I couldn’t risk it. They’re tracking me. I don’t even know who’s on my side.” “I am.” I stepped in, closed the door. “I saw the footage. Dare framed you.” “I know,” he said. “And I let him.” “What?” He looked at me. Darkness in his expression. “This isn’t just about business, Adesewa. It’s deeper. They’re not just trying to ruin me. They’re trying to bury me. Because I uncovered something I wasn’t supposed to find.” I swallowed. “What did you find?” He handed me a flash drive. “Proof. That Dare’s been laundering money through fake investments and ghost companies. For years. Using Crest’s resources. Using my name.” My mouth parted in shock. “He was waiting for a reason to eliminate me. And then you came back.” “Me?” “He saw the weakness. You. Us. He knew I’d be distracted.” “So what now?” I asked. “We expose him.” He paused. “But it’s dangerous.” “I don’t care.” “You might lose your job.” “I already walked off a plane for you. What’s one more risk?” He smiled then, weary and soft. “I missed you.” “I’m here now.” Then his face hardened again. “If we do this… there’s no turning back.” “Then we don’t turn back.”

And just like that, I became more than just his ex. I became his accomplice.

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