Tapestry

T R E

DAYO'S POV

I cannot come and die, I murmured with a huff while hastily taking off the stilettos that Lorrie had given me to wear with the new dress I had purchased.

I hadn't even spent up to five minutes in them before they had begun to pinch my toes and my ankles. They were so uncomfortable even with her claims that she had broken them in. That's why I brought backup: A pair of wedge sandals, they meant more comfort and less possibilities of breaking an ankle in the case of missteps. With the nature of the event we were to attend, there was going to be a lot of standing and walking around. I was saying no to bruises and swollen feet, thank you very much.

I stood and walked to the mirror that took most of a wall in my hotel room, starting from the ceiling and stopping at the floor. Turning left and right, I admired first the decorative gilded hoops and bands in my braids pulled up in a fancy updo and how they caught in the light along with the jewelry at my earlobes and wrists. My attention lingered on the material of my dress, a smile pulling at my lips as I brushed my hands over the material blending from blush to maroon in layers of silk and tulle. I winked at my reflection before snatching up my purse and leaving to wait for my employer in front of his room.

I had not stayed up to two minutes before his door opened and revealed his person adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt. Fighting the urge to fan girl, I kept the compliment that was on the tip of my tongue swallowed down. Boy did the man have an impeccable dress sense. It was no surprise that magazines still wanted to have him feature in their promotional shoots even after he supposedly put an end to his modelling career with the baton of responsibility passed over to him.

In everything black, from his jacket to his shoes, with light grey-blue eyes and hair, slightly tousled on purpose, he was a daydream in Armani. His drip was off the charts.

Minutes later had us led to the red carpet that seemed to span on for hours, I stepped aside from the blinding lights of the cameras to join others at the waiting area while several journalists and media personalities turned their attention to Mr. Barclay.

Familiar faces met my gaze, several other personal assistants I had come in contact with more than once at these kind of events. Some names had skipped my recall, but I could never forget Aditi Kapoor with her heavy English accent, Eoin McCaughey was ever memorable because he happened to be the son of the hotelier, Arthur McCaughey. And Rachel Barnaby, everything about her was something to talk about, from her razor sharp asymmetric bob to the neon yellow earrings that curled around her ears. The black mascara she had worn emboldened the ethereality of her pink eyes, and sharp lines and with curves coloured her the curve of her eyelids and waterline. And then, the masterpiece swathing her petite frame, I could bet against anyone that within the next couple hours, the designer that had made the dress would have sold out.

Small talk was made within the time, more like they made small talk while I stood and listened, only chipping in when I was directly spoken to.

After the whole red carpet ceremony, we were led into a ballroom filled with wealth and class. I should be used to this already, but I wasn't, still couldn't. Following after Mr. Barclay as he was greeted left and right by celebs and other business moguls, I fought to keep my attention on the important and my jaw shut with the amount of jewelry on most of the women, and some of the men. The amount of stones that covered some dresses, that encircled some throats and adorned wrists, I had to look away to avoid being blinded.

We were at a gala hosted by Yana Petrovich, the billionaire heiress to the jewelry Titan, Vesper. Since announcing the news of her father's battle with Lupus, she and a few others, including the Barclays themselves had come together to create a foundation to raise awareness, and to aid those struggling with autoimmune diseases, as well as fund the research to create solutions as well.

My cheeks were already beginning to hurt from all the smiling I was doing and don't let me get started on how I almost choked trying to fake laughs at some of the cringeworthy and borderline racy jokes out of the mouth of some desperate to impress the others around them. When certain topics were being brought up amongst a group we had found ourselves in, Mr. Barclay tapped my arm twice and I broke out of the circle.

"About time." I murmured, hurrying away to the bar to get myself a drink. At my request for water and then a Sprite, I caught the stray of one woman's eyes go to my stomach. I stifled my laughter, putting the cup to my lips.

Vivid Imagination began to play in my mental space with me mouthing the lyrics to myself. It made me miss my brother and his antics, the man had the ability to suddenly break into song and dance at the most random moments, and the unfair thing was that his voice happened to quite clear, a rich baritone. Lara often commented that it made her heart skip whenever she heard him sing, like she could sink into it and be safe. Of course she would say that, she was in love with the man and happened to be his fiancé as well.

The pediatrician to his software engineer.

Their duo were currently in Nigeria to finally meet her parents officially. Mom had already begun her search for the perfect aso-oke to pepper people's eyes, her words not mine.

Draining my glass, I headed straight for the table that carried the hors d'oeuvres but also making sure to keep my eyes open for Mr. Barclay's person in case he needed me for anything. Quiet as he was, he also happened to be quite short-tempered, tending to snap at others in his impatience.

Pulling apart the skewered chicken and vegetables I had picked up, I let my eyes roam through the masses that were still networking as more and more arrived through those large ornate doors, searching for my employer, gagging mentally at the blatant flirting going on beside me. Several mini sausages after, I found him standing by the host of the event, her platinum blonde hair tumbling in waves down her bared shoulders and back. Catching the carefree smile that highlighted the beauty of his face, I relaxed and pushed another tartlet into my mouth.

The world knew them as childhood friends, but I could tell there was something else there. They weren't around each other all the time given the weight of responsibility upon their shoulders, but whenever they got the gist of each other being in the same room, they gravitated towards each other like moths to each other's flame.

Yana was the sun to Louis's moon. It was around her that he spoke the most, even returning her playful ribbing and laughing to her jokes. They both dated other people, but the relationships never seemed to hold to a year's mark. Due to this, Tabloids had tried pinning the title of playboy on Louis, but the minority around the man knew better.

The woman he wanted happened to be oblivious.

The night went on with a success. We had been led to the tables set towards the stage, ushers making sure there were no mixups. The plus ones that were not directly involved with their dates, as in those that weren't spouses, romantic partners or having familial relationships, they were assigned to separate tables with the actual invitees ahead.

It was then the actual event began, names were recognized and there was a short award ceremony. While this happened, dinner was served in four courses. The kitchen were considerate to those in corsets with the portions they had plated. There were musical performances and live comedy acts. So much was raised during the auction where bidders were going to leave with some life and abstract paintings created by Yana's late mother. There was a bit of drama but before the whole room had any idea what was going on, it had been forced to settle.

The power of bouncers,

Louis Barclay's path diverted from mine when he had me leave with our driver while he accompanied his favorite person, climbing into the passenger seat of her matte black Ferrari.

I found my head shaking as the vehicle drove away into the night, Louis Barclay was a finished man.