Bewitched

15

MUMTAZ

As I stepped out of the office, the late afternoon heat hit me like a brick wall, but I barely noticed. I was too wrapped up in my thoughts, absently rubbing my bare arms as I walked toward the restaurant. It was only a few minutes away, close enough to give me time to figure out exactly what I was going to say to Muntassir, but far enough for the nerves to settle deep in my stomach.

I still couldn't believe he hadn't just packed his bags and returned to Nigeria after what happened at my apartment on Saturday. I half expected him to, to be honest. If I were him, I probably would've left. But when I texted him earlier, asking to meet, I was relieved—if not a little surprised—when he agreed. I felt a twinge of guilt for the way I had asked him to leave so abruptly that night, my voice cold and detached. He didn't deserve that, even if his sudden appearance had ruined my evening.

Still, it wasn't like I had much of a choice. If I pushed him away too early, it could stir up trouble with my father, and that was a mess I wasn't ready to deal with. My father, as loving as he could be, had a way of turning things around on me. If he thought for even a second that I wasn't serious about this engagement, he'd call me back to Nigeria. And then there'd be the threat of cutting me off.

No. I couldn't let that happen. This job—this life—depended on me keeping up appearances. Working in fashion wasn't just about talent; it was about looking the part, blending in, making the right connections. And that required a new outfit, a new accessory, something fresh every day. I needed my father's credit card for that, and if that meant keeping Muntassir happy for a while longer, so be it.

I arrived at the restaurant and spotted him immediately. He was sitting at a table near the window, staring down at his phone. He looked... tense. His usual warm, easygoing expression had been replaced by something colder, more distant. I braced myself and approached the table, forcing a smile onto my face.

"Hey," I said as I slid into the seat across from him.

He looked up, his eyes lingering on me for a moment before offering a small, tight-lipped smile. "Hey."

I could feel the tension between us, thick and heavy. I tried to break the ice, flipping through the menu and making light conversation. "This place is great. Have you been here before?"

He shook his head, not really looking at me. "No, first time."

"Ah, I hear their pasta's amazing," I said, trying to keep my tone upbeat.

He responded with a vague hum, his attention half on the menu, half elsewhere. This wasn't like him. Usually, he'd be cracking jokes or asking me about my day, always smiling, always making me feel like I was the center of his world. But today? Today he felt far away.

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. I couldn't keep dancing around it. Finally, I sighed and placed the menu down, leaning forward. "Listen, about Saturday... I'm really sorry for how I acted. I shouldn't have been so cold."

He glanced at me, his face softening slightly. "It's okay," he said after a pause. "I shouldn't have shown up unannounced."

We lapsed into silence again, but it wasn't the comfortable kind. It was awkward, strained. I could feel him watching me, and I knew there was more on his mind.

After a few beats, he cleared his throat and finally spoke up. "Mumtaz, what's wrong with us?"

My heart skipped a beat, and I quickly looked down at the table, fiddling with the edge of my napkin. "What do you mean?"