Beyond Desire

16-I really shouldn't have agreed to this.

When we arrived, it was just a few minutes past 8 a.m. I finally understood why "Lord Grumpy" insisted we leave so early. No sane human would have scheduled a meeting for 6 a.m. But apparently, Khalid booked a hotel so far from the venue that we might as well be coming from Mars.

"Couldn't you have booked somewhere closer?" I asked, eyeing the ridiculous building in front of us. The lobby was massive, marble floor, gold accent, with chandeliers swinging slowly like they were about to host a coronation. Rich people's idea of subtle, meant to keep mouths agape.

He doesn't bother responding, of course, he simply continued on his quest of getting lost in the crowd, expecting me to keep up. And I did. With the kind of commitment I wish I had given to my gym membership. But hey, cardio is cardio.

By the time we reached our final destination, I had experienced firsthand, the difference between cardio and slavery. I was so focused on staying in his shadow that I didn't even notice when he came to a halt until I smacked right into his back.

He turned, calm and composed, like he had expected that. Meanwhile, I was fighting for breath and mentally ticking a week off my health app like I had just run a marathon.

He gave me a once-over, his stoned face void of emotions. "Try not to embarrass yourself in there."

I tilted my head, trying to match his stance.
"Worried I will say something you can't cover up?" I did well in keeping fury out of my voice.

He leaned in slightly, just close enough to provoke me. "This isn't one of your social media forte, play smart for once."

"And if I don't?" I shot back, chin up.

He chuckled softly, nothing about it conveying happiness. "Then I will stand back and watch you clean your mess."

Before I could respond, he swiftly turned to the guards in front of the massive door and handed one of them a pass card. With a curt bow, the door was opened and we were allowed into the auditorium.

I thought we were going to walk into a room where I would just get a chair to slump into and only get up when it was time to leave but boy was I wrong?

The enormous mahogany table has seats around it and most of those seats were occupied by people. Serious-minded looking people. Even the air in the room has slightly shifted to something denser. I actually had to put myself in check the moment I assessed the entire room.

I followed behind Khalid and lowered myself carefully onto the chair beside his, my eyes glued to the polished mahogany surface.

I dared to stare across the table for a heartbeat. Natives and Nigerians mirroring each other in sharp suits. I recognized the face of the popular minister of women's affairs from across the table. The mix was seamless, yet tense, like oil balanced smoothly on water.

The minute Khalid and I settled down, a man at the far end of the table rose, his presence commanding silence. He was Turkish, broad-shouldered, with the kind of practiced poise that screamed authority. It became clear that we were the last expected guests when he began to speak.

"Gentlemen, ladies." His English carried a deliberate weight, laced with an accent smooth as marble. "On behalf of the Turkey Chamber of Commerce, I welcome you all."

A few murmurs of response sounded across the room and the noise died down as fast as it came.

"We are not just here to discuss trade, we are here to build bridges strong enough to withstand politics, distance, and skepticism." He continued smoothly.

Everyone nodded in unison. I attempted to follow suit but my nod came a little too late. Thankfully, no one noticed the awkwardness. Khalid, of course looked like he had been born into the chair. Immaculate, untouchable, and wearing the usual Nigerian politician's aura like a second skin. I would swear he wasn't the one throwing a tantrum about not wanting to be here hours ago.

I, on the other hand was trying so hard not to hyperventilate.

The Turkish official continued his speech. "Our agenda begins with Agricultural exports and moves to energy partnerships. We, above all, expect frankness and respect."

Men in suits, who have successfully concealed themselves in the shadows, now began to drop folders in front of everyone. As the folder landed in front of me, Khalid slid his open with the same grace he used to dismiss me earlier. I peered sideways, his jaw was firm, his attention fixed, his every movement seeming to be calculated. It occured to me for the second time tonight, I really shouldn't have agreed to this.

Another man rose, this time a Nigerian. Old, gray-bearded with eyes sharp as flint. "Thank you, Mr Demir." He began. "Nigeria sees this as a crucial step. We are not blind to the challenges, security, and logistics in the global market but we also see opportunities. Opportunities to expand our reach beyond oil, to showcase what else we bring to the world's table."

There was polite applause. Restrained and diplomatic.

My finger drummed nervously against the folder, earning me a glance from Khalid. It wasn't one of anger. More like a silent reminder of our earlier conversation.

As speakers took turns outlining trade deficits, tariffs, and mutual benefits, I tried to look interested. But truthfully, my mind wandered. Every time Khalid leaned forward, spoke in his low, calculated baritone, or made eye contact with someone across the table, I was reminded that this was his world and he actually doesn't need me here.

Somewhere in between the boring talks of tariffs and logistics, my mind began to drift off. Words melted into mere background noise as I began to think about how my appointment with the surgeon is going to be tomorrow. I was halfway gone when a sharper tone sliced through the haze.

"Of course, one wonders if certain Nigerian partners can speak of transparency," a Turkish delegate remarked, his voice dripping with polite venom. His eyes flicked intentionally toward Khalid. "Especially when governors are whispered about in international circles for... creative money handling."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Nobody spoke. Nobody even shifted. Not one of the Nigerian diplomats rose to Khalid's defense. Not even Khalid himself. He sat there, still as stone, absorbing the jab like it didn't touch him. Now I realize why he really doesn't want to be here. He knew he was going to take blows meant for his father.

But it touched me. I can't stand humiliation.

Before I even realized it, my chair scraped loudly against the polished floor as I stood. Heat surged through me, every ounce of restraint gone.

"With all due respect," I said, my voice slicing into the silence sharper than I intended "Aren't we here to discuss trade? Because if you came here to peddle gossip about unproven rumors instead of negotiating trade, then perhaps you are in the wrong room. And even if we do want to play gossip mill, shouldn't you have been brave enough to direct it at the accused himself? If a child is guilty by bloodline, then every leader in this room better start packing."

Every head turned toward me. The dense air thickened further. My pulse hammered in my ears, but I held my ground, chin high.