Unavoidably Yours.

Chapter Eight: Angel Eni to the Rescue.

ENITAN

By half past eleven on the following Wednesday, the entire Transaction Advisory floor is running on pure adrenaline, but Enitan barely registers the pandemonium.

She is seated cross-legged in one of the smaller war rooms with her laptop open, two competing valuation reports spread across the table, and her glasses slipping gradually down the bridge of her nose the longer she stares at the spreadsheets. A half-empty cup of coffee sits cold and forgotten beside her elbow.

“Please tell me you’re not still reviewing Greenfield.”

Odion’s voice drifts into the room a second before he does. Enitan glances up, adjusting her frames. He walks in balancing his laptop beneath one arm, his shirt sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms and his tie missing entirely, despite the fact that it is barely noon yet.

She tracks the open collar of his shirt for a fraction of a second before an amused smile touches her lips. “At this point, why do you even bother wearing a tie to the office?”

Odion pauses, looking down at his unbuttoned collar before looking back at her, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Because some of us have to look like responsible executives at the start of day. Besides, I think the undone look works for me. Don’t you?”

Enitan scoffs playfully, rolling her eyes as she taps her pen against the laptop trackpad. “On the contrary, it looks like a severe case of mid-morning burnout, Odion.”

“Ouch,” he laughs, dropping into the mesh chair opposite her and scanning the financial models scattered across the table. “Anyway, back to Greenfield. What are your favourite clients saying now?”

“They changed their assumptions yet again.” she says, leaning back.

“Omo.”

“Exactly. They suddenly are of the opinion that their occupancy rates will jump by fifteen percent within eighteen months of acquisition.”

“That’s highly optimistic.”

“Nope. That’s delusion. It doesn’t even make logical sense.”

Odion lets out an amused chuckle. For the next twenty minutes, they dive into the revisions together. The conversation flows with the practiced ease of two people used to the same flow slipping seamlessly between EBITDA calculations, client politics, and exhausted commentary about wealthy executives making terrible choices with immense confidence.

Enitan reaches absentmindedly into her bag, searching for something to mark a discrepancy on the hard copy. Her fingers wrap around a familiar shape, and she pulls out a black lacquer fountain pen with a gold trim that has worn slightly dull around the clip from years of constant handling.

Odion pauses mid-sentence, his gaze tracking the movement of her hand. A knowing look crosses his face. “Wait, isn’t that your special pen?”

Enitan glances up, caught off guard. “Mm?”

“The one you said you only pull out for major closings and signing ceremonies.” He points a finger at it, his eyes twinkling. “Don’t tell me we’ve secretly reached financial close on Greenfield and you didn’t inform your Team lead.”

“I wish,” Enitan says with a dry laugh, carefully uncapping the pen. “I can’t seem to find my regular biro, and I am too tired to search for it. So this would have to do”

“Hmm.” Odion leans back slightly in his chair, folding his arms as a small, observant smile plays on his lips. “So you just always kind of have the pen with you at all times?”

“Yes, because as you can see, the ink flow is flawless.” She signs the margin of a marked document to demonstrate.

“Yeah, but that’s clearly not why you carry it everywhere, Eni.”

The casual use of her nickname makes her look up properly, her eyes meeting his. He is watching her with perceptive amusement.

“That pen has sentimental value written all over it,” he adds.

“Best in perception goes to you.”

“It’s my superpower.”

“It’s giving amebo,” she counters.

She twirls the pen between her fingers unconsciously before speaking again. “My best friend’s dad gave it to me when I got my university admission.”

Odion’s posture shifts, his interest shifting from playful to genuinely curious. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” A smile touches briefly at the corner of her mouth now, softer this time. “I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it but he basically supported me through Uni. I was sleeping over at their house the evening my admission list came out, completely terrified about how I was going to afford it. Uncle Kola asked what I wanted to study. When I told him accounting, he disappeared upstairs and came back with this.” She traces the worn gold clip. “Then he looked me in the eye and said, ‘Serious people write with serious pens.’”

Odion smiles warmly, a respectful nod accompanying the expression. “He sounds like an incredible man. And he was right. Look at you now, keeping billionaires on their toes.”

He pauses, his tone dropping into a gentler, more intuitive register. “He must mean a great deal to you.”

Enitan nods once, the light banter fading into a poignant reality. “He does. And with him being in the hospital right now and all... I find myself reaching for it more often. Just to feel grounded, I guess.”

“I get it,” he says gently, his voice dropping. “It’s a good anchor to have. And for what it’s worth... I’m sure he’s incredibly proud of where that pen has taken you.”

Enitan looks up, caught off guard by the sincerity in his eyes, a small, grateful smile touching her lips.

Before she can reply, her phone, sitting face-up on the table between them, vibrates violently against the wood. The screen lights up with Kitan’s name. She glances down, reaches over to press the volume button to silence it, and slides it back.

Odion holds her gaze for a beat longer before he lets out a quick breath. “Right. Let’s get through this Greenfield model so you can actually get out of here at a decent hour today. Before the board changes their minds again and decides they want to build Atlantis in Iyana-Ipaja.”

Enitan lets out a soft laugh. “I’ll add that to my worst-nightmare list.”

As she pulls up the spreadsheet, the phone on the table goes off again. Before the screen can even go dark from the missed call, it begins to vibrate a third time.

Enitan stalls, her fingers freezing over her trackpad. Kitan rarely calls repeatedly like this unless there is an emergency.

Odion tracks her gaze down to the vibrating device, noting the immediate, tense change in her posture.

“Go ahead,” he says intuitively, closing his laptop halfway to give her privacy. “You can take your call. We can pause for a few minutes.”

“Are you sure?” She clears her throat, her thumb already hovering over the green answer icon. “His dad is still in the hospital, so I just want to be certain everything is fine.”

An expression of understanding settles across Odion’s face. “Absolutely. Go ahead.”

Enitan offers a grateful nod, scooping up the device and stepping out into the carpeted hallway. She presses the phone to her ear as she walks toward the nearest nook by the corner.

Kitan’s voice filters through the line. “Hello?”

“You called?”

“Yeah.” He sounds distracted. Tired too. “Sorry. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I’m realising that you were probably really busy.”

“Is everything okay? What’s going on?”

A brief pause stretches over the line. Then, Kitan lets out a deeply frustrated sigh. “My mother just bullied me into agreeing to attend a foundation fundraising gala this Friday.”

Enitan stares blankly ahead for two full seconds. Then, she bursts into muffled laughter.

“Olakitan.”

“Don’t laugh. This is serious.”

“You called me three times because of a fundraiser gala?”

“You don’t understand. These people are terrifying.”

Her laughter softens into a wide grin she can’t quite suppress. “Sorry o. Thoughts and prayers during this incredibly difficult time.”

“You’re wicked.” She can hear the reluctant smile breaking through his voice now too. “We both know it’s a high-society political ambush,” Kitan says, his voice dropping into a frantic whisper. “And that’s not why I was calling you. I’m currently sitting in my car outside a supposedly wonderful boutique because she dragged me out to get a tuxedo, and you know how shopping with my mum can get. I’m a shirt and jeans kind of guy, this whole thing is stressing me out.

“I don’t get. Why is this a problem? Don’t you have suits?”

“I didn’t exactly come packing serious outfits. You saw my small box. Plus, my mother says my current options make me look emotionally unavailable.”

Enitan leans her shoulder against the hallway wall, a wide, helpless grin spreading across her face. “Okay, so what exactly is my role in this emergency, bro?”

“I need you to meet me there,” Kitan says immediately, his tone becoming completely unashamed and pleading. “Please. You work a corporate job so I would assume you know your way around suits and all. I know you’re busy, and I would normally drag Oyinda into this, but you know her condition right now. She’s too exhausted to leave the couch, so honestly, you’re all I have. My mom actually listens to you guys. Just come as a second pair of eyes so she doesn’t insist on buying me a velvet suit.”

“Kitan, you know you can just say no right? Tell her you’ll sort the outfit out yourself in your own time. You’re 30+ this guy.”

“Too late. I’m already here. Plus, you know telling my mother no on these kind of things is a waste of time. It’s also harder saying no to her given the current situation of things right now. Anything to make her happy abeg.”

“I am literally in the middle of a transaction valuation review, I don’t know how I can help you” she chuckles, though the absolute desperation in his voice is already melting her resolve.

“I already slipped your name to her,” he confesses quickly, sounding completely unrepentant. “I told her you were around the area and offered to help me look. She was thrilled. She literally said, ‘Oh, thank God, Enitan actually has taste.’ So you see? You can’t let her down now. I’ll buy you dinner. I’ll buy you those ridiculous cheeseballs and three cartons of Ribena. I’ll pay for your fuel. Just please, rescue me.”

“You are so dramatic,” she murmurs, tapping her pen against her thumb. “Fine. Text me the address. I’ll review one more model with Odion and head over.”

“You are the best! An actual lifesaver. See you in a bit.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go back inside and tell Aunty I’m on my way before she selects something in your absence.”

Kitan groans over the line. “Gosh. God abeg.”

The line clicks shut, leaving Enitan staring at her screen with a lingering, affectionate smile she doesn’t even realize she’s wearing. She takes a brief, steadying breath, tucks her special pen into her pocket, and walks back into the war room.

Odion is waiting, his laptop still halfway closed, his eyes tracking her face the moment she steps through the door. He notices the completely relaxed expression she hasn’t managed to wipe off her face yet.

“Everything fine?” Odion asks.

“Yes, perfectly fine,” Enitan says, dropping back into her chair with a renewed, lighter energy. “Just a family emergency. Shall we finish up this model?”

Odion studies her for a fraction of a second, noting the distinct brightness in her eyes that wasn’t there ten minutes ago, before he offers a gentle, supportive smile. “Let’s do it.”

KITAN

The atelier is bright, spacious, and lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Owned by Topaz, a celebrated designer and a close friend of the family, the showroom is usually packed with prominent names, but today the staff are entirely focused on the podium in the center of the room.

Kitan already regrets being here.

The head tailor circles him for what feels like the tenth time, tugging lightly at the structural shoulders of a charcoal-colored tuxedo jacket while his mother studies him with the unrelenting intensity of a diamond merchant inspecting a flawed stone.

“Hm.”

That single syllable is enough to make Kitan’s posture stiffen automatically. “What does hm mean, Ma?”

Mrs. Peters folds her arms, her diamond bracelets clicking together. “It means I am currently not fully convinced.”

“Please, just let it be fine. I am begging you.”

The tailor wisely steps back, holding his chalk and measuring tape like a shield.

“The fabric is exquisite,” his mother concedes, tapping a manicured finger against her chin. “But the cut of the trousers is making you look like a retired civil servant, Olakitan. We cannot present you to the board of trustees looking like you borrowed your grandfather’s trousers.”

Kitan closes his eyes, letting out a slow, suffering breath. “Mummy, it is a black-tie charity gala, not a fashion parade. I promise you, it is not this deep.”

“See how you are complaining as if I’m punishing you. How will God bless you with this kind of beautiful face and you want to waste it on ordinary jeans all the time. Can’t you see how sharp you are looking in this tux? Please go and try the second option. The midnight blue one with the satin lapels.”

“Lord help me,” Kitan mutters, dragging his feet toward the plush changing room.

By the time he emerges ten minutes later in the dark blue wool, adjusting a stiff white dress shirt that feels dangerously restrictive around his neck, he is fully prepared to call a taxi and flee back to the airport.

“Well?” Kitan asks, standing on the small circular podium.

His mother opens her mouth to deliver another critique, but the soft chime of the entrance door cuts her off. Kitan looks up, his eyes automatically tracking the reflection in the glass panels across the room.

For a reason he doesn’t care to analyze, an immediate wave of pure, unadulterated relief floods his chest as Enitan saunters into the showroom. She is dressed in a crisp, high-waisted tailored trouser set, a structured cream blouse, with her bag slung over one shoulder, and her office ID lanyard still clutched in her hand alongside her phone. She looks slightly breathless from the heat outside but completely in her element.

She freezes three steps into the showroom, her eyes landing squarely on Kitan standing stiffly on the circular wooden podium. A sudden, telltale twitch pulls at the corner of her mouth. She presses her lips together, her shoulders trembling slightly as she tries and spectacularly fails to swallow a laugh.

Kitan’s eyes narrow in the mirror. “What is funny?”

“Nothing,” she squeaks, coughing into her fist to clear her throat.

“Wow. Continue o”

“I’m sorry,” she says, finally letting a wide, dimpled grin break through as she walks closer. “It’s giving prince of Zamunda. Like you’re about to address your peasant subjects.”

“Eni baby!” Mrs. Peters coos, her posture instantly melting into pure joy.

“Aunty Bisola,” Enitan says, a bright, genuine smile lighting up her face as she steps forward. She bends slightly, sinking into a familiar embrace as she greets his mum.

“Anyway, thank God you’re here,” Kitan says from his podium, his shoulders visibly dropping. “Please tell this woman to release me.”

Enitan detaches herself from his mother and finally turns her gaze toward him. She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, her eyes travel over the midnight blue tuxedo.

Standing beneath the bright gallery spotlights while her eyes trace the contour of his shoulders and the fit of the jacket makes him feel exposed. It is a deeply uncomfortable sensation that prickles his skin and leaves him uncharacteristically self-conscious.

“Well?” he prompts again, his voice dropping a fraction.

Enitan mimics his mother, letting out a contemplative hum.

His heart sinks. “Great. So you don’t like it either.”

“No, the suit itself is actually beautiful,” Enitan says, walking a slow circle around the podium. She pauses, tilting her head as she inspects the fit. “But the styling is a bit over the top. Aunty, why are they trying to dress him like a funky politician?”

The head tailor looks mildly offended, clearing his throat. “Madam, this is a bespoke Italian cut—”

“No offense to your cut, sir,” Enitan says with an easy, disarming laugh that defuses the tension instantly. “But he’s thirty-two, not fifty-five. The standard wide bow tie is burying his collarbone, and the trousers need to look less boxy at the bottom. He needs a slim satin self-tie bow, and the jacket needs to be nipped in slightly at the waist so he doesn’t look like he’s drowning in fabric. Also, this colour is not working at all”

Mrs. Peters’ eyes light up, pointing a triumphant finger at her son. “You see? What did I tell you? This is exactly why I said we needed a second pair of eyes. You are the best person for this job. At least, he will listen to you.”

“I am standing right here,” Kitan grumbles, though he can’t quite stop his eyes from tracking Enitan as she casually drops her bag onto a velvet sofa and steps closer to the podium.

For the next fifteen minutes, Enitan completely takes charge of the floor, executing her rescue mission with the same precise efficiency she uses to tear through financial models. She rejects three different dress shirts, coordinates with the tailor on a sharper trouser length, and personally selects a pair of sleek patent leather oxfords that actually fit his style.

Kitan just stands there, letting the tailor pin the fabric, completely fascinated by how effortlessly she navigates his mother’s strong personality. There is an easy, deep-rooted affection in the way they bicker over pocket squares and suit options. It is a shared history that feels completely natural, yet entirely separate from him.

By the time they finally settle into the plush leather waiting area while the final alterations are being logged by the staff, Kitan is mentally spent, but his chest feels lighter than it has all day.

Mrs. Peters is scrolling through her tablet, checking off event details, before she looks up. “Enitan, my dear.”

“Yes, Aunty?” Enitan asks, looking up from her phone where she had been quickly replying to an email.

“You are coming on Friday, abi? You know The Lantern Initiative is my baby, and celebrating fifteen years of impact is a major milestone. I’m not accepting any excuses from you. You’ll sit with us at the family table.”

Enitan offers a warm smile. “Yes, ma. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Oyinda already gave me the full briefing.”

“Good. I know I don’t even need to worry about your outfit. You always look spectacular.” Mrs. Peters brightens, sliding closer to her on the sofa. “Actually, come let me show you the floral arrangements the decorator sent over this morning. Tell me if the orchids are too dramatic.”

Kitan watches them lean over the tablet screen, their heads close together as Enitan weighs in on color palettes. He watches the relaxed curve of Enitan’s mouth when she laughs at something his mother says. A strange warmth settles in his throat, a sudden realization of how deeply woven she is into the fabric of his family. She is not just his sister’s best friend, she belongs in their life. Completely.

Enitan glances at the digital clock on her phone screen and suddenly winces, her eyes widening in panic. “Oh my goodness.”

“What is it?” Kitan asks.

“I need to fly back to the office immediately.” She rises quickly, pulling her bag strap back over her shoulder.

“Already?” Mrs. Peters asks, looking disappointed. “But you just got here.”

“Aunty, I’ve been here for almost forty minutes,” Enitan says with an apologetic, sheepish grin. “By the time I factor in the trip back to the office, I’m looking at over an hour of unauthorized absence. My director is nice, but he isn’t that nice.”

Kitan stands up, shaking his head with a small smirk. “Na wa o.”

“Is that how they say thank you in your village?” she shoots back playfully, eyeing him with an effortless roll of her eyes. She bends down to press a quick kiss to Mrs. Peters’ cheek. “I’ll see you on Friday evening, ma.”

“Thank you so much for coming to save us, my dear. Drive safely, o.”

“I will, ma.” Enitan adjusts her bag, gives Kitan a final, lingering up and down look with a small nod of approval. “You look great in the burgundy option, Kit. Don’t let them change it.”

Before he can even formulate a response, she turns and glides out through the glass doors, her heels clicking purposefully against the pavement outside until she disappears into her waiting ride.

The boutique floor falls into a startling stillness. Kitan stands there for a beat, his eyes still fixed on the empty doorway with a faint, lingering smile tracing his lips.

An exaggerated clearing of the throat pulls him from his thoughts.

He blinks, turning around to find his mother watching him. She has set her tablet down on her lap, her arms folded tightly across her chest, and her sharp eyes are fixed on his face with an expression of intense, knowing amusement.

Kitan clears his throat, his posture instantly going defensive. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing, my dear,” she says, her voice dripping with a very maternal, dangerous smugness as she signals the tailor to bring the final invoice. “Absolutely nothing at all. I am just glad to see that your taste in ‘second opinions’ has improved so beautifully.”

---

Author’s Note: What do we think about this chapter? Do we think there is hope for kit and his kat?🤭

Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, and Chapter Seven.

See you next week Monday.🫶🏽