Tragic Kiss

CHAPTER FOUR

Eric Abara was halfway through buttoning his crisp, navy-blue shirt when the door to his room creaked open without warning. He turned with an exasperated sigh, catching sight of his mother standing in the doorway, hand still on the knob, looking as though she was trying to convince herself she hadn’t just barged in.

“Ahem,” she said, with a faux-innocent smile. “May I come in?”

Eric raised a brow. “You already did.”

“I haven’t stepped in yet. Technically, I’m still in the doorway.”

He gave her a look but gestured for her to enter. She crossed the room and immediately reached for his collar, adjusting it like he was still five and heading to his first day of nursery school.

“You look so good, my son,” she said softly, beaming. “This suit suits you. You look good in everything you wear.”

Eric chuckled. “Thanks, Mom.”

He settled onto the small couch by the window, lifting a steaming mug of coffee to his lips. Mrs. Maya perched delicately on the edge of his bed, folding her hands neatly on her lap like she had something weighty to say.

“I’m glad you’re doing this, Eric.”

He scoffed. “Like I had a choice.”

She smiled with motherly patience. “You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks.”

A beat passed.

“And Eric…” she began.

He groaned. “Here we go.”

“I need to see you with a girl soon.”

He nearly spat out his coffee. “Mom, it’s not that easy. I’m taking my time,ok”

“What? You just have to be sweet and charming, like your father. That man still makes me fall in love every day.”

Eric sighed. “That’s you and Dad. You two are old.”

“Well, this old woman was once caught by your father when she was in her prime.. And he’s still proud he bagged me. You? You can’t even catch a fly”

Eric tilted his head slightly to the side, eyebrows raised, lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. It wasn’t anger on his face—just that quiet, patient disbelief reserved for the kind of insult only a Nigerian mother could deliver without blinking. The kind that landed like thunder but was dressed in silk. The corners of his mouth twitched, like he was holding back a “Ma, abeg.” She had just hit him with one of those loving-but-lethal roasts.

He sat there a second, stunned, his head still tilted like he was processing the insult in slow motion. Then, with the weary grace of a man who had accepted his fate, he adjusted himself, sat upright, squared his shoulders, and nodded.

“Okay, okay… I’ll try.”

He said it like a peace offering—with just enough humility to earn points, and just enough sarcasm to stay himself.

“You better,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “And Eric? No headlines. I don’t want any blogs screaming ‘CEO’s playboy son returns to Nigeria.’ Your brother has done a good job keeping the family name clean.”

“I’m not into all that. You don’t have to worry.”

“You better not be. Because if I catch wind of you having a fling with any girl, I will personally organize your wedding.”

Eric stared.

Was this woman threatening him with marriage? Like, did she just casually toss forced wedding into the conversation like it was rice at a naming ceremony? He blinked slowly, trying to make sense of what he just heard.

“That’s not fair.”

“Then use your head.”

She stood up, kissed his cheek, and headed for the door.

“Have a good day at work, sweetheart.”

Eric watched her strut out, head high, Ankara wrapper swaying with presidential confidence.

God, what a mother. A general disguised as a woman.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Eric sighed and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He straightened his tie, ran a hand through his half-grown locs, and picked up his bag.

Funny. Once upon a time, he actually was the playboy they wrote about. Not even on purpose. He’d meet a girl, think maybe this time it’s real, only to find out she knew his bank balance better than she knew his birthday. It was always the same script—actresses, influencers, daughters of board members. Pretty girls with prettier intentions.

And to be fair, he had a type: soft life, high standard, baby-girl-for-life kind of women. He didn’t even mind spending—as long as the love was real. But they always made it too obvious. The money was the goal. Not him.

He looked away from the mirror, a quiet sigh escaping.

Maybe his mother had a point. Maybe it was time to switch gears.

He headed out.

—

The ride was quiet, save for the distant honks and hum of traffic around Victoria Island. Eric leaned against the car window, watching the city blur past. Lagos hadn’t changed much—chaotic, hot, and alive—but he had. It had been nearly two decades since he left Nigeria at fifteen, and now, at thirty-four, he was back. Not as a prince returning to his throne, but as a contract staff, undercover, walking straight into what his father called “a lesson in humility.”

Eric called it: a recipe for disaster.

His mind drifted, unbidden, to the house he grew up in. To the scent of camphor in their drawers, the days they were still building White Lotus Group from scratch, his mother’s voice commanding the day like a general in silk and gold, and his father—always composed, always firm—doling out wisdom like it was military training. Especially to the boys.

But there were soft spots too. His mother had always had his heart, but if there was one person who truly had their father wrapped around her little finger, it was Luna. Luna Abara—his older sister, the queen of chaos. He used to call her “The Witch of the West,” mostly because she never let them get away with anything, and she wielded her power with all the flair of a dramatic Nollywood villain. Even now, Eric could hear her voice, crisp with attitude and dripping with wicked intelligence.

He smiled.

There was that one time he and Jesse had desperately wanted the new PlayStation model. Their current one still worked, but all their friends had the latest one with better graphics, immersive gameplay, and a new adaptive controller system that made every game feel like real life. For gaming lovers, it was a dream. For two teenage boys in a house run by strict African parents? A pipe dream.

Their father, ever the general, refused to buy what he called “an unnecessary luxury.” “If the one you have isn’t broken, don’t fix it,” he’d said while sipping his evening tea.

So they turned to Luna.

Their mother was out of town at the time—otherwise she’d have been the easier route. But now, all hope rested in the hands of the pink-loving, headphone-wearing, ice-cream-obsessed middle child who had somehow become their father’s softest spot.

Eric could still remember standing outside her door with Jesse.

“Go away,” came her voice immediately after Jesse knocked.

“How do you know it’s us?” Jesse asked.

“I just know. You knock like bush boys.”

Eric had scoffed. “It could be Dad, you know.”

“My father doesn’t knock like that,” she snapped back. “He knocks with rhythm.”

Eventually, she let them in, standing at the door like a gatekeeper, arms folded.

“What do you want?”

Eric looked around her glitter-covered, pastel-pink room with a scrunched-up nose. “When are you going to outgrow all these stuffed animals? This whole place looks like a Mickey Mouse shrine.”

Luna flared instantly. “Out. Of. My. Room.”

Jesse, ever the peacemaker, quickly stepped in. “Relax, Luna. We actually need your help.”

Luna narrowed her eyes. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“We want a new PlayStation,” Eric blurted, still inspecting a shelf of sparkly dolls like they offended him personally.

“You already have one.”

“We want the latest one. But Dad won’t buy it because the old one still works,” Jesse explained.

Luna blinked. “So?”

Eric groaned. “You’re our only hope, woman. Just talk to him for us.”

That was the wrong tone. Luna’s eyes widened with mock offense, and she turned slowly, her neck tilting with all the Shakara of a seasoned pageant queen.

“Excuse me? Is that how you make requests from me — the bridge to your father’s wallet?”

Jesse pulled her aside, whispering like a soldier trying to de-escalate a hostage situation.

“Please, we’ve already written the script,” he said.

“Oh?”

“You’re going to tell Dad the new model has this really cool game for girls that you’ve been dying to play, and that you’re willing to share it with us.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And what do I get for this Oscar-worthy performance?”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Of course. Nothing is free with this witch.”

“You’re lucky I don’t charge you extra for that insult,” she snapped.

Jesse jumped in before it spiraled. “Okay, okay. What do you want?”

Luna grinned like a devil in lip gloss. “Ice cream. Every day. For a month.”

“But Dad banned you from ice cream, since the dentist said it was bad for you.” Eric argued. “Now we all suffer because of that! There’s no ice cream in the whole house.”

“Exactly,” she said sweetly. “So you’ll sneak it in. Deal?”

“Deal,” they muttered, defeated.

That night, she did exactly what she promised—glided up to their father as he was sipping tea, cuddled beside him, and in her softest, most manipulative voice, said, “Daddy, there’s this new game I really want to play. It’s girly and fun and it’ll help me bond with the boys. Can we pleeeease get it?”

“Done, baby,” he replied, without hesitation. “Driver will pick it up tomorrow after school.”

From their hiding place behind the hallway door, Eric and Jesse did a silent victory dance.

Luna returned to her room dramatically, her beaded shuku hairstyle bouncing, eyes sparkling. “You’re welcome,” she said, shutting her door like a queen dismissing her audience.

Eric chuckled under his breath now as the memory faded.

Good old days.

That was the thing about being an Abara—strict love, dramatic negotiations, but family always showed up. Even if it came in the form of smuggled ice cream and psychological warfare with your sister.

“We’re here, sir,” the driver said, snapping him out of the flashback.

Eric blinked, sitting up straighter. The White Lotus Air headquarters stood just ahead, a sleek glass building nestled near the bustle of the airport, its tall frame crowned with the company’s signature gold-and-silver insignia — wings curled around a blooming lotus.

It looked less like an office and more like an air traffic command center crossed with a five-star hotel. Everything about it screamed efficiency, wealth, and zero room for foolishness — all things Jesse Abara, his brother and the current head of the airline, embodied to the letter.

Eric stepped out of the car and adjusted his collar, eyes scanning the building like it was a test he hadn’t studied for.

“Let’s see what madness this aviation arm has planned for me today.”

And with that, he walked in.

—

Inside the marble-floored reception, Eric was greeted with the kind of stiff politeness reserved for strangers with no titles. The young receptionist barely looked up as she pointed down the hall.

“Supervisor’s office. Last door on the left. All new hires are being briefed.”

Eric muttered a quiet thanks and walked through the corridor, the soles of his shoes muffled by the plush office carpet, his mind bracing for whatever madness corporate life had planned for him today.

The door creaked open as he stepped inside. The room, suffocatingly beige with flickering fluorescent lights overhead, held five new contract workers already seated in a tight row, their backs stiff with uncertainty. At the front of the room stood a man—middle-aged, rotund, with a balding scalp that gleamed like it had been polished for intimidation. His belly hung over his waistband like it had given up on decorum. Arms folded tightly across his chest, he leaned against the desk with the smugness of someone who clearly enjoyed his crumbs of power.

The moment Eric walked in, the man’s eyes narrowed. “You,” he barked. “Who are you?”

Eric kept his cool, one brow slightly raised. “I’m new.”

“Yes, obviously,” the man snapped, pushing off the desk with exaggerated effort. “And yet you stroll in here like you own the building.”

“I'm sorry, I know I’m three minutes late,” Eric said, tone calm but clipped. “It was the traffic”

The man clapped dramatically—mock applause, complete with a belly wobble. “Three minutes late and already making excuses. This generation.”

Eric exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

He moved toward an empty chair, but just as he lowered himself—

“Who asked you to sit?” the supervisor snarled.

Eric paused mid-bend, glanced up. “I thought—never mind.”

“Oh! He thought!” The man scoffed, pacing now like a low-budget stage actor. “This one thinks.”

The other workers stayed quiet, eyes fixed ahead, clearly familiar with the man’s theatrical cruelty.

“I said stand up!” the supervisor barked again, and walked over to where Eric was, standing in front of him.

Eric, already on his feet, is now towering over the shorter man. From this angle, all he could see was the top of a shiny head and a collar that looked like it was choking under pressure.

The man took a subtle step back. “Why are you looming over me?”

“You asked me to stand. And you’re in front of me.”

“This one has mouth,” the man muttered, his voice dropping to a dangerous pitch. “A mere contract worker, talking back like he has options.”

Eric folded his arms. “You can’t just talk to people like that.”

“I can talk however I like,” the man sneered. “And I can fire anyone I like. Especially you.”

Eric tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “No, you can’t. You’re not on the board. You don’t have that power.”

The man laughed then—a bitter, mocking sound. “Oh, you really don’t get it. You think the board runs this place? What I tell them is what they believe. You? You’re just a name on a list. I say you’re a liability, and poof, you’re gone.”

Eric’s jaw tightened. His voice dropped to a deadly calm. “That’s unethical. People deserve better than this nonsense. You’re abusing your position.”

The man leaned in, practically spitting now. “And what exactly will you do about it?”

Eric stared at him, his tone like cold steel. “I’ll get you fired instead.”

The room fell into a hush. The other workers froze, their eyes darting between Eric and the supervisor like they’d just witnessed someone poke a bear.

And then—without warning—the man’s hand flew through the air and landed a hard slap across Eric’s cheek.

A collective gasp filled the room. Someone actually dropped their pen.

Eric didn’t move for a second. His head had turned slightly from the blow, but his feet remained planted. Slowly, he straightened, turning his face back toward the man with the kind of calm that was far more terrifying than rage. His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening—not with violence, but something sharper. Precision. Restraint.

One punch and this guy would be on oxygen.

But Eric didn’t flinch. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone with the casual elegance of someone dialing a friend to come pick up a body.

“Hi, Jesse,” he said smoothly into the receiver. “You’ve got someone here making work hell. He just slapped me.”

“What?” came Jesse’s sharp voice from the other end. “Who?”

Eric’s gaze slid lazily back to the man now visibly sweating in front of him. “Name?”

The supervisor’s confidence cracked like thin ice. “I—I—is that…Director Jesse… Abara?” His voice trembled as if the name alone had struck him.

Eric didn’t even blink. “Fifth floor. Come see for yourself.”

He ended the call and tucked the phone back into his pocket, never breaking eye contact with the man who was now visibly shaking.

And just like that, the room shifted. The game had changed.

—

A few tense minutes later, the door swung open with a sharp thud.

Jesse Abara walked in like thunder — dark suit crisp, pinstripe sharp, presence heavy enough to change the air. His assistant followed quietly, clutching a tablet, barely keeping up.

“What’s going on here?” Jesse’s voice sliced through the silence.

Roberts sprang forward like he’d just seen Jesus descend from a cloud.

“Sir! This man—” he pointed at Eric like a schoolboy caught cheating. “He disrupted the orientation. He was rude, insubordinate—completely unfit. I suggest we terminate his contract immediately.”

Jesse didn’t look at Roberts. He looked at Eric.

“You good?” he asked.

Eric adjusted his sleeve, eyes still locked on the man who had slapped him minutes earlier. “I’m fine. But he shouldn’t be here.”

Now Jesse turned to Roberts, scanning him like an investor reviewing a disappointing balance sheet.

“What’s your name?”

“Roberts, sir.”

“So, Mr. Roberts…” Jesse’s tone dipped just enough to signal danger. “Did you slap him?”

Roberts hesitated. “He—he tried to hit me first. I was defending myself.”

Jesse motioned lazily toward Eric. “Look at him.”

Roberts blinked.

“Six-foot-something, broad shoulders, probably bench-presses human beings for fun. If he hit you… would you still be standing here flapping your excuses?”

Roberts looked at the floor. “Probably not, sir.”

“Exactly,” Jesse said coolly. “So why did you slap him?”

“I… I was only trying to, you know… instill discipline.”

“This how you discipline staff?” Jesse asked, turning to the five other contract workers. “Anyone here feel ‘disciplined’?”

The room remained frozen. The workers stared at the floor like they were praying for it to open and swallow them.

Jesse let the silence hang before continuing, his voice smoother now—almost amused.

“Tell me, Roberts. Do you even know who this is?”

Roberts glanced at Eric, squinting like his eyes might give him a second chance. “No…sir.”

Jesse gave a small, deadly smile. “This is Eric Abara. My younger brother. Son of the CEO.”

The entire room inhaled at once.

Roberts went pale. Then, in one swift motion, he dropped to his knees like a man caught in spiritual warfare.

“Sir! I didn’t know. I wasn’t told. Please—”

“And that’s the problem,” Eric said quietly, his voice steady. “If you’d known, you would’ve polished your act and pretended to be respectful. But you didn’t. You bullied me. Just like you bully everyone else.”

Jesse nodded once. “Security.”

The guard stepped in instantly, as if on cue.

“Escort this man off the premises,” Jesse ordered.

“No, sir—please, I’m begging—” Roberts’ voice cracked as he was lifted to his feet and ushered toward the door.

Eric didn’t spare him a glance.

“Come with me, brother,” Jesse said, voice steady.

The two of them walked side by side down the corridor, their footsteps echoing off the marble floors as they made their way to Jesse’s office.

—

Back in Jesse’s office, the tension had thinned, replaced now by that kind of silence only brothers knew—where one was trying not to laugh, and the other was desperately hoping he wouldn’t.

Jesse circled around to his desk and sank into the leather chair like a king returning to his throne. He gestured for Eric to sit, then waved off his assistant with a subtle nod. The door shut with a soft click behind her.

“Have a seat, Eric,” Jesse said, already struggling to hold back a grin.

Eric slid into the chair opposite him. “Thanks, man.”

Jesse squinted at him, lips twitching.

Eric raised a brow. “What’s with the look?”

“How’s the slap?” Jesse finally asked, barely able to keep a straight face.

Eric blinked slowly. “F**k you, Jesse.”

But it was too late.

Jesse burst into laughter—loud, obnoxious, and utterly delighted. He clutched his chest as if the hilarity physically hurt him. Eric just stared, deadpan.

“I knew you were going to make a joke out of this,” Eric muttered.

“Oh, heck yeah,” Jesse wheezed between gasps. “You should’ve seen your face. If I had recorded it—God, I’d play it at your wedding.”

“You’re a menace.”

Jesse was fully crying now, tears at the corners of his eyes. “I’m choking,” he gasped.

“Good for you,” Eric said flatly. “Choke.”

Jesse waved a hand. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I hope you’re fine though.”

Eric crossed his legs, shooting him a glare. “I wonder what your employees would say seeing their almighty director laughing like a deranged goat.”

Jesse smirked. “They don’t see this side of me.”

“Oh, what they see is the boring, bossy, stuck-up version of you.”

“That’s not what I call it,” Jesse said, adjusting his tie like a smug old man.

Eric tilted his head. “Then what do you call it?”

“It’s called a business face, my dear brother. You don’t mix business with pleasure.”

“And yet here you are laughing your lungs out at your staff’s predicament.”

“Correction: my brother’s predicament,” Jesse said proudly. “And low-key? I really wish I’d been there.”

“Why?”

“So I could’ve gotten it on video.”

Eric groaned and dropped his head in his hands. “How are you even my brother?”

Jesse leaned forward, still grinning. “Oh, come on. You know I was going to stick up for you eventually.”

Eric raised his head. “After the slap video goes viral?”

“To have and to hold forever,” Jesse said dramatically, hands in the air. “To taunt you for life.”

Eric shook his head. “I’m glad you weren’t there. Honestly.”

“Still not happy I missed the showdown,” Jesse muttered under his breath, grinning as he finally settled into silence.

Then, as if someone flipped a switch, his demeanor shifted. His shoulders straightened, and the laughter dissolved into quiet concern.

“So what now?” he asked. “This undercover thing… it’s not working, is it?”

Eric exhaled. “It definitely isn’t. What the hell was Dad thinking?”

Jesse sighed. “He thought putting you in the thick of it would help you grow into the company.”

“And now we’re here,” Eric muttered. “Slaps and all.”

Jesse shook his head. “Didn’t go as planned, that’s for sure. But… maybe not a total loss?”

Eric leaned back, thoughtful. “Yeah. At least now we know how some of these so-called senior staff treat people. The bullying, the intimidation—it’s everywhere.”

“No one should have to work in a place like that,” Jesse agreed. “It’s disgusting.”

Eric nodded. “It’s a mess. And it’s under our name.”

Jesse ran a hand down his face. “I’ll talk to Dad. He needs to know. This whole contract-worker plan… it backfired.”

Eric smirked. “Big time.”

“But at least it exposed something,” Jesse added. “And that counts for something.”

“I’ll call Mum,” Eric said, standing. “Tell her what happened.”

“Yeah, good idea,” Jesse replied. “Let her know we’re all still on for dinner.”

“You bringing Hazel and Jasmine?”

“Of course. Hazel says she misses you, by the way. You two were bonding last time.”

Eric smiled. “Yeah. I miss her too, she’s cooler than you. And Jasmine too. Can’t wait to see them.”

“Luna’s coming too.”

“Oh wow. A full house.”

“Exactly. We’ll all talk, figure this thing out together.”

Eric stretched, then reached out a hand. “Cool. I’ll head out now.”

They shook, firm and familiar.

“See you tonight, blooda,” Jesse said with a grin.

Eric chuckled. “Later.”

He stepped out of the office, walking toward the elevator with quiet resolve. As the doors slid shut around him, he exhaled—long and deep.

His first day had barely lasted an hour.

And yet, somehow, it already felt unforgettable.