Chapter 3: The First Night Agony

The glow from Adanna’s laptop was the only modern light in the Sacred Quarters. She’d propped it on a pillow against her headboard, casting a cool blue over her half of the room. Femi had done the same on his side of the gap.

Soft jazz floated from Adanna’s speaker—loud enough to cover whispers, quiet enough not to alert Aunty Patience, currently stationed outside like a sleepy watchdog.

“So,” Adanna whispered across the four inches of forbidden space. “Welcome to our first Ayodele compound date night. No touching, no moving the Stool of Separation, and no swearing. Unless absolutely necessary.”

Femi chuckled, low and dangerous—a sound that did nothing to help her self-control. “I’m already breaking two of those rules in my head. But I’ll behave. What’s on the menu?”

“Conversation,” Adanna said firmly. “The kind we had in London. The kind that reminds us we’re more than just two people with great chemistry who want to tear each other’s clothes off.”

Femi leaned closer, his face glowing blue. “Speaking of clothes, can we discuss these Ankara pajamas your mother-in-law’s maid left us? Do you know how hard it is to feel sexy in this much cotton?”

Adanna tugged at her own thick patterned sleepwear with a groan. “They’re a deterrent, Femi. The final barrier. I feel less like a woman and more like an upholstered sofa.”

They both laughed, but the air shifted. The small, controlled room amplified everything—their tension, their closeness. Femi started talking about his business frustrations; Adanna spoke about the pressure of the deal tied to their marriage. Vulnerable but untouchable, they circled each other like fire behind glass.

Then Femi’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Tell me about the first time you kissed me.”

Adanna inhaled sharply. “Femi, that’s dangerous territory in this room.”

“But not against the rules,” he said, smiling slowly. “Mama G banned touching. Not mental torture.”

She hesitated, then gave in. “I remember the smell of rain, and how you didn’t ask. You just looked at me like you already knew the answer. And I remember thinking… I’m ruined. I’m ruined for any man who isn’t this complicated, beautiful mess.”

The silence after was a living thing. Femi clenched his fists to keep them still. The intimacy was worse—more potent—than touch.

“I can’t breathe,” he muttered. “You’re mine, but four inches feels like the whole world.”

Adanna bit her lip, knowing she had to break the spell before one of them crossed the gap. “Time out,” she whispered, grabbing a water bottle. “Let’s talk strategy. How do we beat Aunty Ngozi? She starts in two hours.”

Femi sat up, relieved by the distraction. “She’s thorough. Perimeter check every hour. The only way to beat her is to be gone before she comes, or look so asleep she leaves us alone.”

“We can’t leave,” Adanna sighed. “Too risky. So we fake sleep. But I can’t sleep knowing you’re right there trying not to jump the gap.”

“I am trying not to jump the gap,” Femi muttered, flopping back dramatically. “I’m putting on a podcast about economics. Maybe that will kill my blood.”

Adanna smiled faintly. They were trapped, but they were together, and they were fighting. This was only the first night of the Traditional Bedroom Trial—and already it was a test of nerves and longing.

The podcast droned on about global trade, calming the frantic energy. Adanna drifted close to sleep, lulled by Femi’s steady breathing.

Then—click.

The antique clock in the hallway struck eleven. The sound was soft, but in the silence it might as well have been a gavel.

Femi shot upright, his mattress creaking. Adanna’s eyes snapped open.

“Eleven,” he mouthed, eyes wide. “Aunty Ngozi.”

The jazz went silent. Both laptops vanished under their beds. Darkness swallowed the room whole. The warm glow of their banter evaporated, replaced by thick dread.

“She moves like a shadow,” Femi whispered, so quietly she barely heard him. “She’s wearing her slippers. The felt ones. Don’t move.”

They sank back under the heavy cotton sheets. Every second stretched into forever. Adanna could hear her own heartbeat hammering like a drum.

Then came the sound: a soft shhh of fabric just outside their door. A scrape—the sound of someone crouching to listen through the keyhole.

Femi’s whole body went rigid. Adanna forced her breathing into the slow rhythm of sleep.

Don’t move. Don’t twitch. Don’t even think about him.

But the fear only made her more aware of him—his heat, his scent, his shape a dark temptation on the other bed. The four-inch gap became its own gravity, pulling her thoughts toward him.

She bit the inside of her cheek hard. She ached to reach out, to touch his hand, to feel he was real. The rules weren’t testing their virtue anymore—they were forging a dangerous intimacy out of deprivation.

Finally, the scraping stopped. The faint shhh of fabric moved down the hall. Aunty Ngozi was gone.

Femi exhaled, barely audible.

Adanna whispered, her voice raw, “If you ever tell anyone I spent fifteen minutes trying not to move toward you, I will end you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, my love,” he whispered back, humor strained but present. “Welcome to the Traditional Bedroom Trial. Sleep well.”

Adanna buried her face in the pillow, her whole body humming with frustrated desire. She had underestimated this arrangement. The contract, the deal, the legacy—all of it faded under the brutal truth: the man she love was within reach, and yet untouchable. The night had only just begun.