Luxury Has a Scent

The following morning, Zai woke up feeling lighter than she had in years.

Maybe it was the new job.

Maybe it was finally being surrounded by people who understood fashion.

Or maybe it was Raymond’s words from the previous night.

“You earned this job.”

She had replayed that sentence so many times that she almost believed it had healed every rejection she’d ever faced.

Almost.

As she dressed for work, Mama Zainab noticed the smile she was trying so hard to hide.

“You’ve been smiling since yesterday.”

“Is that a crime?”

“It depends.”

Her mother folded her wrapper and looked at her carefully.

“Is it because of the job or because of somebody at the job?”

Zai burst into laughter.

“Mummy!”

“I’m only asking.”

“There is nobody.”

Her mother nodded slowly.

“Good.”

She picked up her Bible from the table.

“When people suddenly rise, two things usually come looking for them.”

“What?”

“Opportunities… and temptations.”

Zai kissed her on the forehead.

“I’ll remember that.”

“You’d better.”

LuxeThread was unusually busy.

An international buyer from South Africa was visiting, and every department seemed to be racing against time.

Boxes of accessories were stacked in the hallway.

Models walked briskly from one fitting room to another.

The design studio buzzed with excitement.

Funke walked over carrying a garment bag.

“Morning, superstar.”

Zai smiled.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve only been here for three days.”

Funke laughed.

“Tell that to the CEO.”

Before Zai could respond, the assistant from Raymond’s office appeared again.

“Miss Adebayo.”

She sighed playfully.

“I know.”

“He wants to see me.”

The assistant smiled.

“Exactly.”

A few designers exchanged knowing glances.

One whispered under her breath,

“Again?”

Another shrugged.

“Maybe she’s working on something important.”

Funke kept sewing, but she noticed everything.

Raymond’s office was filled with fabric samples spread across a large table.

“Morning.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“You called me Raymond yesterday.”

She looked embarrassed.

“I wasn’t sure if that was appropriate.”

He smiled.

“It still is.”

He pointed at the fabrics.

“I need your opinion.”

For nearly an hour, they discussed textures, colours, and upcoming collections.

There wasn’t a single inappropriate word.

No flirting.

No lingering touches.

Just work.

Yet somehow, every conversation between them carried an ease that surprised them both.

“You think differently,” Raymond said.

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

He handed her another folder.

“I want you to attend Saturday’s private showcase.”

Her eyes widened.

“The one in Ikoyi?”

“You’ve heard about it?”

“Every designer in Lagos has.”

“It’s invitation only.”

She looked at him.

“I don’t think I belong there.”

“That’s exactly why you should come.”

She smiled politely.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You do that.”

Back in the studio, lunch break had started.

Designers gathered around the long table, discussing everything except work.

Fuel prices.

Football.

A celebrity wedding.

Someone complained about rent.

Someone else complained about Lagos traffic.

The conversation shifted when one junior designer leaned closer.

“So…”

Everyone looked at him.

“What’s the CEO really like?”

A woman rolled her eyes.

“Why are you asking?”

“Because none of us ever see him smiling.”

Another designer laughed.

“Except recently.”

The table became quiet.

The junior designer looked directly at Zai.

“They say he smiles whenever you’re around.”

Heat rushed to her face.

“That’s not true.”

Before anyone could tease her further, Funke spoke firmly.

“Finish your food.”

The conversation ended immediately.

But Zai could still feel curious eyes following her.

That evening, she stayed a little later to finish a design.

By the time she packed her things, most people had gone.

As she reached the reception, the security officer stopped her.

“Miss Adebayo?”

“Yes?”

“This was left for you.”

He handed her a cream-coloured gift box tied with a black ribbon.

“No sender?”

He shook his head.

“It was delivered about an hour ago.”

Her heart beat faster.

She looked around.

Nothing.

No note.

No delivery rider.

No explanation.

She carried the box outside before opening it.

Inside lay a bottle of perfume.

Elegant.

Minimal.

Expensive.

She picked it up carefully.

The scent escaped the moment she removed the cap.

Warm vanilla.

Soft jasmine.

A hint of oud.

It didn’t smell loud.

It smelled confident.

The kind of fragrance that entered a room before its owner spoke.

Tucked beneath the bottle was a small card.

Only four handwritten words.

For your new beginning.

No signature.

No initials.

Nothing.

Her first thought was Raymond.

Her second was that she shouldn’t assume.

She slipped the card back into the box and headed for the bus stop.

At home, Tobi noticed the package immediately.

“Oho!”

He whistled.

“My rich sister.”

“It’s just perfume.”

He picked up the bottle carefully.

“Just perfume?”

He searched the name online and nearly dropped his phone.

“Sis…”

“What?”

“Do you know how much this costs?”

She frowned.

“How much?”

He turned the screen toward her.

The price made her stomach tighten.

“This can’t be right.”

“It is.”

She sat quietly.

There was no way anyone would accidentally send something this expensive.

Mama Zainab walked into the room.

“Who bought it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“There wasn’t any name.”

Her mother didn’t touch the bottle.

Instead, she picked up the card.

“For your new beginning.”

She read it twice.

Then placed it back in the box.

“I don’t like gifts that arrive without a sender.”

“It’s probably from someone at work.”

“Then why hide their name?”

Zai had no answer.

Across town, Raymond stepped into his Ikoyi home just before ten.

The house was unusually quiet.

Adanna sat in the living room reading a business magazine.

She looked up briefly.

“Long day?”

“The showcase preparations.”

“I imagined.”

She closed the magazine.

“Dinner?”

“I already ate.”

She nodded.

“No problem.”

There was no argument.

No accusation.

No tension.

Only a calmness that somehow felt heavier than anger.

As Raymond walked upstairs, Adanna’s phone vibrated.

A new message.

Package delivered successfully. Recipient accepted it.

She stared at the message for several seconds.

Then she typed a single reply.

Good.

She locked the phone and smiled to herself.

Not because the gift had been delivered.

Because Zainab would spend the entire night wondering who had sent it.

Confusion, Adanna believed, was often more powerful than confrontation.

Engagement Question

If you received an expensive anonymous gift at the beginning of a new job, would you keep it, return it, or try to find out who sent it before making any decision?

To be continued…