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In the past week, there were three things I had grown to hate about New York.

First was the consistency. If New Yorkers were anything, they were consistent. They took the same route to work every day, played the same music, and did the same things. I wanted to scream, Try something different for a change!

Second was the crowds. I used to love the fact that one could easily blend into the streets—I loved the hustle and bustle. It reminded me so much of Lagos, even though I hadn’t been there in years. But right now, I hated how I was getting brushed and touched by every single person.

Third was how everyone seemed to be flaunting their relationships right after mine had just ended. One day, I saw a couple sitting on a bench, sharing an earpiece; another stealing bites of each other’s ice cream; and one kissing in front of an office.

I was happy for all of them—though I kind of hoped the third one got fired. (I’m kidding… not). But every time I saw them, I fought the urge to rip my own hair out.

In the twenty-six years of my life, I had never been dumped—ever. I do the dumping. I had never given a man the chance to dump me. The moment I saw even the slightest sign of boredom or discontent, I ended things.

It was something I was very proud of, until last week.

It made me laugh when I thought about it. I laughed because if I didn’t, I’ll probably end up overthinking all the signs I missed. I brushed off every single red flag until he finally dumped me.

Well, technically, he didn’t dump me. He just told me he was in love with someone else. I was the one who gave him back his ring and walked out of his condo. So, technically, I still haven’t been dumped, which made it a win for me.

He didn’t even attempt to chase after me or try to talk me out of it. He just let me go. He didn’t even stay the night before driving back to the country to see his dung-shoveling girlfriend.

I shouldn’t have said that. My bad. Women supporting women and all that. He is the cheat, after all.

But still, it did a number on my ego.

I stood outside my store, coffee in hand, and exhaled deeply. At least I still have Emiade. I’ll live.

Emiade is my fashion brand. I started it at eighteen, and it took years of hard work to get it where it is today, one of the most popular fashion stores in New York, with branches in a few nearby states .

My brand catered specifically to women of color like myself, focusing on Ankara prints and fabrics. This line is my baby, and it has always come first. Getting here wasn’t easy, and I’d be damned if I let anything stand in my way.

I pushed open the door and was immediately greeted by a chorus of “hello” and “hi” from my employees. I forced a small smile as I made my way upstairs to my office.

While I could work in a noisy environment, I preferred the solitude. Interrupting me puts you at the front line of a meltdown, and it’s never pretty.

I stepped inside and took in the mess. Sketches and pencils covered the table, a pair of scissors peeked out from beneath a pile of papers, and my tape measure laid in a heap on the floor.

It would have been cleaned yesterday if I hadn’t told everyone to stay out of my office or risk getting fired. Now, I had to do it myself.

“Adira.” A small voice was followed by a soft knock.

My assistant, Marissa, stood at the door. I gave her a brief nod, and she stepped inside. Her dark hair was tied in a bun at the top of her head. She wore skinny jeans, a white button-up shirt, and a brown blazer. In her hands, she held a brown manila envelope.

Marissa started working for me three years ago. The moment she walked into my office for the interview, I knew she was the one.

“This came for you half an hour ago.” She handed me the file. “Mr. Winston called to remind you that the fashion exhibition is in three months, and he needs your sketches before then to decide if he’ll go ahead with the sponsorship.”

“Tell Mr. Winston I’ll have the sketches to him by the end of next week. And tell the designers that if I don’t have something amazing on my desk in the next forty-eight hours, they’re all fired. ”

She didn’t even flinch. Marissa had worked with me long enough to be unfazed by my demands.

“You also have a missed call from the manager of a store in L.A. She wanted to discuss stocking our clothes. Should I call her back?”

“Not now. Make them wait a little, or we’ll seem desperate. If they haven’t called back by noon, then put a call through.”

I rummaged through the mess on my desk until I found my sketchbook. “Is that all?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Thank you, Marissa. I wouldn’t survive without you.”

She clasped her hands together and chuckled softly. “Thank you. You look amazing, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

She gave me one last nod and walked out.

I smoothed down my outfit with a satisfied smile. I’ve been obsessed with clothes and looking good since I was a kid. I used to spend hours searching for the perfect outfit. If I’m being honest, I still do.

I took off my coat, draped it over the chair, and got to work.

I made my way around the facility, inspecting the dresses being sewn and ensuring everything was on track for the launch of our next collection in three months.

Once my routine check was done, I returned to my office to see what I could come up with.

Thirty minutes of sketching, then tearing up those same sketches later, I decided I was wasting my time. Frustrated, I grabbed my coat, threw it over my shoulders, and headed to Marissa’s office .

“I’m going out for a few minutes, probably to the store downtown,” I told her. “If the manager calls back, answer it.”

“What should I tell her?”

“Say whatever you think I would say.”

Her eyes widened considerably, making me chuckle. “You need to grow a mean bone or two, Marissa.”

“I’ll try my best.”

Translation: I can’t do it and will be a nicer version of you.

“While you’re at it, Marissa.” she looked up from her laptop, “don’t skip lunch today. If you do, I’ll fire you.”

She gave me a shy smile but nodded.

It took me almost an hour to get to the store, yet another perk of New York: the traffic.

Even though I’d been here countless times, the sight still took me by surprise whenever I walked through the doors. There was something calming about this place, something that warmed the edges of my heart.

This was our first-ever store. I still remember when it was no bigger than a shoebox. Now, it’s a sprawling three-story space, fully furnished and thriving. The walls were painted a warm cream, with paintings and statues lining the length of the room.

Sometimes, I liked to enter the store and walk around like a customer, seeing it through their eyes. I wanted to experience the same nostalgia they might feel, the sense of wonder I felt when I first started. No matter how bad my day had been, spending a few minutes here always made it better .

“Miss Adira, hi!” Lacy, the store manager, rushed up to me. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“It was a last-minute decision, I assure you.”

She was wearing an Ankara dress—the same one I had gifted all the managers for Christmas last year.

“You look amazing,” I said, and she did a mini twirl. “How’s business today?”

She grimaced slightly, about to respond, when a girl suddenly approached us. She looked genuinely frightened and a little out of place. Leaning in, she whispered something to Lacy, causing her to frown.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

Lacy forced a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. You can wait here.”

“I think I’d rather go with you.”

She pursed her lips but nodded.

I followed Lacy to the section of the store where we kept our Ankara outfits. The girl gestured toward a middle-aged white woman standing in the middle of the aisle before scurrying off.

Lacy exhaled deeply, then walked up to her. “Hi, ma’am. I was told you were having a bit of a problem.”

“Thank goodness they finally sent someone new. That other girl was acting like an idiot.”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t insult our employees,” Lacy said, clasping her hands together. “But I apologize if her service was poor. How can I help you? ”

“Well, the imbecile couldn’t understand that I just wanted this animal print in a color blue-”

“It’s not an animal print.” I cut her off and she turned to me with narrowed eyes.

“Who are you? I was talking to the manager.”

“I’m Adira,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m the owner. You can talk to me now.”

Her frown deepened, and her face turned an impossible shade of red. But she quickly realized I was her only option. Folding her arms in what I assumed was meant to be an I’m superior stance, she fixed me with the meanest look she could muster.

It was honestly laughable. Try growing up in a home with Mr. and Mrs. Arogundade, and you’ll learn the true definition of mean looks.

“As the owner, perhaps it’s time to hire more competent people. None of them have been able to do what I asked It’s not a difficult task. Maybe if you all stopped hired competent people instead of yourselves-”

“Ourselves?” I asked, my brows raising in amusement. “Now what do you mean by that?”

“Don’t try to pin this on me. Everyone in the store looks the same. I can’t even tell the difference between you both.”

A humorless laugh escaped me and I forced myself to breathe deeply through my nose before I said something I’d regret.

“At this moment, I think I’d ask you to leave.”

She had the audacity to look shocked. “Excuse me? You can’t do that. ”

“Actually, I can refuse to offer service to whomever I want. You can put the Ankara back on the rack and leave.”

Her face turned beet red. “You can’t refuse to offer me service because I don’t look like you. That’s being racist.”

“Your color isn’t the reason I’m not selling it to you,” I clarified. “Even if you weren’t being a total bitch right now, I still wouldn’t have sold it to you.”

“How dare you?”

I ignored her.