The drive home was a blur of golden streetlights and a strange, humming silence. Tammy kept her eyes on the road, but her mind was a messy gallery of images: Setto Bello’s intense gaze, the way his locs caught the light, and the tiny, trusting weight of Eliana in his arms.
By the time she walked into her apartment, the air felt thin. She dropped her bag on the sofa, her mind replaying the Google search she had done in the studio and what she had seen.
The Bellos of Gombe.
One of the most storied families in the North, a dynasty of intellect and industry.
Her phone buzzed in her palm.
Femi.
She felt a pang of guilt. Femi was the “safe” answer to her morning prayer, or so she had thought. She took a deep breath and answered.
“Hey, Femi.”
“There she is,” Femi’s voice was warm, consistent. “I’ve been waiting to hear about the big referral. Did you charm them, or was it the other way around?”
“It was... intense,” Tammy said, pacing her living room. “The client is very high-profile. It’s going to take everything I have to….”
Suddenly, her screen lit up with a second call.
Setto Bello.
Her heart didn’t just skip a beat; it seemed to stop entirely. A physical jolt went through her, a visceral reaction she couldn’t explain.
“Femi, I have to go. It’s the client. I’ll call you back.”
“Oh? Did you get the flowers? Is everything okay? You sound a bit…”
Click.
She didn’t let him finish. She switched lines, her voice nearly a whisper.
“Hello?”
“Tammy.”
The way he said her name was like a low chord on a cello– gruff, deep, and impossibly resonant. It wasn’t the tentative voice of a man in a “talking stage.” It was the voice of a man taking up space.
“Hi, Setto,” she replied, sinking onto her velvet sofa.
“I’m not a fan of waiting for ‘appropriate’ hours when my mind is already occupied,” he said, and she could hear the faint sound of a night breeze in the background.
“Are you settled? Do you have time for a real conversation, or am I interrupting the CEO’s rest?”
“I’m settled,” she breathed. “I have time.”
What began as a follow-up on the morphed into an intellectual odyssey.
Setto didn’t do small talk. He bypassed the weather and the traffic, diving straight into the “why” of things.
“I watched you today,” he said, his tone thoughtful.
“You don’t just style people. You curate identities. There’s a precision that looks like it comes from a place of long-standing responsibility. Where did that start?”
Tammy leaned her head back, closing her eyes.
“I think it started in Ibadan. My parents were both academics. My father taught History, my mother was in Linguistics. In our house, words had weight. You didn’t just say things; you meant them. But they’re gone now. They died years ago.”
The silence on the other end was empathetic, not awkward.
“I’m the eldest of four,” Tammy continued. “I have two younger sisters who are married now, thank God, and a ‘baby’ brother who thinks he’s an adult because he’s in the university. I spent my life being the bridge they walked over to get to their futures. I think that’s why I like structured clothes. Structure is the only thing that keeps us together.”
“The Firstborn’s Burden,” Setto rumbled. “You build the fortress so everyone else can sleep soundly, but you’re the one left standing on the ramparts in the rain. I know that vantage point well, Tammy.”
“And you?” she asked.
“The Bellos of Gombe. The pointed noses, the curly hair, the skin that looks like it’s been kissed by the Sahel sun. You look like royalty, Setto. But your locs... they don’t exactly scream ‘conservative Northern heir.’”
Setto laughed, a rich, dark sound.
“I am a Fulani man who prefers a library to a palace. My heritage is Gombe, yes. But the ‘Bello’ name carries a weight that almost crushed us once. So I do not really care about being conservative.”
“I read about the ‘Bello Scandal’ briefly,” Tammy said, her curiosity piqued. “Something about a conversion?”
“It wasn’t just a conversion; it was an earthquake,” Setto said, his voice turning serious.
“My grandfather was the first son of a prominent Imam. When my dad announced he was following Christ, it wasn’t just a personal choice—it was seen as a high-level betrayal of our bloodline and our people. They disinherited him on the spot. He was stripped of his titles and cast out. My father grew up in the shadow of that ‘shame,’ rebuilding the Bello name through sheer, stubborn brilliance in commerce and tech.”
“So, you’re a Christian family,” Tammy whispered, feeling a wave of relief she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“We are,” Setto confirmed.
“But it’s a faith forged in fire, not just Sunday tradition. It’s why Koda is the way she is. She wears her elitism like armor because she grew up feeling like we had to prove we were twice as good as the people who rejected us.
“And it’s why I don’t care much for ‘polite’ society. I’d rather have a conversation that challenges my soul than a gala that feeds my ego.”
Tammy felt a thrill run through her. He was picking her mind apart, layer by layer, and she was letting him.
“How is she?” Tammy asked softly. “The little princess?”
“Eliana Altine is currently a tiny, snoring comma in her crib,” he said, his voice softening with an affection that made Tammy’s heart ache.
“She’s seven months of pure, unadulterated joy. She’s the only person who can make me stop a board meeting with one look.”
“And her mother?” Tammy asked, the question hanging in the air like a bated breath.
Setto paused. The silence lasted for several heartbeats.
“That,” he said, his voice dropping an octave,
“Is a story I won’t tell over a fiber-optic cable. It’s a story for a table with candlelight and the kind of wine that requires patience. I want to look into your eyes when I explain Eliana’s mother to you. Dinner, Tammy. This Friday?”
Tammy’s face burned with a blush so intense she was glad the room was dark. “Friday. I’ll get back to you on that.”
They argued about the aesthetics of modern African architecture, the theological implications of suffering, and why Tammy was so afraid of “leading herself.”
“You’re a woman of immense control, Tammy,” Setto challenged.
“But control is just a sophisticated form of fear. You’re waiting for ‘permission’ to be happy. I don’t think you need it.”
“And you?” she shot back.
“Are you actually as direct as you seem, or is this just a well-rehearsed performance?”
“Stay around long enough,” he whispered, “and you’ll find out I don’t have the patience for performances.”
They talked until the clock hit 2:00 AM. Setto challenged her, pushed her to defend her opinions, and laughed with a genuine warmth when she held her ground.
“You have a formidable mind, Tammy,” he said as they finally prepared to hang up. “Most people are intimidated by the Bello name. You seem more interested in the story behind it.”
“I am barely intimidated by anything, Setto,” she teased gently.
“Hmmmmm….. Goodnight, Stranger at the Supermarket,’” he whispered.
“Goodnight, Setto.”
When the call ended, Tammy stared at her phone. She looked at the white lilies Femi had sent earlier in the day, now sitting on her dining table.
Then she looked at the call log:
Setto Bello — 4 hours, 12 minutes.
She thought back to her prayer that morning. “Don’t let me sabotage it with impatience.”
She had surrendered the wheel, but she hadn’t expected the road to be this steep, this beautiful, or this terrifying.
She picked up her iPad and began to draw up a mood board for Dr Amina Bello’s outfits, but the face she kept drawing in the margins wasn’t the mother’s. It was the son’s, with his deep locs and eyes that seemed to see right through her professional armor.
She opened her laptop and stared at the Google results for Setto Bello.
She saw the pictures of him at international summits, his dreadlocks tied back, looking every bit the modern African titan. But she also saw the older articles, the ones about the religious scandal.
She paused, her finger hovering over a grainy photo of a woman who looked hauntingly like Koda.
Tammy’s heart went into overdrive. She realized she wasn’t just styling his mother’s 60th birthday. She was walking into the heart of a storm that had been brewing in Gombe for decades.
She closed her eyes, clutching her pillow. “God, I said I surrendered,” she whispered. “But I didn’t know surrender would feel like falling.”
Tuesday morning was a study in contrasts. Tammy stood in the center of her studio, the designer was coming to the studio later on. The floor was littered with silk samples and sample sketches the designer sent of Dr. Amina’s grand entrance gown.
Her mind was a whirlwind of the four-hour conversation with Setto Bello, her heart still fluttering at the memory of his deep, gravelly voice.
The chime of the studio door broke her concentration.
It was Femi.
He looked handsome in a simple linen shirt, holding a cup of her favorite drink. He looked “safe.” He looked like the kind of man you marry if you want a life without surprises.
“Morning, Tammy,” he said, leaning over the counter to give her a light, brotherly hug.
“Ready for our big excursion? I’ve got three viewings lined up in Ikoyi. It’s time I moved into the heart of the action.”
Tammy looked at him, and for a split second, she felt a wave of crushing guilt.
She thought about his kindness, the way he always remembered her coffee order, and his mother’s prayers.
He was a good man. An easy-going man. Why can’t this just be enough? she wondered.
She started comparing the steady, calm waters of Femi to the unpredictable, deep-sea storm that was Setto. Then she shook her head, physically trying to rattle the thoughts out. It wasn’t fair to either of them.
“Femi, I... I can’t go,” she said, her voice soft but firm.
Femi’s smile faltered. “Oh? Did something come up?”
“The referral from yesterday. The client’s 60th is in less than a month. It’s not just one dress; it’s a whole series for the pre-event shoot, the thanksgiving, and the main reception. I’m on a very tight deadline. I need to be here, Femi.”
He looked at her for a long moment, the disappointment clear in his eyes. He set the latte down on the table.
“I understand. Work is important. It’s just... I was looking forward to your eye for detail. I wanted this house to feel like somewhere you’d actually like to visit or stay.”
He paused, then tilted his head.
“By the way, you never called back last night. I stayed up for a bit waiting.”
Tammy felt the heat rise to her face. “I’m so sorry. The call I took... it just went on for much longer than I realized. By the time I was off, it was way past midnight.”
As if on cue, as if the universe wanted to test her heart in real-time. Her phone on the desk vibrated. The screen lit up:
Setto Bello.
She froze.
Her hand hovered over the phone, her pulse suddenly drumming in her ears.
She picked up, her voice slightly breathless.
“Hello?”
“I’m in your neighborhood,” Setto’s voice rumbled through the speaker, sounding even more commanding in the daylight.
“I’m passing by the studio. I have something for you. Can I drop by, or are you in the middle of a masterpiece?”
Tammy glanced at Femi, who was watching her with a growing, intuitive frown.
“Uhhh... yes,” she stuttered, her professional composure failing her.
“Yes, you can... you can drop by. I’m here.”
She ended the call and couldn’t even look Femi in the eye.
“The client?” Femi asked, his voice now clipped, the warmth gone.
“Her... her son. He’s coming to drop something off for his mom’s dress, I guess,” Tammy managed.
Femi nodded slowly. He was a man of peace, but he wasn’t blind.
There was a shift in the air, a tension he didn’t recognize.
“I should go. No point in me hanging around if you’re busy.”
“Femi, I’m really sorry about the house hunting,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm, but he subtly stepped back.
“It’s fine, Tammy. I’ll see you later.”
He stepped out of the studio, the humid Lagos air hitting his face.
As he walked toward his car, a sleek, matte black SUV, the kind that screamed quiet, untouchable wealth, slid into the parking space right in front of the building.
Femi stopped for a second, his eyes widening.
He knew cars, and this wasn’t just a vehicle; it was a statement.
He felt a weird sinking feeling in his spirit, a nudge of intuition that told him the ground was shifting beneath his feet.
He decided to just trust Tammy, but the weight of it was heavy.
The driver’s door opened, and a man stepped out.
Femi thought he looked familiar.
Setto was dressed in a casual charcoal polo that emphasized his broad frame, his dreadlocks pulled back neatly.
In his hand, he carried a beautifully packaged bag from an exquisite, high-end bistro known for its privacy and prices.
Setto didn’t see Femi. He was focused on the glass doors of Atelier Tami, a small, knowing smirk on his face.
Femi watched him for a heartbeat, feeling small in a way he couldn’t quite describe.
He didn’t wait to see Setto enter. He got into his own car and drove away, trying to swallow the lump in his throat and tell himself that everything was still under control.
The moment Setto stepped through the glass doors, the atmosphere in the studio didn’t just change; it surrendered.
He brought with him a scent that was the very definition of quiet luxury– not the sharp, stinging alcohol of cheap sprays, but something deep and elemental.
It smelled of aged oud, smoked vetiver, and a hint of warm, spicy cardamom.
It was the scent of a man who traveled the world but kept the earth of the Sahel in his soul.
Tammy felt the air leave her lungs.
Her knees gave a traitorous wobble, and for a split second, she felt like she might actually swoon.
She gripped the edge of her desk, her knuckles turning white as she forced her professional mask back into place.
“You’re late for your brunch,” Setto said, his voice dropping into that familiar, low rumble that felt like a vibration in her chest.
“I didn’t know I had a brunch appointment,” Tammy countered, trying to sound busier than she felt.
She gestured vaguely at her iPad as she put together a moodboard.
“I have deadlines. Serious ones. I can’t just stop because a Bello decides to walk in.” She smiled.
Setto walked toward her, bypassing the ‘client’ boundary entirely.
He stood so close she could feel the heat radiating off his broad frame.
Without a word, he reached out and gently took the Apple Pencil from her hand, setting it down on the table.
“Deadlines are for people who don’t have friends to remind them to breathe,” he said, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her mouth go dry.
“You’ve been drawing up a mood board for hours. Your eyes are tired, and you are hungry. Eat, Tammy. Your lookbook isn’t going anywhere.”
“I really shouldn’t….”
“I didn’t ask,” he interrupted, a small, devastating smirk playing on his lips.
“I’m a man who knows what he wants, and right now, I want you to sit down.”
Tammy melted.
There was no other word for it. The armor she had worn since her parents died, the armor of the “responsible firstborn” who had to do everything herself– simply dissolved under the weight of his care.
“Fine,” she whispered, a blush creeping up her neck.
“I’ll eat.”
Setto turned to the corner where Chioma, Tammy’s assistant, was trying very hard to look like she was filing papers while actually eavesdropping with wide eyes.
“Chioma, right?” Setto asked.
“Yes, sir!” she chirped, straightening up instantly.
“Ohhh I got it right. There’s a package in there for you too. Truffle pasta and grilled prawns. Don’t let your boss overwork you today.”
Chioma looked like she had just won the lottery.
“Oh, thank you, sir! God bless you, sir!” She clutched the bag to her chest, beaming at Tammy, who could only roll her eyes affectionately.
They sat in the small, sun-drenched lounge area of the studio.
As they ate, the conversation flowed with a frightening ease.
It was as if their four-hour call from the night before had simply paused and restarted.
There was no awkwardness, no “getting to know you” hurdles. Just a deep, intuitive rhythm.
“Koda called me this morning,” Setto mentioned, leaning back against the cream sofa.
“She’s still complaining that your studio is ‘too minimalist’ for her taste. Don’t mind her. She uses arrogance to fill the spaces where she feels judged.”
“I don’t mind her,” Tammy said, surprisingly comfortable.
“I actually think I see a bit of myself in her. That need to control the environment so it can’t hurt you.”
Setto’s expression softened.
“You’re too perceptive for your own good. It hasn’t been easy for her, nor for any of us. Since the family converted, every room we walk into is a battlefield. To the traditionalists, we are outcasts. To the elite, we are a ‘curiosity.’ It forces you to grow a very thick skin.”
“It sounds lonely,” Tammy noted softly.
“It was. Until Eliana arrived,” Setto smiled, and the change in his face was breathtaking.
“She doesn’t know about scandals or disinheritance. She just knows when she wants her bottle and that her father is the best person to pull hair from. She’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever known, Tammy. I think she’s the only one of us who is truly free.”
Tammy watched the way his eyes lit up when he spoke of his daughter.
It wasn’t just “swoon-worthy”; it was soul-stirring.
She found herself sharing things she rarely told anyone in recent times.
The weight of her siblings’ expectations and the quiet fears she had about Atelier Tami’s future.
Suddenly, Chioma cleared her throat, looking nervously at her watch.
“Um, Ma? Sorry to interrupt, but it’s 1:00 PM already. We have that fitting appointment in Ikoyi by 3:00 PM. We need to leave by 2:00 PM latest if we’re going to beat the bridge traffic.”
Tammy blinked, startled. “1:00? How? We’ve been talking for...”
“Over two hours,” Setto finished for her, looking at his own gold watch.
He didn’t look annoyed; he looked satisfied.
“Time flies when you’re in the right company.”
He stood up, his height dominating the room again.
“I have a meeting in that area too. My driver is downstairs. I’ll drop you and Chioma off. No need to stress yourself with a Lagos Uber or your own car in this sun.”
Chioma’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “In... in that car, sir?”
Tammy gave her a sharp, “don’t-embarrass-me” look.
Chioma instantly composed her face into a neutral mask, though her hands were trembling with excitement as she gathered the bags.
As they walked out to the parking lot, the black SUV sat there like a sleek panther.
The driver held the door open, and as Tammy stepped inside, the scent of the interior hit her. Expensive leather, more of Setto’s intoxicating perfume, and a coolness that felt like a sanctuary from the Lagos heat.
Chioma slid into the front seat, her back straight as a board, trying to look like she rode in multi-million naira vehicles every day.
As the door clicked shut, sealing them into a world of muffled silence and plush luxury, Chioma couldn’t help it.
She leaned back against the headrest and let out a long, shaky sigh of pure relief.
“Ma,” she whispered, just loud enough for Tammy to hear.
“I don’t think I can ever go back to a regular car again. My body has rejected poverty.”
Tammy laughed, but as she looked at Setto sitting beside her, his long legs crossed, looking perfectly at home in the opulence, she felt a different kind of sigh in her own chest.
She wasn’t just entering a car.
She was entering a world she wasn’t sure she was prepared for. But as Setto caught her gaze and gave her a small, reassuring nod, she realized she didn’t want to get out.
Hi babiessssssss……
Our ship is sailing 🤭🤭
Let’s run up the engagement on this chapter. Saved by Grace will be posted by evening today💙💙
My babiesssss..
I understand how you all feel about Femi.
My heart breaks for Femi too, especially seeing how everyone has been rooting for him and feeling his pain. It’s not easy writing a character into heartbreak, particularly one who has shown little to no flaw.
But this is the direction of the story that Abba led me to write.
Sometimes, in the process of walking in God’s will, people still get hurt. That doesn’t make it intentional or malicious, it just makes it human.
Tammy probably should have been more patient instead of giving Femi the green light. But she’s human.
At the end of the day, she wants to feel loved. She wants the comfort of knowing she belongs to someone, even if her heart isn’t fully settled.
And in trying to fill that space, she ended up stringing Femi along.
It’s painful, yes. But pain is often part of refinement.
In the end, I believe God will heal them both and use even this for their growth.
Ps: This story is a lesson for someone who just wants to jump into anything with anyone because they feel single and lonely.
God writes the best story. Be patient and wait on him💙💙
Femii😔
I feel for him small sha
It will feel like she is picking Setto for his money
I want to trust God in him sha. That he'll take it in good faith😔😹😹