“Define perimeter,” I said.
His gaze shifted to mine. “Deck, path to the bathroom annex, marked gravel line. Nothing beyond that.”
“Why?”
“Because the reserve doesn’t stop being wild because someone put linens on the bed.”
I stepped out, the dry grass crunching under my boots, and walked toward the tented suite. The pressure of his attention burned between my shoulder blades until the shadow of the eaves swallowed me whole.
My bag hit the floor. The quiet closed in.
Crossing to the deck, I gripped the railing and swept the landscape until my thumb found the pen in my pocket and clicked it once. I stopped myself, fingers curling instead into the rough warmth of the wood.
If I’m going to have a breakdown, I suppose I could do worse than a view of a five-hundred-year-old Baobab tree.
The suite was restraint rendered in canvas, polished wood, and white linen. A peaked roof rose overhead, its beams disappearing into soft folds of gauze that drifted above the bed. The walls were canvas, tied back in places to let the eveningair move through, carrying scents of sandalwood and the faint smoke of a fire somewhere below.
Dark timber framed the room. Woven chairs sat near the open panels. A low trunk anchored the foot of the bed. Lanterns and brass fixtures caught the last of the light with quiet confidence. Nothing felt cluttered, yet nothing felt sparse. Every choice was deliberate, expensive, and pretending very hard not to be.
The linens lifted in the cross-breeze, cool and weighty against the mattress, while the mosquito net shifted overhead like the room was breathing.
The suite invited stillness with an indecent amount of confidence.
I lasted thirty seconds.
Then I set my phone facedown on the campaign-styled writing desk, abandoned the one tragic signal bar to its personal journey, and crossed to the bathroom before my nervous system decided email was a form of self-care.
The shower was an outdoor affair, tucked behind high privacy walls and open to the pale purple wash of early evening sky. Warm water hit my shoulders, sluicing away recycled airplane air, old adrenaline, and the stubborn tension still sitting at the base of my neck. Steam lifted into the cooling air. No safari sounds on a loop. No artificial spa scent pumped through hidden vents. Just water on warm boards, red grass cooling beyond the canvas, and the distant, sharp bark of something in the scrub.
I chose a silk-blend slip dress in a muted olive and sandals sturdy enough to survive the gravel, skipping all jewelry except for my watch. There was no need to look like a tourist. The goal was to look like I owned the ground I walked on.
If I was going to be monitored, I wasn’t going to look uncertain.
A single glance in the mirror confirmed the effect. Copper highlights secured at my nape. Makeup minimal, deliberate—skin evened, lashes defined, hazel eyes sharpened by restraint rather than liner. Nothing ornamental. A woman at rest, if you didn’t look too closely. Yet, despite the silk and the view, my eyes were still scanning the corners of the room for the exit.
The diesel engine rumbled at exactly 7:40 P.M. Nick didn’t get out, and he didn't offer a greeting. I climbed into the passenger seat.
“Evening,” I said.
He nodded once, eyes already back on the track.
We drove the three miles to the lodge in a silence that felt less like a void and more like a shared decision. The air was a cool blade against my bare shoulders, but I didn't reach for my sweater. I kept my gaze on the dark silhouettes of the trees, watching the way the headlights carved a path through the dust.
Dinner was a communal setup at a long table under the open sky. Lanterns cast soft pools of light over a group of CEOs suddenly unsure what to do without an agenda.
Nick stood at the perimeter. He didn't eat. He didn't lean against the pillars of the lodge. He stood just where the lantern light died and the bush began, a vertical line of shadow. His eyes swept the table every few minutes, pausing on me only long enough to confirm I hadn't moved, before returning to the dark.
His presence was a reminder that the luxury ended exactly where the floorboards did.
The conversation drifted toward burnout as wine appeared. They discussed “wellness” while the sommelier decanted a Cabernet in slow, controlled arcs.
Nothing says 'finding your inner peace' quite like a twelve-percent ABV and a vintage cork.
I contributed only when asked. Clean answers. No stories. Across the table, a tech founder was halfway through a monologue about "unplugging," but my attention kept sliding tothe man in the shadows. He hadn't shifted his weight once. He wasn't bored.
He was listening.
Cicadas faltered.
