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Chapter 18: King

She walks back into the penthouse just before noon. I see it on her the moment the door closes behind her. Settled anger. 

She finds me at the dining table, reviewing the final invoices from the party. She doesn’t sit. She stands across from me, hands bracing the back of a chair.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice is clear, but it has a rough edge, like she’s been shouting. “For whatever storm she brings down on us. On Barrett Brothers. I should have…”

She trails off. 

“What happened, Deze?”

She takes a breath and tells me about Nkene’s proposal the day she came to ask us to handle her children’s birthday.

“I should have told you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t want it to be your burden or for you to see me as a victim. I’m sorry.”

“And today? What happened?”

The anger on her face returns, and she lays it out like a disaster report. When she finishes, she finally sits, looking drained.

“She’s backed into a corner,” I say. “Cornered animals are dangerous, but they’re also predictable.”

“She’s a woman with power and nothing left to lose. That’s more dangerous.”

She’s right. The calculation shifts in my head. I think of the other offer on the table. The one I have not mentioned to her.

At the private breakfast, the First Son leaned over his grapefruit and spoke in a low tone. “Barrett. You run a tight ship. I like that. My father’s campaign for reelection kicks off next year. It will be… substantial. A lot of moving parts. We need a firm that understands discretion as well as design. I want to buy a stake in your company and create a wing just for political campaigns. It would be a very lucrative partnership.”

I knew what it was. It wasn’t an investment. It was a purchase. A way to turn Barrett Brothers into a sleek, legitimate-looking conduit for moving campaign cash. For over-invoicing, for kickbacks, for laundering favors into funds. He didn’t care about my skill. He was buying my company’s bank accounts and my silence.

I declined. Politely. Firmly. I said we were honored but preferred to remain independent contractors. He smiled, said he understood, and the subject was dropped. But the offer, like a virus, remained in the room.

Now, with Nkene threatening to ruin our credibility and legal standing to bits, that toxic offer starts to look like a potential shield. Aligning with the biggest power in the country could inoculate us against a minister’s vengeful wife. It is a disgusting thought. It feels like choosing which poison to swallow.

“We’ll call her bluff,” I say. “She has more to lose by dragging that case back into the light. It would expose her own manipulations. Her husband’s corruption. She’s bluffing.”

“And if she’s not?”

I don’t have an answer for that. Not one I want to voice. Instead, I voice the other idea, the one that curdles in my stomach. “There’s another option. I could have a talk with Yele. Man to man. Explain that his wife’s war with you is about to spill over and cause problems for everyone. Suggest he… reins her in.”

Deze’s reaction is instantaneous. “No.” She shoots to her feet. “Abeg, no. You will not go and beg that man for anything. Especially not over me.”

“It’s not begging, Cora. It’s a negotiation.”

“It’s you walking into the lion’s den because of my mess. I won’t allow it.” She crosses her arms. “If anyone is going to talk to him, it should be me. I’m the one he has a history with. I’m the one Nkene is using as a weapon.”

The idea of her alone in a room with Yele sends a jolt of something cold and protective through me. “That’s a worse idea.”

“It’s the only idea that makes sense. He… understands me. The power dynamic. I can handle him.”

I stand and walk around the table to her. I take her face in my hands. She is still vibrating with that fierce energy. “You don’t have to handle him alone. Not anymore.”

She rests her forehead on my tummy. “I know, Kingston. I know.”

We stay like that for a moment. The weight of it all presses down, and the poisonous offer from the First Son hangs in the back of my mind like a last resort.

I pull back and look at her. I make my voice calm. “Don’t worry about Nkene. She’ll burn down the world to keep her title and her position. She’ll let Yele have a thousand mistresses before she allows a divorce petition soil her reputation. You’re not her primary target. You’re a tool that didn’t work. She’ll find another. Her war is with her husband, not with you.”

I say it to convince her and myself. I hope to God it’s true. Because if it’s not, the safe, principled path I’ve built is gone, and I will be left staring at a choice between two different kinds of ruin.

***

Deze spends the day at her family house, planning her mom’s birthday. She needs the noise and the normalcy.

I stay. The penthouse is too quiet without her. I fill the silence with work.

Solape and two of her Eko Events accountants arrive in the afternoon. We spread out across the dining table, a landscape of spreadsheets and printer paper. The numbers from the First Son’s events are a complex beast. The initial advances are gone, swallowed by deposits and premiums. We reconcile, we negotiate payment plans, we shift numbers from one column to another. It is a financial ballet, and every step must be precise. 

By the time they leave, the late afternoon sun is bleeding orange over into the apartment. My head throbs with a low, persistent ache. The work is a good distraction, but it’s just a buffer. The real problems of Nkene’s threat and the ghost of the First Son’s offer sit in the quiet corners of my mind.

Nabil texts: Drinks?

I reply: Where?

I need the air and to not think in spreadsheets.

***

The place is a quiet, wood-paneled bar in a discreet hotel. It’s the kind of place where powerful men go to not be seen. Nabil is already at a corner table when I arrive, a glass of cognac in front of him. He doesn’t do alcohol unless he’s extremely happy or the opposite.

I order a whiskey. We sit in comfortable silence for a minute, the ice in our glasses clinking.

“How is she?” he asks finally. He doesn’t need to say her name.

“With her family. Planning her mother’s birthday.”

He nods, a faint smile touching his lips. He takes a sip. “And you? Surviving the post-event accounting hell?”

“Done.” I study him. There’s a new gravity to him, a quiet bruise behind the eyes. “What happened with you two? The other night looked… definitive.”

He swirls the liquid in his glass. “We hung out. We talked. We…” He pauses, choosing his words with a lawyer’s care. “It was intense. A lot of years in one night. But Fanasiba… her heart is elsewhere. It always has been.”

“Zulu.”

He nods. He doesn’t seem angry. Just resigned to a truth he’s known for a very long time.

“How long have you known her?” I ask. I know pieces of it. The broad strokes. But I want to hear him say it.

“Twelve years,” he says, and his voice softens, drifting into the past. “She was fresh out of university. Interning at her father’s holding company. I was a junior associate at my father’s firm, handling their mergers. She was this… force of nature. Quiet, but sharp. So sharp. She’d sit in these tedious board meetings and ask the one question that would unravel the whole proposal.” He smiles at the memory. “I wasn’t married then, she wasn’t. We became more than friends. For a while.”

He doesn’t elaborate on the ‘more.’

“Then Zulu came into the picture,” I say.

“She just needed to hang out with him once, and that was all.” He says it without bitterness. “Then, she got married to that bastard.”

“And now?” I ask. “What’s the understanding?”

He looks up, meeting my eyes. “That we are two adults who care for each other, who have a history, and who are both… lonely in the same way. The understanding is that we can be there for each other. In whatever way works. For now, that way is physical. It’s easier. No promises. No future talks. Just… company.”

“Just sex,” I clarify.

“If that’s what you want to call it. I’d rather have a part of her than none of her. Even if it’s just a temporary shelter.”

It’s an overwhelmingly honest admission. The kind of compromise a proud man makes when he’s already lost the war.

“And after?” I press. “When she’s… done with her divorce and Zulu becomes a solid option?”

He shrugs. “Then we’ll be done. And I’ll go back to my life.”

“Do you have plans to marry again? Ever?”

The question seems to surprise him. He thinks about it, truly thinks, then shakes his head. “No. If it’s not her, it’s nobody else. I’m not built for half-measures in that department.” He takes a long drink. “It’s a peaceful enough existence.”

There’s a finality in his tone that closes the subject. He has drawn his lines, calculated his pain, and accepted the terms. I understand it. The controlled management of an uncontrollable emotion. It’s what I’ve done for years with Don. It’s what I’m trying not to do with Deze.

We finish our drinks in a silence that is both heavy and companionable. Two men, nursing different kinds of quiet heartbreak, finding a fraction of solace in not having to explain it.

***

Back in the penthouse, with Deze still absent, Nkene’s threat hangs over me. It is a chess move I can’t fully calculate, and it grates against every instinct I have.

I pick up my phone and call Sody.

She answers on the third ring. Her voice is bright with laughter and background music. “Big bro. To what do I owe this midnight interrogation?”

“It’s not yet midnight, madam.”

“Are you serious? God! I’m so high.”

“Just checking in,” I say. “How are you? How is the studio?”

“The studio is a beautiful mess, as always. I’m good. You sound like a man with a weight on his chest. Talk.”

She knows. She always knows. “I’m fine. Are you eating properly? That last artist residency looked like it was feeding you only inspiration and cigarettes.”

She laughs. “King, get to the point. What’s wrong?”

I hesitate. The words feel foolish in my mouth, but Sody is the only one who would not laugh at them. “Have you… dreamt anything lately? About me. Or sensed anything.”

The line goes quiet for a beat. Then her laughter breaks in. “Oh. Oh, wow. You’re asking me for a spiritual reading. The great King Barrett, who believes in spreadsheets and five-year plans, is asking his little sister if she’s had a vision.” Her tone shifts, teasing and tender. “This is about Deze, isn’t it? I knew it. I knew she was the one. A good woman really does change you. She makes you worry about things beyond your control.”

“Sody. Answer the question.”

She sighs, the humor leaving her voice. “No. I haven’t dreamt anything specific. No visions, no bad feelings about you. But I know this. That woman… she has a light around her. A strong one. And it’s tangled up with yours now. I don’t need a dream to see that. No one can take her from you. Not unless she chooses to go.”

Her words are meant to comfort me, but they land directly on my fear. No one can take her from you. It makes me think of all the ways someone could try.

“But,” Sody continues, sighing. “Don…”

“What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. The water around him is dark. Troubled. I don’t know what he’s done, but it’s deep. Did he talk to you?”

“No.”

“Good. When he eventually does, please, don’t carry his wahala on your head as you always do. Let his trouble be his trouble. For once in your life, King, be the little brother. Let him handle his own mess. If you keep pulling him out, he will drown you trying to save himself.”

“I hear you.”

“Back to Deze. Trust her light. It’s stronger than any darkness circling you.”

We say goodbye. I sit in the quiet, her words mixing with the silence until the door clicks and opens.

Deze walks in. She looks drained, the vibrant energy she left with this morning replaced by a deep fatigue. She drops her handbag, kicks off her shoes, and leans against the door.

I smile. I’m getting used to her messiness, even stopping myself from cleaning up after her.

I stand. “Long day.”

“The longest.” She manages a small smile. “My mother is a dictator. God!”

I walk to her, take her hand, and lead her down the hall to her bathroom. I don’t ask. I rinse the bathtub, plug the drain and start the water. She watches me with gratitude in her eyes.

When the tub is full, steam curling in the air, she undresses. I do the same. We sink into the hot water together, her back against my chest. The heat works into my muscles, into the worry. For a few minutes, there is only the sound of our breathing and the soft lap of water.

Then her phone buzzes on the ledge. She tenses. She reaches for it.

I feel the change in her body. She doesn’t speak. She just passes the phone to me.

The screen glows in the steamy room.

A message from an unknown number, but the content makes the sender clear.

Adaeze. We need to talk. Breakfast. 8 AM. The Room Cafe. Be discreet. -Y

She takes the phone back. “I have to go.”

“No.” The word is out before I can think. I shift in the water, turning her to face me. You don’t have to go anywhere near him ever again.”

“King, he won’t stop. If I don’t go, he’ll keep bugging me. I can handle one meeting and end it all.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” My voice is tight. The image of her across a table from him, under his gaze, makes my skin prickle. “He doesn’t get to summon you. Not anymore.”

“It’s not a summons. It’s a negotiation. I can end this.”

“By walking into his trap? No.” I hold her gaze, letting her see the absolute refusal in mine. “I won’t let you. I can’t.”

She searches my face. The fight in her eyes is real, but it’s tempered by exhaustion, and by something else—a reluctant trust. I’m not being possessive. I’m being protective in a way that comes from strategy, not insecurity.

She lets out a long, slow breath, her shoulders slumping. “Okay,” she whispers. 

We get out of the bath and dry off in silence. In bed, I pull her to me, her back against my chest, my arm around her waist. I hold her like I can shield her from the entire city outside. She relaxes into me, her breathing eventually becoming deep and even.

When the first light filters through the blinds hours later, I carefully extract myself. I do some work online, talk to my mom on the phone and return to my room to see Deze still curled up under the blanket.

“Trying to be lazy for just a few hours,” she says. I kiss her, then dress up in simple, dark trousers and a neutral shirt. I take the spare keycard, the car key and my phone.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“You know.”

She doesn’t stop me.

***

I arrive at The Room Café just before eight. 

Yele sits outside, in a discreet area, on a cushioned wicker chair, back against the wall. He’s sipping coffee, reading a newspaper. He looks relaxed, in control. He expects her.

The sound of my footsteps on the tile makes him look up.

His expression shifts. The relaxed confidence evaporates. First there is confusion, then a dawning comprehension that tightens his jaw. 

I stand by his table. He doesn’t invite me to sit.

“Chief Yele,” I say in a flat tone.

He folds his newspaper with deliberate slowness. He places it on the empty space beside him. He looks up at me, and his expression is a mask of amused disdain. “Barrett. This is a surprise. I was expecting a more… pleasant breakfast companion.”

“She’s not coming,” I say. “You will not contact her again. You will instruct your wife to cease her threats. Adaeze is done with both of you.”

He leans back in his wicker chair. The smile on his face is cold. “Adaeze is done? Is that what she told you? Or is that what you need to believe?” He takes a drink of his coffee. “What do you have, Barrett? Really. A nice little business. A good eye for logistics. What do you have that can keep a woman like that? She is destined for rooms even you cannot gain entry into. She will become bigger than you. You know it. I know it.”

I refuse to acknowledge his words. I keep my face still. “That’s her path to walk. Not yours to dictate. Stay away from her.”

He laughs. “Or what? You will hide behind the First Son? Do you think that is real power? That boy’s father will lose this election. His house is built on sand.”

“Are you done? I have to go.”

His eyes change then. The pretense drops away, revealing something cruel underneath. He leans forward. “Tell me, Barrett. Has she gone down on you yet?”

The question hits me like a physical blow. He sees it and goes for blood. “She’s so skillful with her tongue. The things she can do without using her hands. Has she let go for you? Really let go? Lost control completely? Squirted multiple times and made a mess of your sheets? Has she been… unguarded enough to touch herself in front of you, to let you watch her fall apart? Or is she showing you her good girl side? I mean, that would be understandable because you’re just the boyfriend. With me, there is no judgment. Just raw, primal wildness.”

Every word is a carefully aimed knife, painting a picture in my head I cannot unsee. My hands curl into fists at my sides. There are no words to counter this. Any denial or anger only makes me a participant in his filth.

“Grow up, Yele. And stay away from her, if you value what’s left of your position.”

I walk away. I feel his gaze on my back, satisfied. He has won this round. He has planted a seed.

The drive back to Ikoyi is a blur. The morning sun is too bright. His words play on a loop in my head. They attach themselves to every memory I have of her, tainting them. I see his hands where mine have been. I hear his voice describing acts in the quiet dark she and I have shared. It is a violation that feels almost physical.

I let myself into the penthouse. She is in the living room, wearing my t-shirt, but her makeup for her mom’s event is in place and her wig is perfectly styled. But all I can see is the ghost he has conjured. The other versions of her, in other rooms, with him.

She turns, a smile on her face that fades as she takes in my expression. “King? What’s wrong? What happened?”

I don’t answer. I walk to my bathroom and run the shower cold, willing the coolness of the water to calm me and erase my wild thoughts.

“King?”

She’s behind me, standing at the doorway, watching me bathe. When I’m done, I wrap myself in a towel and stand in front of her.

“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s settled.”

“Fine,” she says and walks away. I follow her back to the living room. “No, it’s not fine.” She swivels, leaning against the dining table. “I want to know how it went.”

“Nothing that should concern you.”

“Is that how we’re doing now? You tell me to open up to you and then…”

I march up to her and stop her words with a kiss. It is not a gentle kiss. It is desperate and possessive, an attempt to erase the images seared in my head by Yele. A low sound escapes her, one of surprise that melts into acceptance as my hand finds her bum.

I lift her onto the edge of the dining table. The t-shirt rides up, exposing her supple thighs and her nudity underneath.

She doesn’t seem surprised at my sudden actions. She tilts her head, a slow, knowing look in her eyes. I’m beginning to learn things about this woman. She matches me, desire for desire, always ready whenever I am, no questions asked. That should be enough. It should be all the bad girl I need. But I want more. I want to see the layers she hides from me.

 I take the t-shirt off her body, exposing her completely. Her breath hikes, but she doesn’t shrink away or act shy. She just spreads her legs, letting me see everything. The clean-shaven presentation between them, the way her eyes dare me. 

Mine. The word screams in my head, drowning out everything else. I don’t ask. I don’t warn. I drag her to the edge and take.

My mouth finds her nipple before she can gasp, teeth scraping it until she arches off the table. She tastes like sweetness and submission—or so I want to think. I suck harder, biting down just enough to make her moan. My hand slides down her stomach, fingers spreading her open, finding her wet and ready. 

“Fuck,” I growl in her ear, thrusting a finger inside without preamble. She clenches around me, nails digging into my shoulders. I thrust another finger, dragging a choked whimper from her throat.

You’re still doing what she likes, a voice tells me, as I recall her listing the things she enjoys sexually. How about the things she hides from you? You saw the rose toy in her closet. Has she used that in front of you?

I shut my eyes to drown the voice, concentrating on how her hips rock against my hand, greedy, desperate. I palm her breast with my other hand. I can feel her pulse where my fingers are buried inside her, feel her g-spot coming alive, and smell her arousal as it intensifies. This is pure, filthy surrender.

I pull my fingers free. I should stop now and get myself together, but she’s undoing my towel, her eyes never breaking contact with mine.

I line myself up. No words. No protection. Just the brutal, possessive drive to claim what is mine. I push into her in one rough thrust, and she takes it with a choked cry. 

She’s perfect. Her legs lock me in as I set the rhythm. Every snap of my hips is a brand and a reminder that this is where she belongs. With me. Beside me. Under me. Around me. Taking every inch, every brutal stroke, until neither of us can breathe.

She claws at my shoulders, her moans ragged and broken. I bend her back over the table, gripping her thighs to keep her wide enough. She’s screaming my name, but I didn’t slow down. I can’t. I pull her back up and kiss her, holding her chin in place. Her eyes are glazed, filled with affection and a knowing look. She puts her arms around my neck and says, “Cum inside me.”

Mine. Only mine.

I lose it. I drive into her once, twice, then bury myself deep as the heat rips through me. No pulling out. Just me, marking her in the most intimate way possible. Her thighs tremble against my hips, her breath coming in shaky pants, but I don’t let go. Not yet. Not I’m totally spent and the possessive ache in my chest dulls to something softer.

I hold her there, my forehead pressed to hers. Moments later, she leans back to look at my face.

“What was that about?” she asks. “Was that… marking your territory? After seeing him?”

“Don’t,” I warn, my voice rough. “Never say his name again.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“I’ve taken care of it,” I say and pick up my towel.

She slides off the table. “I need to clean up.”

***

We drive in silence toward the party venue. Sody’s words come back to me, a reprimand in my sister’s gentle voice. Trust her light.

I glance at Deze. Her profile is tense, her gaze fixed out the window.

“I’m sorry,” I say into the quiet. “For being rough.”

She doesn’t look at me. “I like rough.” Then, “We need to stop at a pharmacy.”

I pull over at the next pharmacy. She gets out without a word and walks inside. I watch her go, and a wave of self-disgust washes over me. I let him get under my skin. I let him turn my fear into something that stupid and acted like the thing I despise.

She returns, a small paper bag in her hand. She gets in the car.

I turn to her before I start the engine. “Deze. I am truly sorry. That was… not me.”

She looks at me. Her eyes are clear, but guarded. “It’s okay. He gets in people’s heads. I know.” She reaches into the bag and pulls out a small box. She places it in the cupholder between us. It’s a roll of condoms.

“Let’s not take that risk again.”

The finality of and pragmatic responsibility reminds me of the woman I’m dating. It clears the last of the ugly haze in my mind. I lean over and kiss her softly. Apology, gratitude, a silent promise. She kisses me back, her hand coming up to touch my jaw.

***

The party venue is a grand ballroom, and it is already a spectacle of royal blue and silver. Aisles are lined with draping fabric, centerpieces tower with artificial silver orchids and hydrangeas, and chairs are tied with thick silk ribbons. The scale is immense. I had expected a large family gathering, but this is a full-blown society event. I am deeply grateful for my own obsessive preparation. My outfit is a deep, rich navy in the senator style, just enough to show respect for the occasion without appearing to compete. I look like I belong, which is the only goal.

Deze moves through the pre-event chaos like a field marshal, and I am her assigned escort. She checks place cards, murmurs to waiters, adjusts a flower arrangement with a single touch. My eyes catch framed posters featuring her mother’s photo. Eguono @ 65. The name gives me pause. I lean close, my voice low near her ear so she can hear me.

“Eguono. That’s not an Igbo name.”

She doesn’t look at me. Her gaze is fixed on a silver charger plate that is slightly off-center. “No,” she says. “My mother is Isoko.”

“Isoko?” I ask. “From Delta State?”

“Yes. Isoko. From Delta State.” She smiles. She enjoys revealing these layers.

“And you understand the language?” I am genuinely curious. 

“A little. Fragments. Kitchen language. We spoke Igbo at home. English everywhere else.” She turns back to her inspection, but I have one more question.

“What is your Isoko name?” I ask. 

She opens her mouth to answer, when a new voice that sounds like hers but sharper, cuts between us.

“You! Finally! The world’s busiest event planner finally shows up for her own mother’s birthday!”

A young woman materializes in front of us. She is so light skin I almost believe she’s mixed race. She wears a splash of vibrant silver in her asoebi, her hair styled in elaborate braids coiled atop her head. This is Queen, if I’m right.

Deze closes her eyes for a patient second. “Lower your voice. Have the planners I hired messed anything up?”

“The planners are fine,” Queen says, waving a dismissive hand. “But it doesn’t matter! This is Mommy’s day. You are her first daughter. You have to be here before the hired help, not making a grand entrance with the…” Her complaint halts as her eyes, which had been locked on Deze, finally slide over to me. The annoyance disappears, replaced by a look of immediate, intense scrutiny. Her entire posture changes. She becomes poised, assessing.

She extends a manicured hand, her smile now dazzling and deliberate. “Hi. You must be the famous King Barrett I spoke to. I’m Nenye. But everyone calls me Queen.” Her grip is firm, and she does not let go.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Queen,” I respond. “Deze has told me many stories.”

Her eyes widen just a fraction. She is listening to the timbre of my words, not just their meaning. She is openly charmed, and she tries to hide it. “So, you’re the one keeping my sister so preoccupied in Lagos… and Abuja.”

“If you put it that way.”

“That means you’ll soon put a ring on that finger?”

“Nenye!” Deze scolds. I smile. It’s hard to reconcile that Deze is the older sister. Queen looks and sounds like the senior. Her boldness is unbelievable. Deze’s hand closes around my bicep like a clamp.

“Be going abeg,” Deze says rudely. “King, we need to go and greet my parents before the floodgates open.” She pulls me away with a force that surprises me.

“Nice to meet you, King!” Queen yells after us. “Don’t be a stranger!”

Deze marches me through a side door marked ‘Private’, leaving the noise of the hall behind. We are in a carpeted hallway that leads to a suite of quieter rooms. “I apologize for my sister. She’s always like that.”

“She’s protective,” I say.

We enter a spacious sitting room. Two men are standing and having a discussion as we enter. One of them, I instantly recognize as Chika. He recognizes me too and smiles. 

“King! Good to see you again, man. Welcome.” He shakes my hand with both of his, a gesture of warm inclusion.

“Thank you.” 

The other man is Zulu, having the same complexion as Queen, just slightly lighter than Chika’s. Zulu does not smile at me. His gaze is slow and a comprehensive sweep, from my shoes, to my face. He is not judging the clothes. He is appraising the man inside them. 

“Zulu, this is King Barrett,” Deze says. “King, my brother, Zulu.”

After a silence that stretches to the edge of rudeness, he gives a single, shallow nod. “Barrett.”

“Zulu,” I reply, matching his tone. 

Deze squeezes my arm, a silent infusion of strength. “Ready?” she asks.

I nod.

She leads me to a closed door, knocks once, and opens it.

The inner room is smaller, intimate. Her parents are seated side-by-side on a plush settee, heads bent over the schedule of events. Eguono Nnadi is regal in an exquisite blue and silver lace outfit, her head-tie a masterpiece of folded fabric. Her children, asides, Deze, got their complexion from her. Deze is a spitting image of John Nnadi, who looks distinguished in royal blue. 

Deze moves forward. “Daddy, Mommy, this is King Barrett.”

I step into the space she has created. I move first to her mother. I bow. “Good afternoon, Mommy. Happy birthday. You look absolutely radiant.” The words are formal, but I mean them.

She smiles. “Welcome, King Barrett. Thank you.”

I turn to her father with another respectful bow. “Sir, it’s an honor to meet you.”

Mr. Nnadi’s gaze is like a physical weight. It is shrewd, intelligent, and misses nothing. He takes my measure in the span of that bow. “Welcome, King. Adaeze has mentioned your professional partnership. You had a successful season in Abuja, I hear.”

“By the grace of God, sir. And your daughter’s exceptional skill.” I keep my eyes meeting his. There is no point in false modesty here, only respect.

A faint hint of approval might touch his eyes. Might.

Deze hovers slightly. The tension in her frame is obvious. I present the gift bag I’ve been carrying with both hands. “A small token for your day, Mommy. I hope it brings you pleasure.”

She accepts it and places it on her lap with a pat. “You did not need to, but thank you. It is thoughtful.”

We exchange a few more pleasantries—comments on the party’s beauty, hopes for a smooth event. The conversation is polite. I can still feel their scrutiny. It is not hostile, but it is utterly serious. I am a variable in their daughter’s equation, and they are solving for X.

After a few minutes, Deze touches my elbow. “We need to go so that I can have a word with the photographers.” She faces her parents. “Later.”

When we step out, Chika is gone.

“King, give me a minute.”

She’s about to leave when Zulu asks after Fana. Deze’s response is a harsh stare.

“She’s running far away from you.”

She hurries out, and I’m left with Zulu. The air becomes tight. 

He looks at me and doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then he gestures with his chin toward the door leading back to the main hall. “You drink?”

“I do.”

“Good. The bar is open. Let’s get one before chaos descends.”

***

The party is a long, joyful, deeply traditional affair. The wealth in the room is comfortable, generational, not the sharp, predatory kind from the First Son’s world. This is a celebration of a woman who has built a legacy. The tables are loaded with food, and drinks flow without cease.

When the band shifts into a faster, celebratory groove, the dancing begins. And with it, the spray.

Money fills the air. It is a rain of paper blessings. New naira notes, crisp dollars.

I’ve come prepared, too. I step onto the dance floor after important family members have had their moment. I find the birthday girl first, surrounded by her friends and daughters. I dance with her, a respectful, swaying two-step, and as I do, I pull a thick fold of new naira notes from my pocket. I begin to spray them over her, the bills cascading over her silver head-tie, catching the light. 

Then I face Deze.

She is dazzling. The defiant coral in her blue outfit makes her stand out. 

I make it rain on her, and I don’t care what anyone thinks. The notes catch in her hair, stick to her bare shoulders, and drift down around her.

And in this moment, under the paper rain and the pounding music, I see it.

The future.

Not as a vague hope, but as a clear, projected image. I see her, months from now, in the center of a room just like this. Her hair touched with silver. Her smile just as bright. And I am with her, spraying money over her head. There are people around us, celebrating us. 

She will be my wife. The certainty of it hits me hard.

***

The party winds down hours later. I find her parents and bid them a great night. 

As the car slides through a short burst of late-night traffic, Deze is asleep beside me. 

I study her profile in the intermittent light. The elegant line of her nose, the dark sweep of her frontal baby curls against her forehead, the fullness of her lips. This Christmas weekend with its fights, laughter, lovemaking, quiet moments and even the threats, has not just brought us together. It has woven us into one. A comfortable, familiar rhythm. We now move around each other with an unspoken understanding. We anticipate needs. We share silences that are not empty. We have, in a handful of days, fallen into the easy cadence of a couple that has been together for years. The realization is startling and settling at the same time.

At the penthouse, I guide her in. She mutters something about her room being a mess and how she hates packing for a trip.

She doesn’t go to her room. She walks straight into mine, kicks off her heels, and crawls into the center of the bed, still in her dress. She is asleep again in moments.

With careful fingers, I find the zipper at the back of her dress and pull it down. She murmurs but doesn’t wake. I unhook her bra with a practiced ease that surprises even me, pulling the straps free before covering her with the blanket. 

I leave her to sleep and go to her room to start the tedious work of packing for our return tomorrow. 

***

The private jet touches down in Abuja under a weak, late afternoon sun. The Lagos humidity is gone, replaced by the familiar, dusty heat of home. The cabin is quiet, just the two of us. Our team had flown back two days prior. The weekend feels both like a lifetime and a single, blurred breath.

We hire a cab that takes us to Deze’s place first. At her gate, I get out to help with her suitcases. She stands on her driveway, looking up at her house, then back at me.

“Welcome home,” I say.

She smiles, a little weary. “You too.” She steps close, rises on her toes, and kisses me. “Call me later.”

“I will.”

I watch her walk inside, then get back into the cab. I give the driver my address.

***

The silence in my house is a vacuum. In that vacuum, every thought is too loud. They all swirl in my head until the walls feel like they are closing in.

I cannot stay here. I instruct my gateman to wash one of my cars as I take a shower. Afterward, I drive to her house. It is dark and the light in her living room glows behind the curtains.

She opens the door. She is already in her sleep shorts and a worn t-shirt. Her hair is down. She takes one look at my face and does not ask any questions.

“I cannot sleep,” I confess. “Not unless I am sleeping next to you. Is that too clingy?”

A slow, soft smile touches her lips. She reaches out, takes my hand, and pulls me inside. “You’re lucky,” she says, closing the door behind me, “I’m in the mood for clingy.”

She leads me into the living room. I do not wait. I turn her to face me and kiss her. 

“Omena,” I whisper against her lips.

She goes completely still. Then she pulls back just enough to look up at me. Her eyes are wide with surprise. “How… how do you know my Isoko name?”

“I have my ways. And I’m not telling.”

“Do you know the meaning?”

“This is my own.” I peck her nose. “You are my own.”

She shakes her head, a wonder in her expression. Then her smile turns secretive. “I have my own surprise for you.”

She takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom. “Close your eyes.”

I do. I feel her hands at the back of my head. The soft, cool slip of a sleep mask as she blindfolds me. 

She guides me backward until my legs hit the bed and I sit down. I hear rustling for a while. 

“Okay,” her voice finally comes, a little breathless. “Open your eyes.”

I reach up and pull the blindfold off.

She stands in the center of the room, illuminated by the soft bedside lamp. The lingerie is the color of rubies. With its straps, lace and sheer panels, it’s a deliberate architecture of temptation. I instantly get wild thoughts.

“A gift,” she tells me. “Waiting for me when I got home.”

“From whom?” The question is out before I can stop it.

“No name,” she answers. “But I think it’s from Fana. She’s the one that gets me things like this. But it doesn’t matter where it comes from.” She takes a step toward the bed. “I’m using it for you.”

She pushes me back onto the mattress and climbs over me, her knees on either side of my hips. She leans down and kisses me. Then her mouth begins to travel. Down my jaw, my throat, over my chest. Her hands work at my belt.

My eyes drift shut. Pleasure begins to coil in my gut. But then my gaze, unfocused, lands on the white box discarded on the floor near her dresser. It is glossy. Distinctive.

I’ve seen that box before.

The memory clicks into place with jarring clarity. On the small seat where Yele dumped his newspaper at The Room Café, there was an exact white box, with its distinctive silver logo. 

Annoyance burns through me. He sent this. This is his move. A violation packaged in silk and lace.

But Deze’s words echo in my head, cutting through the annoyance. It does not matter. I’m using it for you.

She is here. With me. This is her choice. Her reclamation.

I stare down at the top of her head, at the dark fall of her hair against my stomach. I let out a slow, controlled breath. I release the anger. I choose the reality in front of me and allow the pleasure wash over me, through me. I let it drown out everything else.

***

I wake up on Friday, the 30th. The first thing I see is the tangled, soaked sheet we kicked to the foot of the bed in the middle of the night. The memory of it hits me. The sex was nasty. It was raw, vocal, and completely out of this world.

We get ready to leave the house, as we have a half work day ahead. There is contented energy between us.

At the office, we have a briefing with a client for his event in January. I sit at the head of the conference table. I nod at the right moments and answer questions.

But my mind is not here. It is back in her bedroom. The images Yele tried to plant in my head are gone. In their place are my own. Vivid, explicit, ecstatic. The sound of her voice telling me to watch her. The sight of her touching herself exactly as I asked, losing control, coming apart. The feel of her mouth on me. I have overwritten his fantasy with my reality. The thought is a private victory.

After the meeting, I ask my assistant to send Marian in.

She walks into my office, already apologetic.

“Close the door,” I say.

She does.

I do not invite her to sit. “Marian, you have violated every standard of professionalism and trust this company ever placed in you. I want you to understand something.” I lean forward, my voice low and deadly calm. “If you ever, for any reason, leak a single piece of information about this company, its operations, or anyone associated with it to anyone outside these walls, I will not just fire you. I will sue you for breach of contract so thoroughly you will never recover from it. Read your contract again. Memorize the confidentiality clauses. Your second chance is a phantom. Do you understand?”

She nods. “Yes, Mr. Barrett. I understand. I am so sorry.”

“Get out.”

She flees.

As she opens the door, Deze is there, about to knock. They pass in the doorway. 

Deze walks in, closing the door behind her. Her brow is furrowed. “What was that about?”

“A personnel issue. Nothing for you to worry about.”

She studies my face for a moment but lets it go. “Okay. So, it is a half-day. We should be out of here by noon. Any plans?”

I look at her, standing in my office in a sharp blazer and trousers, and all I can think about is the crushed ruby lace now tucked away in her drawer. I think about the soaked sheets. I think about the name Omena on my tongue.

“Nothing concrete,” I say, a slow smile spreading on my face. “But I have a few ideas.”

She eyes me. “King Barrett, whatever is doing you from your waist downwards should take a break.”

I laugh.

“I’m sore.”

“You’re the one with the dirty mind o. I just wanted us to have lunch somewhere and chill.”

“Na so.” She shakes her head and leaves. Minutes later, when I’m about shutting down my laptop, the door to my office opens without a knock.

Imani Ibrahim walks in.

Her presence is an unpleasant surprise. She comes in wearing a sharp white blazer dress and blood-red shoes. And behind is Adika, standing guard like a security detail.

“Imani,” I say. “This is a surprise.”

“I’m sure it is,” she answers. She doesn’t sit. She claims the space in front of my desk. “I have a proposal for you, King. A job.”

I lean back. “Okay?”

“I want you to plan my wedding.”

The words hang in the air, so absurd I almost laugh. I look from her triumphant face to Adika’s unreadable one. The diamond on her finger looks less like jewelry and more like a brand.

“Why?” 

She ticks the reasons off on manicured fingers. “One. You are the best wedding planner in Abuja.”

“Thank you.”

“I want the best for my day. I deserve the best.” She smiles, all teeth. “Two. Because, like a surgeon, I cannot operate on myself.”

“False equivalence, but go on.”  

Her smile widens. “Three. Because I am shutting Mani Fest Events and leaving the country for good.”

“For real?”

“I’m sure it’s good news to you.”

“It is. But why are you shutting it down? Why not leave it in the hands of someone?”

“King, no one can captain your ship like you do.”

I nod, agreeing with her.

“In my absence, they’ve been doing nonsense. But none of that matters. I’m getting married and starting a family, and we have all the money in the world. Don’t we, Adi?”

He nods.I stare at him. He looks back at me. I see coldness in his eyes that makes me wonder what Deze saw in him.

I face Imani. “My answer to your offer is no,” I say.

Her eyebrow arches. “No?”

“Conflict of interest. On multiple, glaring levels. It’s not happening.”

She lets out a soft, pitying sigh. She steps forward, leans over my desk, and plucks a pen from my holder. She pulls a notepad toward her and writes a single figure. She circles it, then turns the pad to face me.

The number is astronomical. It is a “fuck you” amount of money.

I look from the number to her face. “The answer is still no.”

“Why, King! Is it your principles? Or is it that you’re scared your new girlfriend can’t handle seeing her ex pledge his life to me? I heard you two were getting serious. Does her confidence need protecting?”

Before I can answer, the door opens.

Deze walks in. She stops short, taking in the scene: Imani at my desk, Adika by the door, the tense silence. Her face is a perfect, unreadable mask.

Imani straightens, her smile becoming a challenge. “Adaeze. Perfect timing. I’m just hiring your firm for my wedding. King is being… difficult.”

Deze’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Imani. She doesn’t even blink. “And what’s the problem?”

“King believes there’s a conflict of interest,” Imani purrs. “But look at my quote.”

Deze walks fully into the room. She comes to stand beside my chair, not touching me. She looks down at the notepad, at the insane number Imani wrote. She doesn’t react to it.

Then she faces Imani. “There’s no conflict of interest. Barrett Brothers is a business. You are a client with a budget.” She turns her head slightly toward me. “We’ll do it.”

I glare at her. Imani’s smirk falters for a millisecond, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise. Adika looks like he might be sick.

Imani recovers first. A slow, appreciative smile spreads across her face. “I knew you were the smarter one. I’ll have my people come over on Monday. Lovely to see you both.”

She turns on her heel. Adika follows her out, closing the door softly behind them.

The moment the latch clicks, I turn to Deze. “What the hell was that? Why?”

She doesn’t look at me. She walks to the window, staring out at the Abuja skyline. Her shoulders are tight.

“Business first,” she responds. “That’s what we always say, right? That’s the rule. That number she wrote can go a long way, King. We take the job. We bleed her for every kobo. We give her the most flawless, impersonal, technically perfect wedding anyone has ever seen. And we laugh all the way to the bank.”

“It’s not that simple,” I say, standing up. “She’s a viper. This is a game to her. She wants access to us, to our processes. She wants to be inside our operation.”

“I know what she wants.” Deze’s voice is stone. She turns from the window. In her hand is a plain manila envelope I didn’t see her carrying. Her face is pale now, all the cool professionalism gone.

“This was delivered by courier to my desk five minutes ago. Just before I walked in here.”

She walks over and drops it on my desk. I open it. Inside is a single, glossy 8×10 photograph.

It’s a photograph of Deze and Yele. It’s not recent. They are in a dim, luxurious room, a hotel lounge, perhaps. He’s leaning in, his mouth close to her ear, one hand possessively on her thigh. It is a damning image. The kind of photo that tells a story without words.

On the back, in elegant, feminine handwriting, is a single line:

‘Memories have a price. Settle your debts.’

“Nkene,” I whisper.

Deze nods. “She’s not bluffing. I don’t know what other things she has, if there are other pictures. We will need all the money we can get, King. Because Nkene doesn’t just want to hurt me anymore. She wants to burn Barrett Brothers to the ground. And Imani’s money is important to us.”

She looks at me, and for the first time, I see true fear in her eyes. Not for herself, but for what we’ve built together. 

The war is here. And we’ve just invited one of the enemies to fund our defense.