The morning sun spilled across the curtains of Lola's penthouse, warm light softening the cold shine of the glass and steel furniture. For two nights in a row, her body had been weak—fever and a low tide of typhoid running through her veins like fire. Even though Florence, her longtime medical practitioner, and Beatrice, her trusted pharmacist, had come the previous evening to run checks, the illness had not entirely released its grip.
Ryan had been there too, his presence almost too constant these past few days, watching her with an intensity that unsettled and steadied her at once. And Ojo, her dramatic, sharp-tongued best friend, had not left her side. Between the two men, Lola had been cared for like a porcelain doll, though she wasn't sure whether she hated it or loved it.
Florence had left behind strict instructions and a tray of medicines. Beatrice had emphasized the timing with her usual brisk precision. But by the time the night grew heavy and silence took the house, Lola had grown stubborn. She wouldn't take anything, not when her head throbbed too much to swallow.
Now, early in the day, her fever ebbed and flowed. She lay sprawled on the cream sofa in her living room, the silk of her robe clinging damply to her skin. Her breath came shallow, lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she fought the pull of unconsciousness.
Ryan sat beside her, one hand braced on the edge of the sofa, the other cradling her chin gently as though she were glass. His tone was soft, unusually so for a man of his stubborn pride.
"Come on, angel," he murmured, coaxing her lips open with a pill pressed to them. "You need this."
She shook her head faintly, lips parting with a small, weak pout. "I don't want it. I said I'm fine."
"You're not fine." His voice had an edge, but the concern buried in it made Ojo glance up sharply from the opposite armchair.
Ryan tried again, slipping the pill between her lips, then tipping a glass of water toward her mouth. This time she obeyed, swallowing with visible effort.
Ojo leaned his cheek into his palm, watching with his usual dramatic curiosity. "Mhm. Feeding her medicine like she's your newborn baby. Am I supposed to clap?"
Ryan ignored him. He brushed his thumb across Lola's jaw, checking if she'd truly swallowed. "There. Good girl."
Ojo gasped, feigning scandal. "Good girl? Ah! Since when did Lola turn into your puppy? Excuse me o, Ryan May, is this a relationship we should know about? Because I'm seeing chemistry flying here like Nollywood film."
Lola managed a weak smile, rolling her eyes. She wanted to answer, but her head sank back onto the sofa before the words could form. Ryan tucked a blanket around her, jaw tight with concentration as though caring for her were more difficult than any concert stage he'd ever faced.
Ojo shook his head slowly, smacking his gum. "I swear, if I don't get gist soon, I'll explode."
At night, somewhere across the city, Darin had not slept a wink.
His study was dim but for the glow of his laptop screen, numbers and graphs flickering across it as his mind worked at the pace of engines. The multi-billion-dollar contract he was pursuing was ruthless in its demands; deadlines coiled around his neck like chains. Yet his wife, Thandeka, hardly noticed.
She was curled up on their bed with her iPad, her face lit by the pale glow of e-book pages. She was in another world entirely—one filled with fictional lovers, betrayals, and heated moments that made her laugh and moan in turns.
Darin had long grown used to her habits. Thandeka was a bibliophile of the purest breed, a romance addict whose moods rose and fell with the fate of her book characters. Sometimes she wept; other times she cursed, calling characters names that would make any real person shrivel.
Tonight was no different. As Darin typed away, he heard her chuckle suddenly, then gasp, then release a soft moan. He tightened his jaw, trying to focus, but her sounds clawed at his concentration.
Finally, her shriek of laughter cut through the night like glass shattering. Darin startled, nearly slamming his laptop shut. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Sleep was already far from him.
By dawn, exhaustion had conquered him. His eyes drooped as the light of morning pressed into the room. He declared silently that today would be his rest day. What was the use of being boss if he couldn't steal a day for himself?
He set the laptop aside, stretched, and slid into bed, seeking rest.
But Thandeka was still glued to her iPad, her thumb scrolling, her eyes devouring chapters at an unnatural speed. By now she'd read hundreds of chapters in just one night.
When Darin cracked an eye open, he caught sight of her profile: glasses slipping down her nose, lips murmuring words only she could see. Dark circles pooled beneath her eyes, betraying her lack of sleep.
Enough was enough. He shut his eyes again and cleared his throat deliberately.
"Um, babe? I think I'm having a slight headache." His voice was low, half a groan. "I need a head massage. Please."
Thandeka instantly tossed the iPad aside, alarm flashing across her face. "What? Are you sick?" She pushed her glasses up, crawling over to press her cool hand to his forehead.
Darin lay perfectly still, savoring the attention.
But when she realized his skin was perfectly normal, her frown deepened. She flicked his forehead lightly, making him grunt. "You naughty pervert. You're faking again, aren't you?"
He couldn't help his grin. His arms slid around her waist, pulling her down until she sat straddling him. "Bursted. But what could I do? That book nearly stole you away from me. What's in it, huh? Who's the hero? Why's he better than me?"
She rolled her eyes. "Trust me, it'll be a waste of time explaining."
"I don't care. Tell me."
She smirked, leaning down until her lips hovered near his ear. "How about I show you instead?"
With a swift flip, he rolled her beneath him, caging her with his body. Her squeal of laughter filled the room. "You won't leave this bed until you explain."
Her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs curling around his waist. "Fine. I'll narrate it to you… in practice."
Heat sparked between them, quick and consuming. He nibbled her ear, his voice husky. "You're a silly woman."
"And you love me silly."
His breath hitched. "Are your pills still active?" he meant her birth control pills.
She bit her lip, whispering, "Yes."
And the rest needed no words.
By midmorning, Bummi arrived at Lola's penthouse, her steps slow but steady, her hand pressed to her heavily pregnant belly. Damian had dropped her off before heading out, promising to return in half an hour.
In the garden, Lola was already waiting, dressed in a light gown, her strength partially returned. Juice and biscuits lay on the small table between them.
"Pumpkin, you shouldn't have stressed yourself to come," Lola scolded gently, though her eyes softened. "You and my unborn goddaughter deserve rest."
Bummi laughed, though she rubbed her back tenderly, easing the pressure. "Why does everyone say it's a girl? Damian keeps claiming it's twins—a boy and a girl. He's so sure."
Lola teased, biting into a biscuit. "I don't want you suffering double labour, but since he guessed right… I'll give in. After all, he's the one who put them there."
"Lola!" Bummi flushed, swatting her arm. "Ewww, must you be shameless?"
"Abeg. You weren't shy when you were doing the work." Lola giggled, eyes sweeping over her bestie's glowing form. "Look at you, chubby and radiant. Motherhood suits you."
They laughed, sipping juice, their friendship filling the air with warmth. But when Lola mentioned Ryan's name, Bummi's smile turned sly.
"So, Ryan May has been visiting every day, hm?"
Lola's cheeks burned. She looked away, fiddling with her glass.
"Aha!" Bummi whooped. "See you blushing. The man even cooked for you. Cooked! And you didn't even tell me?"
"The food was terrible," Lola muttered, but her lips curved despite herself. "I know it was you who gave him my details."
"What should I do?" Bummi shrugged innocently. "He was bugging Damian endlessly. Consistent. And you, my dear, need someone who'll sweep the cobwebs in that palace. It's been years."
Lola chuckled awkwardly, shaking her head. "Bad bestie. Your handiwork is showing."
But before Bummi could tease further, her laughter died. Her glass slipped from her hand, shattering onto the ground. Her eyes widened in horror as she stared over Lola's shoulder.
"Bummi? What's wrong? Are you in labour?" Lola frowned, turning halfway—only to feel the cold press of a weapon at her head.
A masked figure loomed behind her, one gloved hand pressing hard over her mouth. Panic surged through her, muffled cries smothered by the rough palm.
Bummi's scream tore through the garden, raw and terrified—until another shadow appeared, swinging a baseball bat. The blow landed against her head with a sickening crack.
Silence swallowed the garden.
Lola's struggles weakened, her limbs thrashing before darkness consumed her.
---
At that same hour, in his penthouse, Darin stepped out of the shower, water dripping down his muscled frame. A towel clung to his waist as he padded into the bedroom, steam curling around him.
But his eyes froze at once.
On the sheets lay not his wife, but a pool of thick, fresh blood.
The hand towel slipped from his fingers. His heart slammed against his ribs, denial screaming in his head.
"No," he whispered, voice breaking. "No. Thandeka!"
He tore through the house, shouting her name.
The echoes of his cries clawed against the walls, but no answer came.
Only the silence.