It rained the next morning, the kind of Lagos rain that flooded streets and slowed time.
Obinna stood on his private balcony overlooking the VI skyline, watching the city dissolve into a blur of grey. His red chieftain cap rested beside him on the table, soaked by the mist, but he didn't care.
His mind was a battleground.
He was used to attacks — from politicians, rival CEOs, even family members who resented his rise. But this… this was different. It was personal. Targeted. First the dance photo. Now, last night, his private meeting with a Ghanaian investor had somehow surfaced online, doctored to suggest underhanded dealings.
He knew how perception could be weaponized.
And whoever was behind this knew it too.
"Sir," his security chief, Kunle, appeared at the doorway, soaked and grim-faced. "We traced the leak to an IP in Lekki. Belongs to a digital marketing firm, but their records are clean."
"Too clean," Obinna muttered.
Kunle nodded. "You think it's Danjuma Ibe?"
Obinna's jaw tightened.
Danjuma had once been his partner — back when they were two hungry boys clawing their way through the sandstorms of Enugu politics and early tech investments. But power twisted people. And Danjuma had always hated playing second.
"I know it's him," Obinna said. "He's been circling for months, making noise in the East. Now he wants to rattle my Lagos base."
"But why target the girl?" Kunle asked. "She's just an assistant."
"She's not just anything," Obinna snapped before catching himself. He turned away, voice softening. "Because she's close. And because they know I've started to care."
Kunle studied him. "Should I put surveillance on her?"
Obinna paused. "Discreetly. She doesn't know what she's walking into."
Amaka didn't go straight to the office that morning.
Instead, she walked the length of her tiny apartment, pacing between stacks of decor orders and design sketches. Her inbox was full — orders from influencers who saw her products in the background of the viral photo. Some comments were sweet, others venomous.
"Pretty and smart? Must be sleeping her way to the top."
"So this is what assistants do now?"
"Sis better secure the bag. Or the Chief's bank account."
She closed the app.
Her hands trembled as she tried tying her gele for her work event later. She couldn't even center it. Couldn't focus.
She hated how easily her peace could be shattered. She'd spent years building a bubble of purpose. She paid her own rent, ran her own side business, walked away from a man who once tried to "buy" her silence after cheating.
She didn't need saving.
So why did Obinna's bracelet still sit in her drawer… and why did she keep touching it?
There was a knock at the door.
Her neighbor, Blessing, peeked in. "Babe, that black Jeep has been outside for over thirty minutes."
Amaka froze.
She stepped out carefully, only to see a tinted SUV across the street — parked, engine humming.
No one got out.
No one moved.
She walked back in, pulse racing.
What's going on?
When she finally arrived at the office, security was tighter. Obinna's name was on every whisper. Some staff avoided her gaze. Others offered empty smiles too wide to be genuine.
She made it to her desk when Ngozi appeared, heels clicking like gunshots.
"Miss Ifeoma," she said crisply, holding a folder, "the board has requested a background audit of everyone connected to the Chief's office. You'll need to submit a report of your financials, side businesses, and communications for the last three months."
Amaka blinked. "I'm sorry — is this standard protocol?"
Ngozi smirked. "Consider it… damage control."
Amaka took the folder slowly. "You want to check my side hustle receipts for romance crimes?"
Ngozi leaned in, voice like poisoned honey. "This isn't personal, dear. Just politics."
As she walked away, Amaka muttered, "Everything here is personal."
Later that evening, she stood in the executive suite hallway, folder in hand, debating whether or not to knock.
Obinna's door opened before she could.
He looked tired. Not in the way rich men usually did — not from golf or jet lag — but in the way warriors look before the next battle.
He stepped aside. "Come in."
She entered slowly, setting the file on his desk. "They're digging, sir. Into everything."
"I know."
"They'll find my business account. The one I use for product sales. My late rent payments. The savings I pulled from to help my mother's surgery last year."
He looked at her then — fully.
"You think I don't know who you are?" he said quietly. "I read your file the day I arrived. I know you started working at seventeen. I know you built your store from a laptop that overheated every twenty minutes. I know you walk twenty minutes extra every morning to avoid toll traffic."
Her breath caught.
"I don't care what they find," he said. "I care that you survive this."
Silence hung between them.
Then she whispered, "You shouldn't defend me. It makes them look harder."
He took a step closer. "I won't let them turn you into collateral damage. Not for me. Not for anyone."
"But why?" Her voice cracked. "Why risk all this? Your name, your company, your empire?"
His answer was a whisper: "Because you remind me of who I was before the crowns and power. Because you make me feel again. And because I think… I'm already too deep."
Her lips parted — to protest, to speak, to run. But then he reached into his drawer and pulled out something unexpected: a flash drive.
He handed it to her.
"This has everything on Danjuma. His shadow companies. His fake NGOs. The foreign accounts. I've been building this for months."
Amaka frowned. "Why give it to me?"
"Because if I fall," he said, "I need someone I trust to finish what I started."
She stared at him. "What if I don't want to be part of this?"
He smiled — not in amusement, but in understanding.
"Then you walk away. And I'll protect you from the fire."
She took the flash drive.
Their hands brushed again. This time, the spark wasn't romantic.
It was war.
Outside the building, Danjuma sat in a high-rise hotel, watching security camera feeds from a hacked source.
He zoomed in as Amaka exited the office, her face unreadable, her purse slightly heavier.
He smiled to himself.
"Perfect," he whispered. "Let her carry the evidence. Let her walk into the line of fire."
He turned to his burner phone and sent a single message to the mystery number saved only as: "Board."
"The girl is now holding classified data. Spin the scandal. Tomorrow, we burn them both."