The house sat at the end of a forgotten road in Victoria Island, cloaked behind overgrown hedges and the silence of abandonment. Locals called it The House Without Windows. Not because it truly lacked them—but because the windows had all been blackened from the inside. Painted over. As though someone inside couldn't bear to look out—or let anyone look in.
Lami stood in the driveway, watching the slow drip of rain slide down the windshield of his car. He didn't move. Didn't blink. His driver had long since gone inside to wait.
He was alone.
Alone with a rage that no longer needed provocation.
Inside the house was his new sanctuary. A place no one knew. Not even Agnes.
Especially not Agnes.
He entered without knocking. The rooms were bare, stripped of luxury. No cameras. No servants. Just dust, silence, and rot. But in the center of the old living room sat a corkboard covered in photographs.
Pictures of Agnes.
And Majek.
Side-by-side. Candid. Laughing. Her hand on his chest. Him brushing her cheek in a moment they both thought private. The photos weren't new.
They were recent.
Lami had been watching.
He picked up one of the prints and crushed it in his fist.
He had warned her. Begged her. Threatened her.
And still, she walked away.
She forgot him.
And now, she remembered him.
Majek.
The coward who had taken a bullet that was meant to ruin.
Lami didn't believe in redemption. Not for Majek. And not for himself.
But he did believe in legacy.
His father's empire—once strong, now fading—was meant to be secured by that marriage. Agnes was the key. And if she wasn't willing...
Then he'd change the lock.
Back at the Lewis estate, Agnes sat with a woman named Dr. Moyo Adefila—a trauma therapist who had been recommended discreetly by one of the few people Agnes still trusted: Auntie Ifeoma, her late mother's best friend.
The room smelled of lavender and ink. Rain tapped the windows like a nervous guest.
Agnes sat curled on the couch, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
"I didn't come here to remember," she said softly. "I came here to understand."
Dr. Moyo nodded. "Memories aren't enough. They're shadows. We have to find the light source."
Agnes blinked back tears. "He almost killed me."
"Lami?"
"Yes."
"And yet your father still wants you to marry him."
Agnes nodded. "He says our families need each other."
"Do you believe that?"
"No," she whispered. "I think he just needs someone to clean up what went wrong."
Dr. Moyo leaned forward, voice low. "What would happen if you refused? If you publicly rejected Lami and your father?"
Agnes didn't answer.
The fear on her face said everything.
Unbeknownst to her, across town in a sleek office building that once belonged to Mr. Akins Goriola—Lami's father—an old vault had just been opened.
Mr. Smith stood inside the private chamber with a gloved archivist beside him.
"What exactly are we looking for, sir?" the archivist asked.
Smith didn't respond. His eyes scanned the stacks of legal documents, folders, and data tapes.
Then he saw it: a folder marked with an odd wax seal—two lion heads facing opposite directions.
He broke the seal.
Inside was a handwritten document.
A will.
Last Testament of Akins Goriola
Smith's heart stopped.
He flipped through the document until he found the line that made his jaw clench:
"Upon my death, my controlling shares in the Akins-Goriola Holdings shall be passed directly to the rightful heir—Agnes Lewis, daughter of my brother-in-bond, Smith Lewis."
Smith's breath grew shallow.
There was no mention of Lami.
Not one.
Another line struck like a match to oil:
"My son Lami is not suited for leadership. I've made my peace with it."
Smith folded the document with trembling fingers. Everything they'd done—every deal, every whispered arrangement, every manipulation—it had all been to create a legacy that never belonged to Lami in the first place.
Now Agnes owned it.
And if she found out?
Smith slipped the will into his briefcase.
Whatever happened next, he had to act before Agnes learned what she was truly worth.
Meanwhile, Agnes walked out of Dr. Moyo's clinic feeling lighter and heavier at once. She stopped by her car, resting her head on the frame before opening the door.
Across the street, inside a parked SUV with tinted windows, a phone camera clicked.
The man in the passenger seat leaned forward. "You got the mic?"
"Yeah," the driver replied. "It's hidden in the corner vase. Transmitting straight to the cloud. She won't even know."
The passenger smirked. "Boss will be pleased."
Later that evening, Agnes sat in her room playing the same song on her piano, over and over. The notes were the same, but something in the rhythm shifted—more urgency, more ache.
A memory flickered: Majek at the eatery. Rain against the glass. Her hand on his. The taste of fried plantain. The way her heart jumped.
She stopped playing. Her breathing caught.
Then her phone rang.
It was an unknown number.
"Hello?" she said cautiously.
The voice on the other end was filtered. Digitized.
"Your father lied. Your therapist's office is bugged. You're being watched."
Her blood went cold.
"Who is this?"
"You don't need to know me. But you need to know this—there's a will. Your godfather, Akins, left everything to you. Not Lami. Not your father. You."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Because they believe you'll never find out."
The line went dead.
Agnes stared at her phone, heart hammering. The world around her began to tilt, shift, blur.
But her clarity sharpened.
For the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, she didn't feel like a victim.
She felt like a key.
And now she needed to find the door.
At the House Without Windows, Lami poured whiskey into a chipped tumbler.
On the wall beside him was a new photo.
Agnes and Majek.
Together. Again.
Smiling.
He held up a lighter beneath it and watched the image curl, blacken, and vanish into ash.
"Let's see how much you smile," he muttered, "when there's nothing left but smoke."