It was almost midnight when the knock came.
Amira Bello didn't like surprises,especially not late at night, especially not in Lagos. She paused at the cutting table, scissors still in her hand, her heart skipping as the knock came again (louder this time).
Three knocks. Then silence.
Her boutique was closed. The showroom was dark. She was alone. Her security man, Yusuf, was off-duty tonight.
"Who's there?" she shouted, standing still.
No answer.
She moved slowly to the glass door and looked through the curtain. Her heart stopped.
There was a man there.
But not just any man.
He was wet, bleeding… and familiar.
"Damian?"
She opened the door before her brain could stop her.
Damian Cole stumbled forward, barely standing, holding his ribs like something had broken. His once flawless black suit was torn. His hair was soaked. His face bruised, swollen. But it was him. She could never forget that face.
The same man who once laughed at her. Called her "just another woman with fake wealth and pretty packaging."
That same man was now standing in front of her. Barely breathing.
"Please… Amira," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I didn't know where else to go."
Then he collapsed into her arms.
Amira struggled to hold him. He was heavy, tall, and limp. She knelt beside him, shaking.
"Damian… what happened?!" she whispered.
No answer.
She looked left and right. The street was empty.
She should walk away. She should call someone. Anyone. He didn't deserve her help. But her hands were already reaching for her phone. Minutes later, she was helping him into the guest couch inside her boutique, calling her private nurse, shaking with confusion.
Thirty minutes later, he was cleaned up. The nurse had left. The bruises were bad but not deadly.
Amira sat across from him, arms folded.
"Talk," she said coldly.
Damian opened his eyes slowly. His voice was cracked.
"I'm broke."
She blinked. "You're what?"
"I've lost everything. The company. The money. The cars. The apartment. Even my name." He smiled bitterly. "I'm nobody now."
She stared at him. She didn't believe it. This was Damian Cole. The man who once arrived at events in helicopters. The man who once told her she could never sit at his table.
"What happened to your best friend? Felix, right?" she asked.
He gave a bitter laugh. "He happened. He took everything."
Silence.
"I was a fool, Amira," he said. "You were right. About me."
She looked away. This felt unreal. Two years ago, she left a charity gala in shame because of his words. She cried that night. She swore she would never forgive him.
And now… he was sitting here, half-broken, lost.
"You shouldn't be here," she said finally.
"I had no one else."
"That's not my problem," she snapped. "You didn't think I was 'high enough' to be in your world back then. What do you want from me now? Pity?"
He winced.
"No. Just… just a roof for tonight. Tomorrow I'll go."
She stood up. "I should say no. You deserve to sleep on the street."
"I already have," he muttered.
Amira paused.
He wasn't lying. His hands were rough. His shoes were falling apart. There were blisters on his fingers. His pride was already shattered.
Something tight pulled at her chest. She hated him. But… she couldn't watch him bleed either.
"Fine," she said. "You can sleep here. One night. After that, disappear."
He nodded slowly. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just don't die on my couch."
She walked away before he could say anything else, heart pounding, confused.
Outside, the rain began to fall again. And deep down, Amira knew this wasn't the last time Damian Cole would shake her world.