By the third day, Damian was restless.
He was never the type to sit still. In his old life, he used to wake up to calls, meetings, news headlines, people begging for his time. Now, he woke up to the sound of Amira's boutique alarm and the smell of her strong coffee.
No headlines. No staff. No power. Just silence.
He stood by the glass door of the boutique, watching Amira work.
She was focused measuring fabric, talking to her assistant, giving instructions, sketching quickly between calls. She was busy, passionate, serious.
He had never really looked at her like this before.
Not two years ago when he mocked her. Not even when they bumped into each other at that gala and he said, "Fashion is a game. Business is war. Some people are too soft for war."
Now, she looked like a warrior. She turned and caught him staring.
"What?" she asked.
"I want to help," he said.
She blinked. "With what?"
"Your business. I can help. I still have a brain, Amira."
She laughed. "You also had pride, ego, and a sharp tongue. Should I add those too?"
He gave a dry smile. "Let me do something. Anything."
She paused, thinking. She had just fired one of her junior assistants for always coming late.
Maybe…
"Alright," she said. "Help me manage inventory. Sort fabrics. Fix receipts. But if you mess up, you're out."
He nodded quickly.
By afternoon, Damian was bent over spreadsheets, sorting price lists and fixing digital orders. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. His fingers moved fast over the keyboard.
One of Amira's staff, Kemi, watched from the corner and whispered to the other girls, "Na lie be this? See this fine bobo wey use to appear for Forbes now dey arrange cloth?"
They giggled quietly.
Damian ignored them.
He had heard worse.
What mattered now was doing something or anything to earn back his self-worth.
Later, as the sun began to set, Amira stepped into her office to find the room perfectly organized. Files arranged. Payments reconciled. Even the broken email system was now working.
She turned to him. "You did all this?"
He nodded. "I studied your system. You were losing money from a broken payment gateway. I fixed it."
She stared at him.
"I didn't know you were… this smart," she said softly.
He looked at her. "Because you only saw my pride."
"No," she replied. "Because that's all you showed."
That night, they sat across from each other on the shop's balcony. Amira offered him a small plate of rice and fried plantain. He accepted it without a word.
"You know," she began, "when you insulted me at that gala, I went home and cried."
He froze.
"I worked hard for my business. I started with nothing. You said I was just a 'rich girl in heels.'"
Damian dropped his fork slowly.
"I was angry," he said. "At myself. At the world. I thought being powerful meant being cold."
"Well, it didn't," she said. "It just made you lonely."
Silence.
Then he whispered, "I'm sorry, Amira. Truly."
She nodded slowly. "I believe you."
Just as they finished eating, her phone buzzed. She picked it up, brows furrowed.
"What is it?" Damian asked.
"It's nothing," she said quickly. "Just… someone from the past."
He didn't ask more. But something in her voice had changed. Tight. Nervous.
And somewhere in his gut, Damian knew…Her peace wasn't as perfect as she made it look.
The next morning, a black G-Wagon parked in front of the boutique. A man stepped out clean beard, white shirt, Rolex watch, charm in his smile.
Damian was at the front desk when he walked in. The man looked around, then paused when he saw him.
"Oh," he said. "You're still here."
Damian stood slowly. "Do I know you?"
The man smiled without warmth. "I'm Tunde. Amira's ex."
Just then, Amira walked in from the back. She stopped short. "Tunde…"
Tension filled the room instantly. Damian's hands clenched.
The battle had begun.