Chapter 1 – A Chance Encounter
The morning sun filtered weakly through the pale curtains in Amara's bedroom, splashing a golden hue across her desk piled high with books, scattered sticky notes, and her ever-present laptop. She sighed as she pulled her hair into a bun, slipping into her neatly pressed blouse. Another Monday in Lagos. Another day of deadlines, traffic, and the unending pressure to prove herself.
At twenty-six, Amara had built a reputation in her company as ambitious, sharp, and maybe a little too serious. Her colleagues often teased her about being "married to her job." And perhaps, in some ways, it was true. Love had always been an unnecessary distraction in her eyes. Success came first. Everything else could wait.
Yet, that morning, she felt an itch. A restlessness she couldn't explain. She decided to pass by a small bookstore before work to pick up a novel she'd been meaning to read. Reading was her escape — a safe place where emotions didn't demand real-life consequences.
The bookstore was quiet, the kind of place where the smell of old paper lingered in the air, mingling with freshly brewed coffee from a tiny café next door. Amara strolled slowly through the aisles, her fingers brushing the spines of books like they were old friends.
She spotted the last copy of The Alchemist on the shelf and reached for it. Just as her hand closed around it, another hand landed on the very same book.
Her eyes shot up, colliding with a pair of deep, amused brown ones.
"I saw it first," she said sharply, tightening her grip.
The stranger — tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy confidence that annoyed her instantly — raised an eyebrow. "Actually, I did. You were just too slow."
Amara bristled. "Excuse me? My hand is already on it. Clearly, that makes it mine."
He chuckled, a low, irritatingly warm sound. "Possession doesn't guarantee ownership, you know."
The audacity. Amara's pulse quickened, not from flattery, but from pure indignation. She tried to pull the book free, but his grip remained steady, firm yet not forceful.
"Why don't you find something else to read?" she snapped.
"And why don't you?" he countered smoothly.
For a moment, they stood frozen, each refusing to let go. Amara studied him — the clean cut of his navy shirt, the slight curl of his hair, the faint scar at the edge of his jawline. He wasn't just confident. He was… disarming.
She hated that.
Finally, she released the book with an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Take it. Clearly, you need it more than I do."
He grinned, victory dancing in his eyes. "Thanks. I promise I'll put it to good use."
Amara turned to leave, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor, but his voice followed her.
"You don't strike me as someone who gives up easily."
She stopped, her back stiffening. Without turning, she replied, "I don't. I just don't waste time on pointless battles."
And with that, she walked out, her heart thudding faster than it should have.
As she got into her car, she scolded herself. Why was she even thinking about that arrogant stranger? He was nothing. Just a random man in a bookstore.
Yet, as she drove to work, his face kept intruding into her thoughts, along with that infuriating smile.