The jet sliced through the Lagos skyline like a blade of privilege—sleek, silent, and unapologetically expensive. Inside, Adrian Kane sat reclined in a custom leather seat, a half-empty glass of Glenfiddich in his hand and a storm behind his eyes. The city below shimmered with life, but all he saw was the past—memories buried beneath skyscrapers and secrets.
Seven years. That's how long it had been since he'd walked away from Kane Industries, from his father, from the legacy that had both built and broken him. He'd sworn never to return. But promises were fragile things, easily shattered by power, pride… or desperation.
Victor Kane had summoned him. No explanation. Just a message delivered through a private channel: Come home. Now.
Adrian didn't do obedience. But curiosity? That was harder to ignore.
As the jet taxied to a halt, the door opened to a humid wave of West African air, thick with heat and expectation. A convoy of black SUVs waited on the tarmac, engines humming like loyal beasts. His security team moved with precision, shielding him from the paparazzi that lingered like vultures beyond the fence.
He descended the stairs slowly, deliberately. Every step was a statement: I'm back. But not for you.
The ride through Victoria Island was a blur of glass towers, neon signs, and whispered recognition. People knew him. They always had. But this time, the whispers carried weight—rumors of boardroom battles, of a father losing grip, of an heir returning to claim what was his.
Kane Tower loomed ahead, a monolith of steel and ambition. Forty-seven floors of dominance, built by Victor Kane's iron will and ruthless vision. Adrian stepped into the marble lobby, where the air was colder, cleaner—like money had its own climate control.
Employees paused mid-stride, eyes wide, mouths half-open. Some bowed their heads. Others stared. Adrian ignored them all. He wasn't here for nostalgia. He was here for answers.
Then he saw her.
Standing by the elevator, clipboard in hand, posture perfect, was a woman who didn't flinch at his presence. She was stunning—not in the loud, look-at-me way, but in the kind that made silence feel sacred. Her navy dress hugged her curves with elegance, her braids swept into a bun that revealed high cheekbones and eyes that didn't blink.
"Mr. Kane," she said, voice smooth and unbothered. "Your father is expecting you."
Adrian tilted his head, intrigued. "And you are?"
"Zara. His assistant."
He smiled, slow and dangerous. "I didn't know my father hired angels."
Zara didn't blink. "I didn't know he raised devils."
The elevator dinged. She stepped in first. He followed, the tension between them crackling like static. The mirrored walls reflected their silhouettes—his tall, broad frame beside her poised elegance.
"You always this charming?" he asked, leaning against the wall.
"Only when provoked."
He chuckled. "I like you already."
"I don't need you to."
The elevator climbed in silence, each floor a countdown to confrontation. Adrian studied her profile—the way she held herself, the calm in her eyes. She wasn't intimidated. She wasn't impressed. She was… unreadable.
"Tell me, Zara," he said, voice low. "Do you always speak to heirs like that?"
She turned to him, unshaken. "Only the ones who think they're gods."
The elevator stopped. Floor 47. The executive suite.
As the doors slid open, Adrian paused. "You're not afraid of me."
Zara met his gaze. "Should I be?"
"No," he said, stepping out. "But you should be careful. I don't play nice."
She didn't respond. She didn't need to. Her silence was louder than any warning.
As Adrian walked toward the glass doors of his father's office, he felt it—the shift. Something was different. The empire was cracking. And somewhere in the middle of it all… was her.
Trouble had a name. And it was Zara.