Chapter 3: The Billionaire's Eyes
Musa did not sleep.
The mattress felt like thorns under his back, the fan ticked like a stubborn clock, and the ceiling stain above him kept reshaping into Margaret Bennett's cold eyes. Each time he closed his lids, her words returned, sharp as knives: "Tomorrow. Eleven a.m. sharp. Arrange a meeting."
He turned, pressed his face into the pillow, but the sentence would not leave. It walked across his ribs until his chest ached.
By dawn, he was sitting up, knees to his chest, watching the first light seep in through the cracked shutters. Lamin stirred on the other side of the room, hair wild, eyes still sleepy. "You look like a man about to take an exam he didn't study for," Lamin muttered, rubbing his face.
"I feel worse," Musa admitted.
Lamin rolled out of bed, lit charcoal in their small stove, and brewed attaya that hissed and foamed. The sweet smell filled the room. He slid a glass across the table. "Drink. If her money makes you faint, at least your breath will smell like courage."
Musa tried to smile but failed. He took the hot glass anyway, wincing as it burned his fingers. The first sip was sharp, almost bitter, but the sweetness arrived late, like a loyal friend.
"What are you going to say to her?" Lamin asked, squinting at him.
"I don't know," Musa admitted. "The truth, I guess."
"Good," Lamin said firmly. "No borrowed English. No rented confidence. Speak like yourself. If she hates you, at least she hates you real."
Musa laughed weakly, then glanced at his shirt—the only white one he owned—already ironed last night with the bottom of their kettle. Lamin inspected him like a tailor. "It's fine," he said. "You look like yourself. Don't try to look like them. That's how they win."
At ten thirty, Musa walked into the Hilton.
The air-conditioning hit him first, cold and perfumed, nothing like the heat outside. The marble floor reflected his steps as if it owned him. Chandeliers glowed above like frozen fireworks. He felt smaller than his shadow.
Sophie met him at the door to the lounge, clipboard in hand, headset tucked in her ear. She looked him up and down like a drill sergeant inspecting a soldier. "You're on time. Good. Listen carefully. She doesn't like waiting. Answer only what she asks. No fidgeting. And whatever you do, don't lie. Margaret Bennett smells lies before they're spoken."
Musa swallowed and nodded.
Inside, the air smelled of leather and polish. A long table stretched under a chandelier dripping with crystal light. Margaret Bennett sat at the head, posture flawless, her suit dark and immaculate. She was power sculpted into flesh. Clara sat to her right in dove-grey, her hands folded, her eyes calm but sharp.
"Musa Jallow," Margaret said, her voice cold and deliberate. "Come closer."
He obeyed. The carpet muted his steps, but the sound of his heartbeat filled his ears.
"I've seen your pictures," she said. "They are… honest. Honesty is dangerous. It reveals flaws people pay millions to hide." She leaned forward. "Tell me, Musa. Do you think truth can feed a family?"
Musa thought of Lamin, of their cracked jar with coins that never lasted, of the women in the market laughing even on empty stomachs. He swallowed. "Maybe not always. But lies starve more."
Clara's lips curved slightly. Margaret's face remained stone.
"You're bold," Margaret said. "Boldness without resources is recklessness. My daughter is heir to everything I've built. Do you expect me to believe she should waste her attention on a man who sells earphones in the street?"
Her words were knives wrapped in velvet. Musa felt the cut, but raised his head anyway. "I don't expect you to believe anything. I only know what I see. And I see someone who deserves truth, not flattery."
The chandelier swayed slightly, as if the air itself was listening.
Margaret's gaze lingered, sharp as glass. For a long moment, Musa felt as if she were peeling away layers he didn't know he wore.
"Clara tells me you have no formal training," Margaret said.
"That's true," Musa answered.
"No wealthy family."
"Also true."
"No future plan beyond survival."
Her words pressed into him like stones stacked on his chest. Musa hesitated, breath catching. He could agree and let her bury him. He could lie and dig his own grave later. Or he could stand.
"I have a plan," he said finally, voice steadying. "To keep seeing. To show people their beauty even when they forget. Maybe it won't buy an empire. But dignity feeds in its own way."
For the briefest instant, something flickered in Margaret's eyes—disdain, curiosity, annoyance? Then it was gone.
"You speak like an artist," she said coldly. "Artists die poor. I didn't raise my daughter to inherit poverty disguised as passion."
Clara shifted in her chair. "Mother—"
Margaret's sharp look cut her off mid-breath. "Work leads to influence. Influence leads to attachment. Attachment leads to mistakes." She tapped the table once, final, like a judge's gavel.
Musa's fists tightened at his sides. He wanted to argue, to tell her Clara wasn't a trophy to be locked in a glass case. But Margaret's authority pressed on him like a weight. His tongue stayed still.
Margaret rose, her movement smooth as water poured into crystal. Even her silence carried command. "You will shoot tonight's gala, Musa. If your pictures impress me, we will discuss whether you belong in this orbit. If not, you'll disappear from it."
Musa swallowed. "And if I refuse?"
Her smile was cold. "Then you prove you are not serious. And Clara learns her instincts cannot be trusted. Either way, I win."
She turned and walked away, the sound of her heels clicking on marble echoing like punctuation.
The room seemed to breathe again when the door closed. Clara exhaled, her shoulders slumping slightly. For once, she looked her age—not the heiress, not the host, just a daughter carrying her mother's shadow.
"I'm sorry," Clara said softly, turning toward Musa. Her eyes held apology, but also something unspoken. "She tests everyone."
Musa looked down at his camera, then back at Clara. "Did I pass?"
"I don't know," Clara admitted. Her voice was quiet but honest. "But you're still standing. That's more than most."
Silence stretched between them, heavy but not hostile. Clara rose, smoothing her dress, regaining composure with practiced grace. The mask slipped back into place.
Sophie entered just then, clipboard tucked under her arm. "The gala begins at eight," she said briskly. "Ms. Bennett expects results. Musa, a driver will collect you at seven fifty. Don't be late."
Musa nodded, throat dry. His heart hammered in his chest, but his hands clutched the camera strap as if it were an anchor.
When Sophie left, Clara paused near the door. She looked back once, her expression unreadable but her eyes softer than her words. "Do your best tonight," she said. Then she was gone.
Musa stood alone in the quiet, the chandelier dripping light above him like silent applause. He didn't feel victorious. He felt like a man about to step into a ring where every punch would be invisible.
[End of Chapter 3 ]