Chapter Six – Desperate Moves
Zara woke up with a pounding headache, her phone still clutched in her hand. The morning sun streamed through the curtains, but instead of warmth, it felt like a spotlight exposing her.
The message was still there, taunting her:
₦500,000 by today. Or everyone will know.
She sat up abruptly, panic rising in her chest. ₦500,000. Even saying the number in her mind made her dizzy. Where could she possibly get that kind of money in less than 24 hours?
Her phone buzzed again. Another message.
Unknown Number: Tick-tock, Zara. Don't keep me waiting.
She threw the phone onto the bed and paced the room. Every corner felt too small, every second too loud. Her life, her brand, her carefully constructed illusion—everything was dangling by a thread.
Her first instinct was to call Tasha, but she stopped herself. Tasha was supportive, yes, but even she didn't know the full depth of Zara's lies. If she knew, would she still stand by her? Or would she pull away, the way so many others had when Zara first started this game?
Her mind darted to Daniel. He had money. He was stable. If she spun the right story, maybe he would help her. But asking him would mean admitting weakness—and weakness didn't fit Zara Martins' brand.
No, she couldn't risk it.
Instead, she opened her closet and began yanking out clothes, bags, and jewelry. Her collection looked massive from the outside, but most of it was borrowed, rented, or fake. Still, maybe she could sell some of the knock-offs quickly enough to raise part of the money.
She grabbed her phone and dialed a number.
"Chike," she whispered when he answered. "Do you still buy luxury items? No questions asked?"
His laugh was low and suspicious. "Depends on what you're selling, babe."
"Bags. Shoes. Jewelry. Good quality."
"Real or fake?"
Zara hesitated, shame crawling up her throat. "Does it matter if they look real?"
He chuckled again. "Bring them. I'll see what I can do."
By afternoon, Zara was in the back of Chike's shop, watching him inspect her things under harsh white lights. He tapped at the stitching of a handbag, twisted a necklace between his fingers, then smirked.
"Half of this is fake," he said.
Her face burned. "But they're convincing, right? People believe they're real."
"People online, maybe," he replied with a shrug. "But I can't pay top money for counterfeits. I'll give you ₦70,000 for the lot."
"₦70,000?" she hissed. "Are you joking? These things cost me—"
"They cost you lies," he interrupted coolly. "Take it or leave it."
Her stomach churned. ₦70,000 was nowhere near enough, but it was something. With trembling hands, she agreed, watching her borrowed life shrink into cash she could barely grip.
When she returned home, her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: How's my money? I'll be waiting by 10 p.m.
Zara's heart pounded. She had less than one-fifth of what was demanded. The walls were closing in, and for the first time, she felt her empire truly shaking.
As night fell, she sat on her bed, staring at the stack of crumpled naira notes. Her phone buzzed once more—not from the blackmailer this time, but from Daniel.
> Daniel: Can I see you tomorrow? There's something important I want to talk about.
Her chest tightened. Something important. She couldn't handle more secrets, more questions, not when her entire fake life was collapsing around her.
And still, the question loomed:
Would she pay? Or would she risk exposure and watch her expensive fake life burn in the fire of truth?