chapter one -Ashes of home
The night Ivie lost her parents, she lost everything else too—her home, her inheritance, and the future she had been promised. Blood stained the road outside Benin City, sirens screamed into the darkness, and by morning, her father's relatives were already counting what they would steal. At nineteen, Ivie learned a brutal truth: in this world, grief is a weakness, and survival belongs only to the ruthless.
She stood at the edge of the hospital corridor, numb, as a nurse avoided her eyes and a doctor spoke in a voice too calm for the devastation he delivered.
"I'm sorry. We did everything we could."
Everything.
The word meant nothing.
Her mother's laughter, her father's steady hands, the warmth of home—everything was gone in a single, violent collision of metal and fate. Ivie didn't scream. She didn't collapse. She simply stared at the white wall until it blurred, until her chest felt hollow, as though someone had carved her heart out and left a void behind.
When she finally stepped outside, dawn had already broken. The world had the audacity to continue.
The funeral was crowded.
Too crowded.
People who had never cared suddenly wept loudly, wiping fake tears with lace handkerchiefs. Relatives she barely recognized whispered behind their palms, their eyes sharp—not with sympathy, but calculation.
Ivie noticed it immediately.
They weren't mourning.
They were measuring.
By the third day, the vultures descended.
Her father's eldest brother called a "family meeting" in the living room that still smelled like her mother's perfume. Ivie sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, her twin siblings—Kelechi and Kamsi—pressed tightly against her sides. They were sixteen, identical in face but not in fear. Kamsi trembled openly. Kelechi's jaw was locked, eyes burning.
"The house," her uncle began, not bothering with condolences, "must be transferred. It belongs to the family lineage."
"The cars," another aunt added smoothly, "will be sold to cover debts."
"What debts?" Ivie snapped, her voice cracking like glass.
Her uncle's gaze slid to her, cold and dismissive. "Adult matters. You wouldn't understand."
That was the moment something in Ivie broke.
Her parents weren't even buried yet, and these people were stripping their lives down to numbers and documents. Papers were shoved at her. Signatures demanded. Threats implied, then spoken aloud.
"If you refuse," her uncle said quietly, leaning close enough that she could smell his cologne, "you'll leave here with nothing. And your siblings? They'll suffer with you."
Ivie signed.
Each stroke of the pen felt like a betrayal—of her parents, of herself—but she had no choice. She chose survival. She chose her siblings.
By nightfall, the house was no longer theirs.
They were given two suitcases and one week to disappear.
That night, Ivie locked herself in her childhood room and finally allowed herself to fall apart. She cried until her throat burned, until her eyes swelled shut. Rage followed grief, sharp and suffocating.
I will never be this powerless again.
She wiped her tears and stared at her reflection—eyes red, face hollow, but something new burning beneath the pain.
Resolve.
Lagos came like a promise and a threat wrapped in the same glittering package.
The city swallowed them whole the moment they arrived—noise, traffic, hunger, temptation. They moved into a cramped apartment where the walls were thin and the air smelled of fried oil and desperation. Ivie found work wherever she could—cleaning, assisting, running errands—anything that paid cash.
It was never enough.
Bills piled up. School fees loomed. Her siblings tried to hide their fear, but Ivie saw it in their eyes at night when they thought she was asleep.
One evening, as rain battered the rusted window frames, a familiar voice called her name from behind.
"Ivie?"
She turned—and froze.
"Vanessa?" Her childhood friend stood there, polished and confident, Lagos written all over her—from the expensive weave to the sharp heels.
They hugged, awkward and desperate, two girls who had survived in different ways.
Over drinks they couldn't afford, Ivie told her story in fragments. Vanessa listened, eyes calculating—not unkind, but practical.
"I can help you," Vanessa said finally.
Ivie's heart lifted. "With work?"
"Yes. But not the kind you're thinking."
That was when Vanessa mentioned her boss. The company. The money.
Escort.
The word landed like a slap.
"I can't—" Ivie began.
"You can," Vanessa interrupted gently. "And you will. Because Lagos doesn't care about your morals, Ivie. It only cares if you can pay."
Silence stretched between them.
That night, Ivie lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to her siblings breathe. Pride wouldn't feed them. Shame wouldn't save them.
By morning, she made her choice.
Her first assignment came three nights later.
She wore a borrowed dress and fear like a second skin. The party was loud, obscene with wealth—music pounding, bodies everywhere, men who looked at women like transactions.
Then the police burst in.
Chaos erupted.
Screams. Glass shattering. Someone grabbed her arm—she tore free and ran.
Out into the street.
Rain. Headlights. Screeching brakes.
Ivie stumbled forward—
—and ran straight into the path of a black luxury car, surrounded by a convoy powerful enough to silence the city.
The world stopped.
Inside that car sat a man who didn't believe in love.
And Ivie's life was about to collide with his in ways neither of them could escape.