The roar of engines echoed through the streets of Lagos as Ivie sprinted, her heels clattering against the wet asphalt like gunshots. Her chest heaved, lungs burning, and every nerve in her body screamed for her to move faster. She had been late to pick up her siblings' supplies, and now traffic had become a chaotic jungle—horns blaring, taxis swerving, motorbikes darting between cars.
Ahead, a black Bentley Bentayga glinted under the streetlights, weaving through traffic like it owned the city. Ivie froze for a split second too long.
The tires squealed. The car slammed to a stop inches from her.
"I said watch where you're going!" a deep, commanding voice snapped.
Her head snapped up. She froze. The driver leaned out, and Ivie felt her breath catch. Every inch of him screamed wealth, danger, and power. Dark tailored suit, perfectly combed hair, eyes sharp enough to pierce steel. Femi da Silva. The Lagos playboy, the man who made women swoon and men resent him—all in one glance.
"You think running in front of a Bentley is funny?" he demanded, stepping out.
"Funny?" Ivie hissed, chest heaving. "Do you know how fast you were going?"
A smirk tugged at his lips. "Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn't. But you… you're fearless, aren't you?"
Ivie's glare sharpened. "And you're reckless. Typical rich boy thinking the world bends for you."
He laughed—a low, dangerous sound that made something stir in her chest. Heat, frustration, anger, and something else that made her cheeks burn. "Rich boy, yes. But I'm no one's puppet. And I never believed in love."
Ivie raised an eyebrow. "Really? Then why are you staring at me like you're about to fall?"
He tilted his head, letting his gaze linger on her longer than necessary. "Maybe I'm curious," he murmured, his voice like silk edged with steel.
Curiosity. The word struck her wrong. How could someone so arrogant, so infuriating, make her pulse race with a single word?
"I'm walking away," she said finally, turning on her heel, trying to mask the flush of her cheeks. Her heart thudded so violently she was certain he could hear it.
But Femi da Silva did not let her leave that easily.
"You're going to regret ignoring me," he said, voice low, dangerous, promising things she didn't yet understand.
Ivie didn't look back. She had survived Lagos traffic, rude commuters, and worse—she could survive Femi da Silva. Or so she told herself.
A week later the invitation
Her mind should have been on her work, on the endless responsibilities she carried for her younger siblings. Instead, it kept wandering back to Femi—his smirk, his laugh, the dangerous glint in his eyes. Hate battled fascination in every corner of her mind, and she hated herself for the tiny thrill his memory stirred.
Then, one afternoon, Vanny, her best friend and partner-in-crime, waved a glossy black envelope in front of her face.
"House party," Vanny said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Some billionaire invited us. Sounds… dangerous. And fun."
Ivie groaned. "I don't do rich men."
"Yeah, until one of them stares at you like he wants to burn you alive. Trust me, this could be… explosive," Vanny said.
Ivie rolled her eyes but slipped the envelope into her bag. It's just a party, she told herself. I'll go, have a drink, leave. Nothing will happen.
She didn't know how wrong she was
The Party
The mansion was breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers cast glittering light over a sea of impeccably dressed men and women. Perfume, champagne, and the faint tang of expensive cologne hung in the air. Music throbbed through the space, a hypnotic pulse beneath the murmur of laughter and conversation.
And then she saw him.
Femi da Silva. Across the room, every rumor, every story, every whispered warning came alive. He stood like a king surveying his kingdom, and when his eyes fell on her, it was as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them.
"You're here," he murmured, voice low and deliberate, almost to himself.
"I'm here for the drinks," she shot back, though her heart betrayed her, hammering wildly in her chest.
"You lie well," he said with that infuriating smirk, the kind that made her want to shove him—but also made her pulse race uncontrollably. Sparks ignited between them, dangerous, undeniable, a current neither could ignore.
Throughout the evening, their verbal sparring continued. Every glance, every accidental brush of hands, every pointed insult carried a spark. Hate and desire intertwined in a dangerous dance.
By the time Ivie left, her legs ached from heels and tension, her head spun with irritation—and with a strange, unwelcome longing. Lagos had its chaos, but Femi da Silva… he had managed to make the city feel small, suffocating, and yet strangely magnetic.