He circled her slowly, watching the small movements—the flick of her hair, the flex of her ankle, the subtle tension in her shoulders. His smirk returned.
"You fascinate me," he said softly, voice low enough that it sent chills down her spine. "So much fire… so much defiance… it's… intoxicating."
Ivie's heart hammered. "You're insufferable."
"I've been told," he said, leaning closer, dangerously close. She could feel the heat radiating from his body. "But you… you make me want to see how far I can push you."
The tension was palpable. Hate and desire tangled in a web neither of them could escape. She hated the effect he had on her. She hated that she wanted to lean into him, wanted to feel that smirk on her lips. And yet…
She didn't. Not yet.
But Femi da Silva had a way of making patience impossible.
By the end of the night, Ivie's thoughts were a mess of frustration, adrenaline, and dangerous attraction. She hated him—hated the way he made her toes curl, the way he seemed to know her without speaking, the way he dominated every corner of the room and yet kept his eyes fixed on her.
She didn't know it yet, but Femi's obsession had begun. Every glance, every smirk, every teasing word planted a seed that would grow into something she couldn't resist—something that would blur the lines between hate and desire, business and intimacy, control and surrender.
And Lagos, in all its chaos, would watch the sparks fly.
Two days after the party, Ivie tried to convince herself that Femi da Silva had vanished back into the world of billionaires and fast cars.
She failed.
His presence lingered like heat on her skin—unwanted, persistent, impossible to ignore. Every time her phone buzzed, her stomach tightened. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that infuriating smirk, heard his voice murmuring confidence and danger into her ear.
"You're distracted," Vanny said, dropping onto the couch beside her. "You've been staring at that wall for five minutes."
"I'm fine," Ivie muttered, though the lie tasted bitter.
Vanny studied her for a long moment, then smiled slowly. "Funny. Because the agency called."
Ivie stiffened. "About what?"
"A private request," Vanny said carefully. "High profile. Confidential. Generous pay."
Ivie's chest tightened. "No."
"You don't even know—"
"I said no," Ivie snapped. "I'm done being someone's secret."
Vanny sighed. "Ivie… it's him."
Silence fell between them.
Her pulse roared in her ears. "Who?"
"You already know," Vanny said gently.
Femi da Silva.
The room felt smaller, tighter, like the walls were leaning in. Ivie stood abruptly. "I won't do it."
"He didn't ask for a night," Vanny said quickly. "He asked for a meeting."
That stopped her.
The following evening, Ivie found herself seated in a private lounge overlooking the Lagos skyline. Floor-to-ceiling windows glowed with city lights. Everything about the place whispered money—quiet power, unspoken rules.
And then Femi walked in.
He didn't smile this time.
His expression was serious, controlled, eyes darker than she remembered. He took the seat across from her, folding his hands calmly.
"You came," he said.
"I came to hear what you want," Ivie replied coolly. "Nothing more."
"Fair," he said. "I'll be direct."
She braced herself.
"I need a child."
The words landed heavily between them.
"My inheritance," he continued, voice steady, "is conditional. An heir. No marriage requirement. No romance. Just blood."
Ivie stared at him, stunned. "You called me here to say that?"
"I called you here," he corrected, "because I want you."
Her laugh was sharp. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough," he said calmly. "You're healthy. Intelligent. Strong. And you don't bend easily."
She felt exposed, seen in a way that unsettled her.
"This isn't—this is insane," she said. "Find someone else."
"I have," he said. "None of them are you."
Her chest tightened.
"I'm offering a contract," he continued, sliding a folder across the table. "Two thousand dollars monthly until delivery. Five thousand after one year of weaning. Complete confidentiality. No future contact."
Her hands trembled as she opened the folder.
"And I control my life," she said sharply. "My choices. My body."
"You control your life," he agreed immediately. "I control my child."
The ease with which he said it unsettled her.
"And I won't be hidden," she added. "I won't be treated like a secret."
"You'll live with me," he said. "Protected. Provided for."
She met his gaze. "And emotionally?"
His jaw tightened. "There will be nothing emotional."
They stared at each other, tension crackling like electricity.
Silence stretched.
Ivie's mind raced—her siblings, unpaid fees, hospital bills, the weight she carried alone. This money could change everything.
And yet…
"Why me?" she asked softly.
For the first time, Femi hesitated.
"Because you don't want me," he said quietly. "And that makes you dangerous."
Her breath caught.
She stood abruptly. "I need time."
"You have forty-eight hours," he said. "After that, I move on."
She walked out without looking back, heart pounding painfully.
That night, Ivie lay awake staring at the ceiling. She thought of her grandmother's abandoned house in Benin. Of the way hunger had once felt like a permanent companion. Of responsibility crushing her chest daily.
And she thought of Femi—cold, controlled, wounded in ways he refused to admit.
Two days later, she returned.
"I agree," she said. "Under my conditions."
He watched her carefully. "You'll regret this."
"Maybe," she said. "But I won't starve."
He slid the pen across the table.
When she signed, something irreversible shifted between them.
As she stood to leave, his gaze dropped—just briefly—to the way her shoes pressed against the floor, the quiet strength in her stance. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes before he looked away.
"This changes nothing," he said.
She smiled faintly. "You keep telling yourself that."
Because already—beneath the ink and clauses and rules—something dangerous had begun to grow.
And neither of them was prepared for it.