Flashback: Two Days Earlier

I'm going to fire someone today, and I haven't even decided who yet.

The thought crosses my mind as I stride through the marble lobby of Sterling Towers, my assistant Biodun struggling to keep pace while rattling off the morning's disasters.

"-and the Singapore deal is stalling because Henderson can't close. The board wants a meeting about the quarterly projections, and your grandmother called three times already-"

"Tell the board I'll review projections by end of day. Fire Henderson. And tell my grandmother I'm busy." I don't break stride, nodding curtly at employees who flatten themselves against walls as I pass.

They fear me. Good. Fear breeds efficiency.

"Sir, Henderson has been with the company for fifteen years-"

"Then he's had fifteen years to learn how to close a deal." I stab the elevator button. "Terminate him. Severance package, but he's done."

Biodun makes a note, his expression carefully neutral. He's been my assistant for three years-long enough to know when to argue and when to simply execute orders.

The elevator rises smoothly. My reflection in the polished doors shows exactly what I've cultivated: sharp suit, sharper expression, eyes that reveal nothing. Leonardo Sterling, 32, CEO of Sterling Industries, net worth somewhere north of fifteen billion naira and climbing.

Untouchable.

Unreachable.

Exactly how I prefer it.

The doors open to the executive floor. I head straight to the conference room where my senior management team waits. They stand when I enter-another small acknowledgment of power.

"Sit." I take my position at the head of the table. "We have thirty minutes. Don't waste them."

The meeting proceeds with clinical efficiency. Numbers, projections, problems, solutions. This is my element-cold logic, strategic thinking, profit margins and market dominance. No emotions to muddy the waters, no sentiment to cloud judgment.

My father built Sterling Industries from nothing. I've tripled its value in five years.

Sentiment is for people who can afford to lose.

"-and the cleaning contract is up for renewal," my CFO, Adeyemi, is saying. "The current company wants a fifteen percent increase."

"Rejected. Find someone cheaper."

"Sir, they've been with us for four years-"

"Which means they've been profiting from us for four years. Business is business, Adeyemi. If they can't meet our price point, replace them." I check my watch. "Next item."

We finish with two minutes to spare. I dismiss them and head to my office, already mentally moving to the next task.

My office is my sanctuary-floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lagos, minimalist furniture, everything precisely where it should be. Control. Order. Predictability.

I'm reviewing the Singapore contracts when Biodun enters.

"Sir, there's been a mix-up with the cleaning schedule. One of their staff is in the conference room-should I send her away?"

"No." I don't look up from the documents. "Let her finish. I need these contracts reviewed before the board meeting."

He leaves. I dive deeper into the paperwork, annotating clauses, marking sections for revision. This is what I'm good at-finding weaknesses, exploiting opportunities, building empires one strategic decision at a time.

Twenty minutes later, I head back to the conference room, still reading the contracts.

I push open the door, my mind on Section 12, Subsection B, and I stop.

There's a woman at the windows. Her back is to me, one hand pressed against the glass as she stares out at the city. She's small-petite frame in worn jeans and a simple blouse that's seen better days. Her braids are pulled back into a practical ponytail.

She's completely still, like she's drinking in the view.

Something about her posture-the slight slump of exhaustion, the way her fingers splay against the glass like she's trying to touch something unreachable-makes me pause.

Then she turns.

Our eyes meet.

And something in my chest-something I thought died years ago-cracks.

She's beautiful. Not the polished, designer beauty of the women who usually orbit my world. Her face is natural, makeup-free, with high cheekbones and full lips. Dark eyes that should be warm but carry the weight of someone who's seen too much too young.

Exhaustion clings to her like a shadow. Dark circles under those eyes, hands slightly reddened from chemicals, shoulders carrying invisible weight.

But it's her expression that stops me cold-like she's been caught stealing a moment of peace she doesn't have time for.

"I'm sorry!" She jolts upright, grabbing a cleaning cart I hadn't noticed. "I wasn't-I was just finishing the windows-"

"You're the cleaner?" The words come out sharper than I intended.

"Yes, sir." She won't quite meet my eyes now. "I'll get out of your way-"

"Wait."

She freezes.

I don't know why I stopped her. I should let her leave. I have work to do, a schedule to keep, no time for-

For what? For curiosity about a woman whose name I don't know?

"What's your name?" I ask.

She hesitates, like it might be a trap. "Evelyn, sir. Evelyn Adesua."

"Evelyn." I test the name. It fits her somehow-classic, understated. "How long have you worked here?"

"Six months."

"And you enjoy staring out windows when you should be working?"

It's meant to be cutting, but something flashes in her eyes-not fear, but defiance quickly suppressed.

"No, sir. I apologize. It won't happen again."

She starts to move past me, and I catch the scent of industrial cleaner mixed with something floral-cheap lotion, probably. The contrast shouldn't be appealing.

It is.

"The windows are clean," I observe, glancing at the spotless glass.

"Yes, sir."

"Very clean."

"Thank you, sir."

We're having the stupidest conversation, and I can't seem to stop.

"Do you always do such thorough work?"

Now she does look at me, confusion flickering across her face. "I try to, sir. Is there a problem?"

Yes. The problem is I can't stop looking at you.

The thought arrives unbidden, unwelcome, and utterly inappropriate.

"No problem." I step aside. "Carry on."

She wheels her cart past me quickly, like she's escaping. I catch another whiff of that floral scent.

The door closes behind her.

I stand alone in the conference room, staring at the windows she cleaned, and for the first time in years, I feel... unsettled.

Leonardo Sterling doesn't do unsettled.

I force myself back to my office, back to the contracts, back to the world of numbers and logic where everything makes sense.

But I can't focus.

Dark eyes and exhausted shoulders keep intruding on my thoughts.

An hour later, Biodun enters with coffee and my afternoon schedule.

"The cleaning supervisor called," he mentions casually. "Wanted to apologize if their staff disturbed you in the conference room-"

"She didn't disturb me." The words come out too quickly. "She was... adequate."

Biodun's eyebrows rise slightly. In three years, I've never commented on the cleaning staff.

"Noted, sir."

He leaves. I stare at my computer screen, seeing nothing.

This is absurd. She's a cleaner. I'm the CEO. We exist in completely different universes. The chances of our paths crossing again are-

"Sir?" Biodun pokes his head back in. "Quick question-the cleaning staff. Do you want the same people assigned to the executive floor, or should we rotate?"

An idea-terrible, inappropriate, completely unprofessional-forms.

"Keep them consistent," I hear myself say. "Familiarity breeds efficiency."

"Of course, sir."

I'm making excuses to potentially see a woman whose last name I just learned.

This is not like me.

I don't do attraction. I don't do distraction. I certainly don't do fascination with women who clean my offices.

Yet here I am, already planning tomorrow's schedule to ensure I'll be in my office during cleaning hours.

Pathetic.

But I do it anyway.

(LEO POV)

Present Day

The memory fades as I watch Eve leave my office, the medical account promise hanging between us like a bridge I'm building without knowing where it leads.

Biodun appears seconds after she's gone, tablet in hand.

"Sir, the board meeting-"

"Cancel it."

He blinks. "Sir?"

"You heard me. Cancel it. Reschedule for tomorrow." I move to the windows, staring out at the city where Eve is probably heading to her cleaning shift.

"May I ask why?"

"No."

Biodun is silent for a moment. Then: "Sir, if I may... the cleaning staff member who just left-"

"Her name is Eve." I cut him off, voice sharp.

"Eve," he corrects smoothly. "She's caused quite a stir among the staff. Rumors are circulating about why the CEO is taking personal interest in a cleaning woman."

I turn from the window. "And?"

"And I wanted to make sure you're aware. The Sterling family has... opinions about propriety. If your grandmother hears that you're involving yourself with-"

"Biodun." My voice drops to the tone that makes executives sweat. "I pay you to manage my schedule, not my personal life. Eve's mother is ill. I'm helping. That's the end of the story. If my grandmother or anyone else has questions, they can bring them directly to me. Are we clear?"

"Crystal, sir."

"Good. Now get my accountant on the phone. I need a medical expense account set up within the hour."

He nods and exits.

I return to the windows, to the view that Eve was stealing glances at days ago.

What am I doing?

I've built my entire life on control, on keeping emotions locked away where they can't interfere with business. Sterling men don't do sentiment-my father taught me that before he died. Love is a weakness. Attachment is vulnerability.

Yet I just committed nearly two million naira to a woman I've known for three days.

My phone buzzes. My grandmother.

I consider ignoring it. Then reconsider-she'll only call back, and she has keys to my office.

"Grandmother."

"Leonardo." Her voice carries the weight of old money and older expectations. "I hear disturbing rumors about you and a cleaning girl."

News travels fast in my world.

"Her mother is ill. I'm providing medical assistance. It's charity, nothing more."

"Charity?" She laughs, sharp and knowing. "Sterling men don't do charity, my dear. We make investments. So what are you investing in?"

"Her name is Eve-"

"I don't care what her name is. I care that you're creating gossip. The family has a reputation to maintain. Your father understood that. Your grandfather understood that. You would do well to remember it."

My jaw clenches. "I'll handle my reputation, Grandmother."

"See that you do. We have important mergers pending. The last thing we need is scandal about you and some poor girl playing at Cinderella."

She hangs up before I can respond.

I grip the phone, anger simmering.

This is why I don't do relationships. Why I keep my world sterile and professional. Because the moment you show interest in someone outside your tax bracket, the vultures circle.

But even as I think it, I know I'm not going to back away.

Something about Eve-her pride, her exhaustion, the way she refuses to be pitied-has gotten under my skin.

And Leonardo Sterling doesn't give up on things that interest him.

My accountant calls back. Twenty minutes later, the medical account is established. I have a debit card printed with Eve's name on it, linked to an account I've seeded with two million naira.

More than enough for two years of treatment.

I should have it delivered to her. Professional. Distant.

Instead, I find myself asking Biodun, "What time does the evening cleaning shift start?"

"Seven PM, sir."

"I'll be working late tonight."

Biodun's expression is carefully blank. "Of course, sir."

At 6:45 PM, my office is empty except for me. The executive floor is quiet-most staff gone home to families, to lives, to things that don't involve spreadsheets and profit margins.

I'm pretending to review quarterly reports when I hear the elevator ding.

Voices in the hallway. The cleaning crew.

I wait, forcing myself to focus on the numbers in front of me.

A knock at my door.

"Come in."

It's not Eve. It's Mama Kike, the cleaning supervisor.

Disappointment stabs through me.

"Good evening, sir." She looks nervous. "We're here for the evening cleaning. Will we be disturbing you?"

"No. I'll be in the conference room. Clean the office."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

I gather my laptop and papers, heading to the conference room where I first saw her.

Through the glass walls, I watch the cleaning crew disperse across the floor. Mama Kike assigns tasks. Two women head toward my office.

Neither is Eve.

"Looking for someone?"

I turn. One of my senior managers, Folarin, stands in the doorway with a knowing smirk.

"Shouldn't you be home?" I ask coldly.

"I could ask you the same thing. Except I heard you're waiting for a certain someone." He leans against the doorframe. "A certain pretty cleaner who's got Lagos' most eligible bachelor acting like a lovesick puppy."

"Folarin, I suggest you remember who signs your paychecks."

"Oh, I remember." His smirk widens. "I also remember you once telling me that mixing business with pleasure was for weak men who couldn't separate their dicks from their decisions. Your words, Leo. Not mine."

"Get out."

"I'm going, I'm going." He raises his hands. "But a word of advice? If you're going to break your own rules, at least be smart about it. Your grandmother is already sharpening her knives."

He leaves.

I sit in the empty conference room, staring at nothing.

He's right, of course. I am breaking my own rules. Spectacularly.

But when I remember Eve's face when I offered to help-the war between pride and desperation, the strength it took to accept, the promise to pay me back even though we both know she might never be able to-

I don't care about the rules.

My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

"Is this Mr. Sterling?"

My pulse quickens.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"It's Eve. I got your number from your assistant. I wanted to say thank you again. For everything. I don't have words for what you've done."

I stare at the message, then type quickly:

"You already thanked me. No need to again."

"I know, but it feels like 'thank you' isn't enough for saving my mother's life."

"You would do the same if you could."

A pause. Then:

"Yes. I would."

Another pause. I watch the typing indicator appear and disappear several times. Finally:

"Why are you really helping me?"

I lean back in my chair, considering the question I've been asking myself.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could lie. Give her the charity line, the corporate responsibility speech, anything that maintains distance.

Instead, I type the truth:

"Because when I look at you, I see someone fighting a war they didn't choose. And I have the weapons to help them win. It seems like a waste not to use them."

Her response takes longer this time:

"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. Even if I don't fully understand it."

"You don't have to understand it. Just accept it."

"I'm not good at accepting things."

"I noticed. It's stubborn and admirable in equal measure."

"Are you calling me stubborn, Mr. Sterling?"

"Leo. And yes. It's a compliment."

"If you say so, Leo."

Seeing my name typed by her sends an unexpected thrill through me.

This is dangerous territory. I know it. But I keep typing anyway:

"Did you make it home safely last night?"

"Yes. Someone walked me. A man named Rico."

My jaw tightens. Rico. I know that name. Rico Blaze-gangster, street king, dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with boardrooms and everything to do with bullets.

What the hell was he doing near Eve?

"Rico Blaze?" I type carefully.

"You know him?"

"Of him. He's... not someone you should be around."

"He helped me. Some men were bothering me, and he scared them off."

Jealousy-hot and irrational-flares in my chest. Rico Blaze playing hero to my... to Eve.

"Still. Be careful around him."

"Everyone keeps telling me to be careful. I'm starting to think Lagos is just one big danger zone."

"It is. Especially for people like you."

"People like me?"

"Good people. The kind who see the best in others. The city eats people like that."

"Then I guess I better stay tough."

"You're already the toughest person I know."

Another long pause. Then:

"You don't know me, Leo."

"Not yet. But I'd like to."

I send it before I can reconsider.

Her response is immediate:

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because you're a billionaire CEO and I'm a cleaner. We live in different worlds. People like you don't really know people like me. They just think they do."

Truth in that. Sharp, uncomfortable truth.

"Then teach me. Help me understand your world."

"Why would you want to?"

"Because it produced you. That alone makes it interesting."

Several minutes pass. I think she's not going to respond. Then:

"You're strange, you know that?"

"I've been called worse."

"I bet you have. Look, I should go. Mama's waiting for dinner. But thank you again. For everything."

"Stop thanking me."

"Not a chance. Goodnight, Leo."

"Goodnight, Eve."

I stare at my phone long after the conversation ends.

What am I doing? What is this pull toward a woman I barely know? I've dated models, heiresses, corporate executives-women who understand my world, who want the same things I want.

None of them ever made me feel like this.

Like I'm standing at the edge of something vast and terrifying and exhilarating.

Like I'm about to jump.

"Sir?"

I look up. Mama Kike stands in the doorway.

"We've finished, sir. Have a good night."

"Wait." I stand. "The cleaner who was assigned here yesterday-Evelyn Adesua. Why isn't she here tonight?"

Mama Kike looks confused. "She has two jobs, sir. Market shift on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She'll be back tomorrow."

"I see. Thank you."

She leaves, and I'm alone with the realization that I'm disappointed.

Disappointed that I won't see her tonight.

Like a teenager with a crush.

Leonardo Sterling. Thirty-two years old. Billionaire. Acting like a fool over a woman who cleans his office.

My father would be ashamed.

My grandmother is already preparing her weapons.

And I?

I don't care.

Because tomorrow evening, I'll see her again.

Maybe I'll figure out what to do with this thing growing in my chest.

This thing that feels suspiciously like the beginning of something I promised myself I'd never feel.

Hope.

(Evelyn POV)

I shouldn't be excited about scrubbing toilets, yet here I am.

Wednesday evening arrives with the usual chaos(bus delays, traffic that turns a thirty-minute trip into ninety minutes, and the persistent ache in my lower back that's become my constant companion).

But underneath the exhaustion, something flutters in my chest.

I'm going to see him again.

Leo.

The thought makes me feel foolish. He's not interested in you like that, I tell myself firmly while climbing the stairs to Sterling Towers' service entrance. He's just being kind. Rich people do charity sometimes. It doesn't mean anything.

But then I remember his text: "Because when I look at you, I see someone fighting a war they didn't choose."

Nobody has ever looked at me and seen a fighter. They see a cleaner, a poor girl, someone to pity or ignore.

Leo sees something else.

"Evelyn!" Mama Kike's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You dey dream? Go collect your supplies! We no get all night!"

"Yes, ma." I shake myself and grab my cart from the supply closet.

Tonight's assignment: executive floor. My pulse quickens.

The elevator ride up feels longer than usual.

Two other cleaners are with me(Ngozi and Patience), both older women who've been doing this for years.

"I hear say you don catch big fish," Ngozi says with a sly smile, her Igbo accent thick. "The CEO himself dey help your mama."

Word travels fast.

"He was just being kind," I say firmly.

"Kind?" Patience laughs. "Rich men no dey just 'kind' to poor girls. Especially fine girls like you. He want something, mark my words."

"He doesn't want anything. He said so."

They exchange knowing looks that make my face heat.

"Shebi na so them dey always start," Ngozi says sagely. "First na help. Then na gifts. Then na... other things."

"It's not like that," I insist, but my voice lacks conviction.

Because what if it is? What if Leo's kindness comes with expectations I can't meet? What if Mama was right to be suspicious?

The elevator dings. Executive floor.

The hallway is mostly empty, offices dark except for-

My heart jumps.

Light spills from Leo's office at the end of the hall.

He's still here.

"Hey Ladies!" Mama Kike appears from nowhere, clipboard in hand. "Ngozi, you take the conference rooms. Patience, you do the breakroom and kitchenette. Evelyn-"

She pauses, giving me a strange look.

"-you do the CEO office. He say specifically he want you."

Ngozi and Patience exchange significant glances.

"Yes, ma," I manage, my mouth suddenly dry.

I push my cart toward his office, each step feeling surreal. Through the glass walls, I can see him at his desk, head bent over paperwork, one hand running through his hair in what looks like frustration.

He's taken off his suit jacket. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that-

Stop it, Eve. Stop looking at him like that.

I knock softly on the doorframe.

He looks up, and the transformation is immediate. The frustration smooths away, replaced by something warmer.

"Eve." He says my name like it matters. "Come in."

I wheel my cart inside, hyper aware of how small and shabby it looks in his pristine office.

"Good evening, Mr. Sterling-"

"Leo."

"Leo," I correct, the name still feeling too familiar. "Should I come back later? I don't want to disturb-"

"You're not disturbing me." He stands, and I'm reminded again of how tall he is, how he seems to fill the space. "In fact, I was hoping we could talk."

My stomach flips. "Talk?"

"About your mother's treatment." He gestures to the chairs facing his desk. "Please, sit."

"Sir-Leo-I'm working. I can't just-"

"Five minutes." His tone is gentle but brooks no argument. "Sit."

I perch on the edge of the chair, gripping my knees. He doesn't go back behind his desk. Instead, he leans against it, facing me, close enough that I catch his scent-that expensive cologne that probably costs more than my monthly salary.

"I had the medical account set up," he says, pulling a sleek black card from his pocket. "This is linked to the account. You can use it at any hospital or pharmacy for your mother's treatment."

He holds it out.

I stare at the card-matte black with silver letters spelling out my name: EVELYN ADESUA.

"I can't take that," I whisper.

"You already agreed to accept help."

"Help, yes. But this..." I gesture at the card. "This is too much. It's too... permanent. Like I'm yours or something."

His eyebrows rise. "Like you're mine?"

Heat floods my face. "I didn't mean-that came out wrong-"

"Eve." He's smiling now, a real smile that transforms his face from intimidating to devastating. "This card doesn't make you mine. It makes your mother healthy. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

The smile fades. He studies me with those intense eyes.

"You really think I'm trying to buy you?"

"I think rich men don't give poor girls two million naira without wanting something in return. That's just how the world works."

"What if I told you the world is wrong?"

"I'd say you're naive. But you're not naive. You're a billionaire. So there must be something you want."

Silence stretches between us. His jaw works like he's fighting with himself.

Finally: "You want to know what I want?"

"Yes."

"I want to have dinner with you."

I blink. "What?"

"Dinner. A meal. The thing people eat in the evening." His tone is light, but his eyes are serious. "I want to take you to dinner. Get to know you better. That's what I want in return for helping your mother."

My mind races. "That's... that's it? Dinner?"

"That's it."

"Why?"

"Because I find you interesting."

"I'm not interesting. I'm a cleaner who lives in Bariga and eats garri for breakfast."

"You're a woman who works two jobs to support her family, who has more pride than sense, and who stands in my office telling a billionaire he's wrong about the world." His smile returns, softer this time. "That's interesting to me."

I should say no. Every survival instinct I have screams to say no.

"One dinner," I hear myself say. "That's all."

"One dinner," he agrees. "For two million naira of medical care. I think I'm getting the better deal."

Despite everything, I laugh. "You're definitely getting robbed."

"Worth it." He hands me the card again. "Please. Take it. Use it for your mother. The dinner invitation stands separately,you can reject that and still use the card. They're not connected."

I take the card slowly. It's heavier than it looks.

"Thank you," I whisper. "I know I keep saying it, but-"

"Then stop saying it and show me instead."

"Show you how?"

"Have dinner with me. This Saturday. Let me see the world through your eyes for one evening."

Saturday. Three days away.

"I work Saturday evenings."

"Call in sick."

"I don't call in sick. I need the money-"

"I'll pay you double what you'd make at the market." He holds up a hand before I can protest. "Don't argue. Consider it payment for the dinner. You're giving me your time, I'm compensating for the work hours you're missing. Fair trade."

It's not fair. Nothing about this is fair. But Mama needs medication, and turning down money because of pride is a luxury I can't afford.

"Fine," I say. "Saturday. But nowhere expensive. I don't have clothes for fancy restaurants."

"Wear whatever you want. I'll pick you up at six."

"You don't know where I live."

"Then tell me."

I give him my address in Bariga, watching his expression carefully for judgment or disgust.

There's none. He just types it into his phone.

"Six PM Saturday," he confirms. "Now you should probably start cleaning before your supervisor thinks I'm distracting you from work."

"You are distracting me from work."

"Then I'll be quiet." He returns to his desk, but I catch the smile playing at his lips.

I busy myself with dusting, acutely aware of him ten feet away. The silence should be uncomfortable, but it's not. It's... companionable, almost.

"Can I ask you something?" His voice breaks the quiet.

"Yes?"

"Rico Blaze. How did you meet him?"

I glance at him. His expression is carefully neutral, but something in his tone suggests the question matters.

"Some men tried to bother me at the bus stop. Rico scared them away and walked me home." I spray cleaner on his bookshelf. "Why?"

"Because Rico Blaze is dangerous."

"He didn't seem dangerous to me. He seemed kind."

"Eve." Leo sets down his pen. "Rico runs half the street gangs in Lagos. He's involved in everything from extortion to smuggling. He's not someone you should be around."

"He saved me."

"He has an angle. Men like Rico always have angles."

"And men like you don't?" I turn to face him fully. "You're paying my mother's medical bills and taking me to dinner. Should I assume you have an angle too?"

His jaw clenches. "That's different."

"How?"

"Because I'm not going to get you killed!"

The words explode out of him, raw and fierce. He stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair again-that gesture of frustration I'm starting to recognize.

"Rico Blaze's world is violence and crime," he continues, voice tight with something that sounds like... fear? "People around him get hurt. They disappear. They die. I don't-" He cuts himself off.

"You don't what?"

He looks at me, and the intensity in his eyes steals my breath.

"I don't want that to happen to you."

The air between us feels charged, dangerous in a completely different way than Rico's world.

"I barely know him," I say softly. "He walked me home once. That's all."

"Keep it that way." It's not a request.

"Leo, you can't tell me who I can and can't talk to."

"I can when it's someone who could get you killed."

"I survived twenty-three years in Lagos without your protection. I think I can handle myself."

"Can you?" He moves closer, and suddenly he's right there, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Because from where I'm standing, you're a woman who walks home alone at night through dangerous streets, works herself to exhaustion, and doesn't know how to ask for help until she's drowning."

"I'm not drowning."

"You were three days ago. When your mother collapsed and you had no way to pay for her treatment. If I hadn't been there-"

"But you were there!" My voice rises. "And so was Rico. And I'm grateful to both of you. But that doesn't mean either of you gets to control my life!"

We're inches apart now, both breathing hard, anger and something else crackling in the space between us.

"I'm not trying to control you," he says, voice dropping to something dangerous and soft. "I'm trying to protect you."

"I don't need protection."

"Everyone needs protection."

"From what? Rico? Or you?"

His eyes darken. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means maybe you're not as different from him as you think. You're both powerful men who showed up in my life suddenly and decided I needed saving. Maybe you both have angles. Maybe I should be careful of both of you."

Something flickers across his face.

He steps back, the distance between us suddenly cold.

"You're right," he says quietly. "I apologize. I overstepped."

The anger drains out of me, leaving only exhaustion. "Leo-"

"You should finish your work. I've distracted you enough."

"I didn't mean-"

"Saturday. Six PM. The dinner invitation still stands, if you want it." His voice is formal now, the warmth gone. "But I understand if you'd rather not."

He returns to his desk, focusing intently on his papers.

Dismissed.

I turn back to my cleaning, my chest tight with confusion and regret. Why did I snap at him like that? He was just concerned. Rico's reputation isn't a secret,even I've heard whispers about the street king who rules through fear.

But something in Leo's intensity scared me. Not physically.I don't think he'd ever hurt me. But the way he looked at me, like he has some claim...

That scared me because part of me wanted to let him claim me.

I finish cleaning in silence. When I'm done, I pause at the door.

"Leo?"

He looks up.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have compared you to Rico. You're nothing alike."

His expression softens slightly. "And I'm sorry for acting like I have the right to tell you what to do. You're correct-I don't."

"But you're also correct that I should be more careful. Lagos is dangerous. I forget that sometimes."

"Don't forget it." His voice is gentle again. "Please."

"I won't." I grip my cart. "Saturday. Six PM. I'll be ready."

The smile that breaks across his face is worth every confused emotion churning in my chest.

"Good night, Eve."

"Good night, Leo."

I leave his office feeling like I've just navigated a minefield blindfolded.

Mama Kike is waiting by the elevators, arms crossed. "Thirty-five minutes to clean one office. You must think say I be fool."

"I'm sorry, ma. He wanted to talk about-"

"I no care what he want to talk about." But her expression isn't angry, just knowing. "Listen, Evelyn. I don see this thing before. Rich man, poor girl. E dey always end the same way."

My stomach drops. "How does it end?"

"Either him family go destroy you, or him go use you finish and throw you away. Sometimes both." She softens slightly. "You be good girl. No let hunger make you foolish."

"It's not like that, ma."

"That na wetin them all dey talk. Just remember say I warn you."

She walks away, leaving me with her words echoing in my head.

Either his family will destroy you, or he'll use you and throw you away.

In the elevator down, I pull out the black medical card, running my thumb over my embossed name.

Two million naira for my mother's life.

One dinner for a billionaire's curiosity.

What did I just agree to?

My phone buzzes. A text from Rico.

Rico: "Evening, Eve. How was work?"

I stare at the message, then at the floor number counting down.

Two powerful men. Both interested. Both dangerous in their own ways.

And me, caught in the middle, with no idea how this story ends.

I text Rico back: "Exhausting. But good."

Rico: "Need a ride home? My driver can come get you."

Before I can respond, another text arrives. From Leo.

Leo: "I've arranged a car service for you. The driver will be waiting at the service entrance to take you home. Non-negotiable."

I look between the two messages.

One from a gangster offering protection.

One from a billionaire demanding it.

I should be annoyed. Instead, I'm...

Confused,flattered and terrified.

Me to Rico: "I have a ride, thank you. But I appreciate the offer."

Me to Leo: "Thank you. You didn't have to."

Leo: "I know. Sleep well, Eve."

The elevator opens to reveal a sleek black car waiting at the curb, just like Leo promised.

The driver(a kind-faced older man named John-opens the door for me). Like I'm someone important.

I slide into leather seats that probably cost more than my entire flat and stare out the window as Lagos streams past.

Tomorrow, I'll use the medical card to pick up Mama's medications.

Saturday, I'll have dinner with a billionaire.

And somehow, I'll figure out how to navigate this new world I've stumbled into.

A world where I'm no longer invisible.

A world where that might be the most dangerous thing of all.