I didn't sleep.

Not from fear—I'd made my choice and meant it. But my brain refused to shut down. It kept running calculations, projecting scenarios, analyzing risk like I was still at my desk at Westbridge auditing someone else's life instead of gambling with my own.

At 5:30 a.m., I gave up. Showered in the bathroom that had more jets than sense. Found workout clothes in the closet—expensive athletic wear with tags still attached, all my size. Elijah's "thoroughness" was starting to feel invasive.

The penthouse had a gym. Of course it did. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city as it woke up, orange and pink bleeding across the horizon. Treadmills, weights, equipment I didn't recognize.

Elijah was already there.

He wore gray shorts and a black t-shirt, both soaked with sweat. Punishing a heavy bag with methodical precision. His form was perfect—controlled power, nothing wasted. Each hit landed with a solid thud that echoed off the glass.

He noticed me but didn't stop. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Too much math." I climbed onto a treadmill, started walking. "Kept calculating exactly how much my dignity costs per month."

"Fifty thousand dollars, apparently." He landed a combination that made the bag swing. "Plus benefits."

"That's just the stipend. The real cost is higher."

"Everything has a real cost." He stopped, breathing hard but controlled. Grabbed a towel, wiped his face. "The question is whether you're getting value for it."

I increased my speed to a jog. "Ask me in two years."

He moved to the weight bench, started loading plates. The casual way he handled what had to be over two hundred pounds suggested this was routine, not showing off.

"We're getting married today," he said. "Registry office, eleven a.m. Kemi will be there as witness. Afterward, lunch with my legal team to finalize the subsidiary documentation you'll need to testify about."

I nearly stumbled. "Today? You said seventy-two hours."

"I said we'd be married in seventy-two hours. That was yesterday. Today is day two." He lay back, pressed the bar up smoothly. "I don't believe in wasting time once a decision is made."

"Most people have engagement parties. Meet each other's families. Pretend to date first."

"Most people aren't racing a seventeen-month deadline to prevent corporate collapse." He completed another rep. "My uncle filed preliminary injunction papers yesterday, claiming I'm mentally unfit to run the company due to 'erratic behavior following my father's death.' He's already positioning for a takeover."

"And getting married to a woman you met yesterday helps that argument how?"

"It shows stability. Forward planning. Commitment to building something lasting." He set the bar back, sat up. "A man in the middle of a mental health crisis doesn't get married and start a family. He makes irrational decisions, isolates himself, becomes unreliable."

"So I'm your proof of sanity."

"You're my proof that I'm building a future, not mourning the past." He stood, grabbed his water bottle. "Which, technically, is true. This marriage is entirely about the future."

I stopped the treadmill. "What about your mother? Doesn't she get a say in who you marry?"

Something dark crossed his face. "Victoria Kingston has many opinions. Most of them are irrelevant."

"She doesn't know about this."

"She knows I'm getting married. She'll meet you at the appropriate time." He headed toward the door. "Wear something simple to the registry. We're not making a spectacle. Breakfast in thirty minutes. Bring questions."

Then he was gone, leaving me alone with expensive equipment and the growing realization that I'd signed a contract with a man who operated at a speed that made normal people look like they were moving underwater.

---

Breakfast was eggs benedict and fresh fruit. Elijah appeared in a navy suit, hair still damp from the shower. He looked like he was about to close a billion-dollar deal, not get married.

"Questions," he said, pouring coffee.

I had a list. I'd written it on my phone at 3 a.m. "Your uncle. Thomas. What's his angle beyond taking the company?"

"Money and ego, in that order." Elijah sat, opened his tablet. Pulled up a photo of a man in his fifties—handsome, silver hair, politician's smile. "He's spent the last twenty years living beyond his means on family money. Now that well is dry, and he's leveraged to the point of desperation."

"So he wants to strip the company for assets."

"He wants to sell it piecemeal to the highest bidders, which happen to be the same people you exposed for money laundering." He swiped to a network diagram. "See how it connects? Your evidence doesn't just prove financial crimes. It proves my uncle has been facilitating them in exchange for keeping his creditors at bay."

I studied the diagram. Shell companies connecting to offshore accounts connecting to legitimate businesses. A web designed to hide money while extracting it from the companies my soon-to-be father-in-law had built.

"This isn't just corporate espionage," I said slowly. "This is organized looting."

"Yes." He closed the tablet. "Which is why we need you alive and credible to testify. And why we need this marriage to look legitimate enough that when you do testify, it can't be dismissed as a hired gun with a grudge."

"I have a grudge."

"You have evidence." He met my eyes. "There's a difference. A grudge is emotional. Evidence is fact. We're building a case, Eniola. You're not just my wife for show. You're my expert witness with unimpeachable credentials."

"Who happens to be married to the plaintiff."

"Who happens to be married to the man trying to save his father's company from thieves." He leaned back. "How it looks depends on how we present it. Which brings me to your next question."

"I didn't ask one yet."

"You were about to ask how we explain our relationship to the press when it becomes public." He pulled up another document. "Here's the narrative. You discovered irregularities in Westbridge's accounts. As a responsible analyst, you brought them to my attention since Kingston Enterprises has subsidiaries that contract with Westbridge."

He scrolled down. "I was impressed by your integrity and competence. We began working together on the investigation. Developed feelings during long nights reviewing evidence. Married quickly because at thirty-four, I know what I want, and I don't waste time once I've found it."

"That's surprisingly believable."

"It's mostly true, minus the feelings part." He pushed the tablet toward me. "Read it. Memorize the timeline. We met six weeks ago. Had dinner three times. I proposed two weeks ago. You said yes because you'd never met anyone who understood you the way I did."

I scanned the document. Detailed dates, locations, even fabricated conversation topics. "You created a whole fake relationship."

"I created a framework. You'll fill in the emotional details when asked. Just stay vague—people project what they want onto vague answers." He stood. "Finish eating. We leave in an hour."

"Wait." I set down my fork. "What do I call you? When we're alone?"

He paused. "What do you mean?"

"Do I call you Elijah? Mr. Kingston? Sir?" The last one came out with more sarcasm than I intended.

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Elijah is fine. We're supposedly in love. First names are traditional."

"And when we're not alone?"

"Whatever feels natural. Darling, if you're feeling dramatic. Honey, if you're from a romance novel." Now he did smile, sharp and brief. "I trust you'll figure it out."

---

The registry office was aggressively bureaucratic. Fluorescent lights, plastic chairs, the smell of old files and air freshener fighting a losing battle.

Kemi met us in the lobby, professional as always in charcoal gray. She handed me a folder. "Your documents. ID, birth certificate, proof of address."

"How did you get my birth certificate?"

"Mr. Kingston is thorough." She didn't elaborate. "The registrar is ready. This will take fifteen minutes."

And it did. We signed forms. Declared we were entering marriage freely. A bored official pronounced us legally wed with all the enthusiasm of someone processing a parking permit.

"You may kiss the bride," he said, already reaching for the next file.

Elijah looked at me. Gray eyes unreadable. Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to mine.

Brief. Chaste. Professional.

Absolutely nothing like I'd imagined my first kiss as a married woman would be.

He pulled back. "Mrs. Kingston."

The name landed like a weight.

We signed the marriage certificate. Kemi took photos—documentation, she called it. Evidence that this was real.

Outside, Lagos traffic roared past. Elijah opened the SUV door for me. His hand brushed my lower back as I climbed in—the first time he'd touched me beyond that clinical kiss.

"How do you feel?" he asked once we were moving.

"Like I just signed my life away in a government office that smelled like defeat."

"You signed a contract. You got married. They're not the same thing."

"They are for us."

He looked at me then. Really looked. "Yes. They are. But that doesn't make it less real. You're legally my wife now. That comes with protections you didn't have yesterday."

"And obligations I didn't have yesterday."

"Everything worth having has obligations." He pulled out his phone. "We have two hours before the legal team meeting. Anything you need to do? Anyone you need to tell?"

I thought about my parents. My brother. Cynthia.

"No," I said. "No one who'd care."

Something flickered across his face. "That makes two of us."

We spent the next hour at the penthouse. Elijah disappeared into his office. I sat in my suite—our suite?—staring at the marriage certificate.

*Eniola Adeyemi Kingston.*

I'd kept his name. He'd insisted. "Professionally, you can use whatever you want. Legally, you're a Kingston. That's what matters."

My phone rang. Unknown number.

I almost didn't answer. Then thought: what if it's about my evidence?

"Hello?"

"Eniola?" A woman's voice. Cultured, American, sharp. "This is Victoria Kingston. Elijah's mother."

My stomach dropped. "Mrs. Kingston. I—"

"I understand congratulations are in order. My son married a woman I've never met." Her tone could freeze water. "How modern."

"We haven't known each other long, but—"

"You haven't known each other at all." Not a question. A statement. "I've been a Kingston for thirty-five years. I know what a business arrangement looks like. The question is: what are you getting out of this one?"

I swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, what are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating facts. My son needs a wife to satisfy his father's will. You need... what? Money? Status? Citizenship?" She waited. "Whatever it is, understand this: Kingston wives are scrutinized. Photographed. Dissected by the media and the board. If you embarrass this family, you'll discover exactly how expensive that becomes."

"I have no intention of embarrassing anyone."

"Good. Because you're having dinner with me next week. New York. I want to see exactly what my son has purchased."

She hung up.

I sat there, hands shaking. Elijah appeared in the doorway.

"Your mother called," I said.

"I know. She called me first." He leaned against the doorframe. "What did she say?"

"That she knows this is a business arrangement. That she wants to meet me. That I'd better not embarrass the family."

"Sounds like Victoria." He didn't seem bothered. "Don't let her intimidate you. She's all theater."

"She didn't sound like theater."

"She's been performing the role of Kingston matriarch for three decades. It's how she maintains relevance." He checked his watch. "Legal team in thirty minutes. You should change."

"Into what?"

"Something that says 'competent financial analyst' not 'trophy wife.' We need them to take you seriously."

I looked down at my designer casual wear. "Right. Because this screams trophy."

"Compared to what you'll wear to the first board dinner, yes." He straightened. "Welcome to your new life, Mrs. Kingston. It's going to be a performance."

As I changed into one of the tailored suits that had mysteriously appeared in my closet, I caught my reflection. Same face. Same body. But different name. Different life.

Different future.

I'd been married for three hours and already felt like I was drowning in someone else's world.

The old Eniola would've panicked.

This version straightened her collar, checked her lipstick, and reminded herself why she'd signed that contract.

Because powerful men had thought they could silence her.

And Mrs. Eniola Kingston was going to prove them catastrophically wrong.

The legal team occupied the entire twentieth floor of the Kingston Building in Victoria Island. Glass, steel, and the kind of silence that comes from people billing eight hundred dollars an hour.

Kemi led us through security—retinal scanners, badge access, guards who looked like they'd retired from military special operations. The elevator ride was smooth enough that I couldn't feel us moving, just the floor numbers climbing.

"They're going to test you," Elijah said, eyes on his phone. "Ask questions designed to find inconsistencies. See if you actually understand the evidence or if you're just reading from a script."

"I spent three years analyzing these types of transactions. I know the material."

"Good. Because Marcus Chen, the lead prosecutor we're working with, will assume you're a liability until you prove otherwise." He pocketed his phone. "He doesn't know about the contract. No one does except Kemi. To everyone else, you're my wife who happens to be a brilliant analyst."

"What if someone asks how we met?"

"Tell them the truth. You discovered irregularities, brought them to my attention, we worked together. They'll assume the romance part without you having to sell it."

The elevator opened. A conference room stretched before us, dominated by a table that could seat twenty. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of Lagos Harbor. Five people were already seated, laptops open, documents spread.

They looked up as we entered. I felt the assessment happen in real time—eyes cataloging my suit, my posture, the ring now on my left hand.

"Everyone," Elijah said, hand settling on my lower back. "This is my wife, Eniola. She's the analyst who uncovered the Westbridge transactions we've been building the case around."

A man in his fifties stood. Chinese-American, expensive suit, eyes like a shark. "Marcus Chen, federal prosecutor on temporary assignment. Mrs. Kingston." He didn't offer his hand. "I understand you were recently terminated from Westbridge."

"Three days ago." I pulled out a chair, sat without waiting for permission. "After six months of them telling me to ignore what I was finding."

"Which was?"

"A laundering operation moving approximately 2.3 billion naira through shell companies registered in Seychelles, Mauritius, and the Caymans. The money originated from construction contracts in the Niger Delta, got washed through fake consulting fees, then reappeared as legitimate investments in Lagos real estate."

I pulled up my laptop, connected to the screen at the head of the table. "The pattern was obvious once you looked. Every month, Westbridge would process payments to companies that existed only on paper. No employees, no office space, no actual services rendered."

The spreadsheet appeared on the main screen. Color-coded, annotated, showing the flow of money across eighteen months.

"I flagged it in my first report. Management told me it was administrative delays. By the third report, they told me to stop digging. When I documented the pattern anyway, they fired me."

Marcus studied the screen. "And you went to the police instead of selling this to a competitor."

"I went to the police because it's evidence of crimes." I met his eyes. "Not because I wanted revenge, though I won't pretend I'm not angry. But mostly because letting this continue would make me complicit."

"Noble." His tone suggested he didn't believe in nobility. "Or calculated. You knew Mr. Kingston would be interested in this information, given his father's partners are implicated."

"I didn't know who was implicated when I went to the police. I knew the shell companies connected to entities doing business with Kingston subsidiaries, but I didn't know the human targets until Mr. Kingston's attorney explained it."

"Convenient timing. You report his enemies, he offers you protection."

"He offered me a choice." I leaned back. "I could stay exposed and hope the police protected me better than they usually protect witnesses against billionaires. Or I could accept security while helping build a case. I chose survival."

"And marriage?" A woman spoke—forty-ish, Nigerian, immaculate in navy. Her nameplate read *Yetunde Makinde, General Counsel.* "That's quite fast."

"We work well together." I glanced at Elijah, who'd been watching the exchange with that unreadable expression. "Turns out spending every night reviewing evidence of corporate crimes is a bonding experience."

"Six weeks from meeting to marriage." Yetunde's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Some might call that impulsive."

"Some might call it decisive." Elijah's voice cut across the room. "I'm thirty-four. I've dated enough to know when someone is worth keeping. Eniola is brilliant, principled, and understands the stakes of what we're facing. That's more than I can say for most people in my life."

Marcus made a note on his tablet. "Mrs. Kingston, walk me through how you identified the shell companies."

For the next hour, I did exactly that. Pulled up transaction records. Explained the patterns. Showed how payments would go out to Company A, which would immediately transfer to Company B, which would wire to Company C, until the money was so laundered you'd need a forensic team to trace it back.

Which is exactly what they had. And what I'd already done.

"The linchpin is here." I highlighted a series of transactions. "This company—Delta Consulting Partners—exists on paper but has no digital footprint beyond incorporation documents. No website, no LinkedIn employees, no office lease. Yet it received forty-seven million naira in consulting fees over six months."

"Who owns it?" Marcus asked.

"Three layers down? A holding company controlled by one of Alexander Kingston's former partners. James Okonkwo." I pulled up the corporate registration. "Same pattern for the other shell companies. All of them eventually trace back to the same group of men."

"The same men currently allied with Thomas Kingston." Elijah stood, walked to the window. "The same men trying to take my company."

Marcus studied the documents. "This is solid. Financial forensics will take months to build the complete case, but you've done eighty percent of the work already."

"I had three years to study their patterns." I closed my laptop. "They weren't as careful as they thought. Money leaves trails. You just have to know what to look for."

"And you can testify to all of this? Under oath, under cross-examination?"

"Yes."

"Even knowing that defense attorneys will try to destroy your credibility? They'll say you're bitter about being fired. That you're in collusion with your husband to eliminate his business rivals."

"Let them say it." I kept my voice level. "The evidence doesn't care about my motivations. The shell companies exist. The transactions happened. The money trail is documented. My personal feelings don't change the facts."

Marcus actually smiled. Small, but real. "You might actually be useful, Mrs. Kingston."

"High praise," Elijah said dryly. "Should we frame that?"

The meeting continued for another hour. Details about testimony schedules, protective orders, media strategy. By the time we finished, my head ached from concentration and Lagos traffic below had descended into rush-hour chaos.

"One more thing," Yetunde said as people packed up. "The board dinner is Friday. You'll both need to attend. Thomas will be there, along with the partners we're investigating."

"So a room full of people who want us to fail." Elijah helped me gather my materials. "Sounds delightful."

"It's necessary." Yetunde's expression was serious. "They need to see you as a united front. A stable couple. If they sense this marriage is a strategic move rather than a genuine relationship, they'll use it against you."

"Then we'll give them a performance." I slid my laptop into its bag. "I've been playing roles my entire career. 'Competent analyst who doesn't threaten male egos.' 'Grateful employee who works twice as hard for half the credit.' I can handle 'devoted wife.'"

Something flickered in Elijah's eyes. "We should practice."

"Practice what?"

"Being married. In public." He checked his watch. "We have three days before the dinner. That's not much time to build chemistry that looks authentic."

Marcus gathered his things. "He's right. You two look like business associates, not newlyweds. If you can't sell this to a room full of executives who've known Elijah his entire life, the marriage won't protect either of you."

After everyone left, Kemi pulled me aside. "He's not wrong. Victoria and the board will be looking for cracks. Any sign this is transactional."

"It is transactional."

"Yes, but they can't know that." She lowered her voice. "Which means you need to look at him like he's more than a contract. You need to touch him like it's natural. Laugh at his jokes. Defend him when someone criticizes. All the things real couples do without thinking."

"We barely know each other."

"Then get to know each other. Fast." She headed for the elevator. "You have seventy-two hours to become convincing. I suggest you use them."

---

The SUV ride back to the penthouse was quiet. Elijah scrolled through emails. I watched Lagos stream past—vendors closing up shop, buses packed with exhausted workers, the endless negotiation of survival.

"You did well today," he said finally. "Marcus is notoriously difficult to impress."

"He's right to be skeptical. I'm a massive liability."

"You're a massive asset who happens to also be a liability." He pocketed his phone. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" I turned to face him. "They're going to dig into everything. My bank accounts, my employment history, every relationship I've ever had. When they find out I have nothing—no family connections, no pedigree, no reason for someone like you to marry me—what then?"

"Then we tell them the truth. That I fell for your mind, not your résumé." He met my eyes. "People believe what makes sense to them. A lonely billionaire falling for a brilliant woman who challenged him? That's a story they understand. It fits their narrative about successful men wanting intellectual equals."

"I'm not your equal."

"In terms of money? No. In terms of intelligence and courage?" He tilted his head. "You reported billionaires to the police knowing it could get you killed. I call that courage. You memorized eighteen months of financial transactions and can recite them under pressure. I call that intelligence. Don't sell yourself short, Eniola."

The compliment caught me off guard. I looked away. "Kemi says we need to practice being married."

"She's right. We're not convincing yet."

"How do we fix that?"

"Spend time together. Learn each other's habits. Build the kind of familiarity that can't be faked." He leaned back. "Starting tonight. We're having dinner. Not a business meal. An actual conversation."

"About what?"

"Everything you'd know about your husband if this were real." He pulled out his phone, typed something. "Grace is making reservations. Somewhere quiet, no business associates. Just us."

"A date."

"Research," he corrected. "For the performance."

But when we arrived at the restaurant two hours later—a rooftop place in Ikoyi with string lights and a view of the harbor—it felt dangerously close to real.

Elijah held my chair. Ordered wine without asking what I wanted but somehow chose exactly what I would have picked. Made conversation about everything except work.

"Where did you grow up?" he asked.

"Surulere. Small apartment, loud neighbors, not enough space." I sipped the wine. "You?"

"Boston. Big house, quiet neighbors, too much space." He smiled slightly. "We're predictable inversions of each other."

"Poverty and wealth. The classic romance."

"Is that what this is?" He leaned forward. "Romance?"

"No. It's a transaction that requires us to look romantic."

"Then we should establish parameters. What's acceptable in public?"

I thought about it. "Hand-holding. Maybe a kiss on the cheek. Nothing that makes me feel like I'm being sold."

"Agreed. And in private?"

"Separate rooms. Separate lives. This is a contract, not a relationship."

"Until the heir requirement."

The clinical phrase landed between us like a stone. "Until then."

The waiter brought food. We ate, and somehow the conversation became easier. He told me about Harvard, about building the business, about his father's impossible standards. I told him about university, about my first job, about realizing competence wasn't enough in a world that valued connections over credentials.

"Your father," I said carefully. "What was he like?"

Elijah's expression shuttered. "Demanding. Brilliant. Impossible to please." He paused. "And possibly still alive."

I nearly dropped my fork. "What?"

"Nothing was recovered. No body, no wreckage beyond scattered debris. The investigation concluded mechanical failure, but..." He trailed off. "My father didn't make mistakes. And he had too many enemies for a convenient accident."

"You think someone killed him."

"I think the timing was convenient for my uncle. And I think my father would have had contingencies." He met my eyes. "But without proof, it's just paranoia."

"Or pattern recognition."

"Same skill that made you a good analyst."

We left the restaurant near midnight. The city had quieted to its nighttime rhythm—generators humming, security guards at their posts, the occasional burst of laughter from bars.

In the SUV, Elijah's phone rang. He glanced at it, frowned. "I need to take this."

He answered. Listened. His expression went cold.

"When?" Pause. "How bad?" Another pause. "I'll handle it."

He hung up. Leaned forward to the driver. "Change of plans. We're going to Westbridge."

"Now?" I checked the time. "It's almost one a.m."

"Someone just broke into their offices. Set fire to the records room." He looked at me. "The room where your evidence was stored."

My stomach dropped. "They're destroying the paper trail."

"They're trying to. But they don't know you already gave copies to the police. And they don't know you have a photographic memory." He squeezed my hand—the first spontaneous touch between us. "This just became war, Eniola. Are you ready?"

I thought about the men who'd fired me. Who thought burning documents would erase their crimes. Who'd underestimated a woman with nothing left to lose.

"I've been ready since they walked me out with security watching."

He smiled then. Sharp and dangerous. "Good. Let's go watch them panic."

As we sped through Lagos toward the burning building, I realized something had shifted. This wasn't just a contract anymore. Somewhere between the police station and the legal team meeting and this quiet dinner, I'd stopped being just his strategic asset.

I'd become his partner in something real.

And God help anyone who got in our way.

The Westbridge building was a beacon of chaos when we arrived. Fire trucks blocked Victoria Island Road, their lights painting everything red and blue. Water arced from hoses into shattered windows on the fourth floor, steam rising where it hit flames.

Elijah's driver stopped as close as the police barricade allowed. We got out into air thick with smoke and burnt paper—the smell of destroyed evidence.

"Stay behind me," Elijah said.

"It's my evidence burning."

"Exactly. Which makes you a target if whoever set this fire is still watching."

A fair point. I stayed close as he approached the police line, flashing some kind of credential that got us through. An inspector met us near the building entrance—older man, tired eyes, shirt soaked with sweat despite the night air.

"Mr. Kingston. Didn't expect you here."

"Westbridge contracts with several of my subsidiaries. I have an interest in what happened." Elijah gestured to me. "This is my wife, Eniola. She's a former analyst here."

The inspector's eyes sharpened. "Former as of when?"

"Three days ago."

"Interesting timing." He pulled out a notepad. "The fire started in the records room. Fourth floor, southeast corner. Someone bypassed security, used an accelerant, and was gone before the smoke alarms triggered."

"Professional," Elijah said.

"Very. No cameras caught anything useful—the system went down twenty minutes before the fire started. Came back up ten minutes after." The inspector looked at me. "What kind of records did Westbridge keep up there?"

"Physical backups of transaction reports. Audit trails. Anything that needed to be preserved for regulatory purposes." I watched another window shatter from the heat. "Seven years of financial documentation."

"Someone wanted that documentation very badly." The inspector made a note. "We'll investigate, but without witnesses or camera footage..." He trailed off meaningfully.

"I understand." Elijah pulled out his phone. "I'll have my security team send over anything our cameras caught. We have offices across the street."

After the inspector left, I stared at the building. Smoke still poured from broken windows. Everything I'd documented, every paper trail I'd carefully preserved—gone.

"They think they've won," I said quietly.

"They think they've removed the evidence." Elijah's hand found the small of my back. "They don't know the evidence is standing right here."

A black Mercedes pulled up behind the fire trucks. A man emerged—fifties, silver hair, expensive suit despite the hour. He moved through the chaos like he owned it, security detail flanking him.

Elijah's entire body went rigid. "Thomas."

His uncle. The man trying to steal his company.

Thomas spotted us. His face arranged itself into concern, but his eyes stayed calculating. "Elijah. What a terrible coincidence, finding you here."

"Coincidences don't exist in our world, Uncle."

"No, I suppose they don't." Thomas's gaze shifted to me. "And you must be the mysterious wife. Congratulations on your marriage. So sudden, I didn't even receive an invitation."

"It was intimate. Immediate family only." Elijah's voice could have frozen steel.

"How unfortunate. I would have loved to meet the woman who finally convinced you to settle down." Thomas stepped closer, studying me like I was an acquisition he was considering. "Eniola Adeyemi, correct? Analyst at Westbridge until recently."

"That's right."

"Such timing. You leave, and days later their records burn." He smiled. "One might think there's a connection."

"One might think a lot of things," I said. "None of them would be correct."

"Hmm." He turned back to Elijah. "The board is concerned, nephew. A hasty marriage to a woman from... uncertain background. Erratic behavior. Some are questioning your judgment."

"Some are questioning their own futures once the forensic accountants finish their work."

Thomas's smile hardened. "Careful, Elijah. Accusations require proof. And proof, as we can see—" he gestured to the burning building "—has a tendency to disappear."

"Physical proof, perhaps." Elijah pulled me closer. "But my wife has a remarkable memory. Photographic, actually. Every transaction she ever reviewed is still right here." He tapped his temple, then mine. "You can burn buildings, Uncle. You can't burn what she carries in her head."

Something dark flickered across Thomas's face. "How... convenient. Though judges tend to prefer documents to memories. People forget. Or remember incorrectly. Or get confused under pressure."

"Are you threatening my wife?"

"I'm stating facts about the legal system." Thomas straightened his cufflinks. "See you both at the board dinner Friday. I'm sure it will be... illuminating."

He walked away, security following. But one of his men looked back—a hard stare that lasted two seconds too long to be casual.

"We need to leave," Elijah said. "Now."

In the SUV, neither of us spoke until we were blocks away. Then Elijah made a call.

"Kemi. Thomas just threatened Eniola at the Westbridge fire. I need security doubled on the penthouse immediately." Pause. "Yes, I know it's two a.m. I don't care. And pull the footage from our building—I want to know if anyone was watching Westbridge before the fire started."

He hung up. Looked at me. "You're not going anywhere alone until this is over."

"I can't live in a cage."

"You can't testify if you're dead." His hand found mine, gripped it hard. "They just showed their hand, Eniola. This isn't corporate maneuvering anymore. This is them trying to erase you."

My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I almost ignored it.

Then it buzzed again. And again.

I answered. "Hello?"

Breathing. Then a voice, distorted through a modifier: "You should have stayed quiet."

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone. Elijah took it, checked the number, his expression darkening. "Burner phone. Untraceable."

"They know where I am."

"They know you're with me. That's different." He leaned forward to the driver. "Take the long route. Make sure we're not followed."

The SUV made sudden turns through Lagos streets I didn't recognize. Twenty minutes of doubling back, switching routes, ensuring no one was tracking us.

When we finally reached the penthouse, security had tripled. New guards, new protocols, new scanners at every entrance.

Elijah walked me to my suite. Checked the rooms personally. Windows, locks, the small balcony I'd never used.

"I'm putting a guard outside your door," he said.

"That's excessive."

"You just got a death threat after watching evidence burn. I'm not sure what would qualify as excessive at this point." He stood in the doorway, reluctant to leave. "You should try to sleep."

"Right. Because that's happening."

"Fair point." He checked his watch. "It's almost three. We have the security review at seven, then media training at nine. The stylist arrives at two for the board dinner prep."

"Sounds delightful."

"Welcome to being a Kingston." He started to leave, then stopped. "Eniola. What you said to Thomas—that was well done. You didn't back down."

"I'm not very good at backing down."

"I've noticed." Almost a smile. "It's one of your better qualities."

After he left, I stood at the window. Looked out at Lagos, at the distant glow where Westbridge was probably still smoldering.

Someone had tried to erase me tonight. Burned the evidence, made threats, sent a message.

They thought I'd break. Run. Disappear.

They didn't know that the girl who'd walked into that police station three days ago had nothing left to lose. And the woman standing here now had something even more dangerous than evidence.

She had a billionaire husband with unlimited resources and a very personal grudge.

My phone lit up. Text from Elijah: *Guard is posted. Press the panic button by the bed if you need anything.*

I looked at the device mounted on the nightstand. Sleek, black, probably connected to enough security to invade a small country.

Then another text: *And Eniola? Thank you for not running.*

I stared at those words. He'd expected me to bolt. To decide this wasn't worth my life.

Maybe I should have.

Instead, I texted back: *I don't run. I finish what I start.*

Three dots appeared. Then: *Good. So do I.*

I turned off the lights but didn't get into bed. Just stood at the window, watching the city, making mental calculations.

Thomas had made his move. The fire, the threat, the intimidation.

Now it was our turn.

And I had seventy-two hours before I'd face him across a dinner table, smile on my face, diamond ring on my finger, ready to prove that burning evidence was meaningless when the witness had perfect recall.

They wanted war?

Mrs. Kingston was about to give them one.