I settle into my office with a glass of hibiscus tea and a long exhale. My phone buzzes silently beside me. Gloria, again.
> "PI contact has been secured. Confidential. He'll send his findings in 48 hours."
I reply with a simple "Good," then lock the screen. I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows and try to still my racing thoughts.
My instincts are rarely loud. They're subtle. Whispers, not screams. But once they start... they don't stop until the truth comes into the light.
A soft knock breaks my focus.
"Come in."
It's Gloria. Again.
"There's someone here to see you. Says he's a prospective investor. No appointment."
"No."
"He says he's with 'Ibadan Venture Holdings.' He insists you know him."
I pause. The name is familiar. Barely. I used to meet hundreds of finance guys when I was hunting capital five years ago. Most wore cheap cologne and shiny shoes, promising the world and delivering air.
"Did he leave a card?"
She hands it over.
And just like that, the past walks into the present.
I recognize the name on the card instantly.
Abiola Gbadamosi.
Old money. Private capital. The kind of investor who smells risk from three miles out and only bites when he sees blood.
"Send him in, I said not exactly interested in his so called investment visit."
She nods and disappears.
When Abiola enters, he does so like he owns oxygen. Smooth agbada, that arrogant banker walk, the soft smugness of a man who's watched the rich crawl for his signature.
"Rita. The Queen herself," he says, arms wide. "You haven't aged a day."
"You've just gone blind."
He laughs. I don't.
"What brings you here?"
"I have heard a whole lot of whispers. Thought I'd come see if the queen is really under siege... or just shedding her old crown as usual."
My face remains neutral. "If I'm shedding anything, it's dead weight."
"I like that," he says, settling into the seat opposite me. "But be honest, things aren't as calm as they look. The market's jittery. Your staff is leaking. And I hear your fiancé vanished into thin air."
My stomach tightens.
"I'm not engaged," I say carefully.
He raises a brow. "That's not what the whispers say."
"Whispers are wind."
"True. But sometimes wind carries fire."
I lean forward. "Is this what you came for? To gloat?"
He shakes his head. "To offer help."
I don't trust favors from men like him. Help always comes with hooks.
"What's the catch?"
"I want in. On the logistics chain. You've got trucks, ports, routes. I've got foreign partners. I help stabilize your operations, you give me 15% equity."
I almost laugh.
"You're trying to buy me at a discount, Abiola."
"I'm trying to buy in before the house burns."
I stand. "We're done here."
"Think about it," he says, already rising. "Before the fire spreads."
He leaves, and the air feels tainted.
I return to my seat and finally allow myself a moment of stillness.
This is how power leaks. Not in explosions. In slow drips. Trust eroding. Reputation wobbling. Strange men knocking. Secrets surfacing.
TWO MONTHS LATER...
It's been days, since Kola went missing without trace.
I'm currently sitting in the office and wondering, what happened my phone rings. A number I don't recognize flashes across the screen which is quite unusual given my position.
I almost decline. But I answer.
"Hello?"
There's a pause.
Then a woman's voice.
Cool. Measured. Confident.
"I hope I'm not calling at a bad time."
"Who is this?"
"You don't know me. But I know you. We've actually met briefly. I once worked for you."
I frown. "Who?"
"Nse she says and keeps quiet for an awfully long 5 seconds. Nse Ikpe she adds again as though she could read my thoughts."
I freeze. The name slams into my chest.
Nse Ikpe.
Of course.
Years ago. She worked in finance. Bright. Ambitious. But too bold. I let her go after she overstepped during a deal negotiation. She'd wanted more control than she was due.
"You were terminated," I say flatly.
"You're right. But that was then. I'm calling now... because I want to help."
I pause. Every nerve in my body is tingling.
"I'm listening."
"You've hired a man who isn't who he says he is."
My heart stops.
"Kola?"
She chuckles. "That's not his name."
I stand up slowly, heart hammering against my ribs.
"Who is he?"
"Someone I know very, very well."
Her voice changes. Warmer. Sharper. More personal.
"He's my ex-husband."
Everything tilts.
I grip the edge of the desk, steadying myself.
"You're lying."
"I'm not. I can prove it. But not on the phone. Meet me. I'll tell you everything. And then you'll understand why I helped him get close to you."
The line goes dead.
I stand there for a full minute, staring into the nothingness. My ears ringing.
The world I thought I controlled has started slipping between my fingers.
And now I know this isn't just coincidence.
It's war.
But who declared it first?
And why does the battlefield look exactly like my heart?