WHAT ARE WE NOW?
I knew something was wrong the moment my phone buzzed at 5:45 a.m.
Mr. Obasi never called this early—unless someone was dead or about to be.
By the time I push through the glass doors of The Daily Report, Lagos is still shaking off the night. The newsroom hums with the kind of energy that means something big is about to break.
Tola leans against my desk, arms folded, eyes sharp.
"Where's Obasi?" I ask, shrugging off my bag.
"Gone," she says, voice edged with excitement. "But he left you a gift."
She slides a stack of documents from a black folder.
"Remember the Olokun Creek oil spill?"
My stomach tightens. "The one that poisoned the groundwater and mysteriously disappeared from the headlines?"
"The very same." Tola taps the top page. "Anonymous source leaked these memos from the Ministry of Environment. Turns out, the spill was ten times worse. The chemicals seeped into the water supply. Five kids are dead. And guess who approved the pipeline expansion without safety clearance?"
I don't need to ask.
"Oladipo Oil," I murmur.
Tola nods. "And the signature on the final approval? Ayo Oladipo himself."
My grip tightens on the desk. His name. Again. Tied to the kind of corruption we've built our careers exposing.
Five years since I walked away from him. Five years trying to forget. And now, here he is.
"I don't understand." My voice is hoarse. "Ayo was never sloppy. He wouldn't sign off on something like this."
"Maybe power changed him." Tola slides an invitation toward me. The black card glints gold: Oladipo Foundation Annual Charity Gala.
"Obasi wants you there tonight," she says, smirking. "Undercover. The guest list is crawling with industry elites. And guess who's making the keynote speech?"
"No." I shake my head. "I'm not ready."
"Zara—"
"I mean it." My voice wavers. "I can't just walk in and face him like… like none of it happened."
Her gaze softens, but only a little. "I get it. Really. But Obasi isn't asking. He's sending you."
I want to argue. To tell her I need more time. But time hasn't dulled the ache he left behind. And distance? That disappeared the second his name landed on my desk.
Tola pushes off the desk, already walking away. "Black dress," she calls over her shoulder. "Sexy, but serious. You'll want to look good when you ruin his life."
I don't laugh. Because for all my tough talk, I'm not sure I'm the one with the power to ruin anyone.
Not when I know how easily Ayo once ruined me.
⸻
At home, the folder sits on my coffee table like a dare. I already know what's inside—his signature, the memos, the proof.
I shouldn't care. But seeing his name linked to a cover-up that killed innocent people? It cracks something inside me. Something I thought I buried when he left me.
I pour myself a glass of water. It does nothing to wash down the bitterness rising in my throat.
My phone buzzes. Tola.
Tola: Found the guest list. Ayo's confirmed. See you at 8.
I almost type an excuse. Almost.
Instead, I push the phone aside and head for my bedroom.
If I'm going to face Ayo, I refuse to let him see a woman still haunted by the past.
I'll be the woman who can burn him right back.
⸻
At 7:45 p.m., I slide into the back of a black sedan, trying not to think about the last time I wore a dress like this.
The silk clings in all the right places—black, sleek, just dangerous enough. My curls tumble down my back, softening the sharp edges I want to show tonight. I could pass for any socialite drifting through Lagos high society.
But the flash drive hidden in my clutch tells a different story.
When the car pulls up to the Grand Orchid Hotel, sleek luxury vehicles line the entrance. Bentleys. Mercedes. The kind of wealth that never faces consequences.
The valet opens my door. Laughter spills from the entrance—smooth, polished, and as false as the gold plating on these people's souls.
I shouldn't be nervous. I've gone undercover at illegal ports, chased corrupt politicians into hiding, even faced death threats. But nothing—nothing—has ever made my pulse race like the thought of seeing him again.
The moment I step inside, the air shifts.
Crystal chandeliers hang like stars, champagne flows freely, and Lagos' elite drape themselves in power and privilege. But beneath the glamour, there's tension. The kind that comes when people have secrets to keep.
And no one has more secrets than the Oladipos.
"Zara."
Tola leans against a pillar, eyes sweeping over me with approval.
"Damn," she whistles. "Remind me not to cross you tonight."
"You're hilarious," I mutter, scanning the room. "Any sign of him?"
"Not yet. But trust me, he'll make an entrance." She hands me a sleek earpiece. "If you get anything, signal me. I'll be circling the backrooms. Obasi thinks there's more hidden in their private records."
I tuck the earpiece into place, heart pounding harder. "And if I find him?"
Tola smirks. "Make him sweat."
She disappears into the crowd. I exhale, forcing my pulse to steady.
Then—
A ripple.
The air thickens. Conversations blur. A shift, like the room is bending around a single point.
And when I lift my head—
He's there.
Ayo Oladipo.
He steps through the grand archway like he owns the city—because, in many ways, he does. The tux fits him like a second skin, black and sharp against the deep bronze of his skin. But it's not the suit that steals my breath.
It's him.
He hasn't changed. The same strong jawline. The same quiet authority that used to make the whole world fade when he looked at me.
But there's something harder now. A sharper edge, like the years have carved out every soft part of him, leaving only steel.
Ayo's gaze sweeps the room, distant, disinterested—until he sees me.
For a heartbeat, everything stills.
The hum of conversation fades, champagne glasses blur, and the stretch of air between us turns thick. Electric.
His eyes lock onto mine. Dark. Deep. The kind of gaze that used to pull me under without a fight. And for a flicker—just a second—I see something crack through his perfect façade.
Recognition. Heat. Maybe even regret.
But then it's gone.
His expression smooths. He turns away, greeting an older man beside him. No falter. No hesitation. Like seeing me is nothing more than an afterthought.
Like I'm nothing.
I exhale a breath I didn't realize I was holding, forcing my pulse to steady.
This is why I didn't want to come. Because no matter how much I pretend I'm over him, the sight of Ayo Oladipo still makes my heart betray me.
Get a grip, Zara.
I square my shoulders and glide toward the bar. I'm not here to relive the past.
I'm here to expose the truth.
And if Ayo is tangled in this cover-up, I'll burn his world to the ground.
"Champagne, miss?"