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Chapter 4: part 2

I hesitated for a moment longer than was necessary. Not because my legs would not move, but because my mind was still trying to catch up with the situation my body had already agreed to enter. His eyes were fixed on me, calm and unreadable, and somehow that quiet intensity was more commanding than shouting would have been. Slowly, deliberately, I stepped forward and climbed into the car. Michael faded behind me, his presence dissolving like a thought interrupted too late.

The door shut. Soft. Final.

Inside, the car felt sealed off from the world. The air carried the scent of leather and something floral, expensive but restrained. Nothing here was accidental. The interior lights cast a gentle glow that softened edges and hid shadows, making everything feel curated, intentional, controlled.

And then there was her.

Titi sat with the ease of someone who belonged exactly where she was. The white gown clung to her in a way that suggested elegance rather than effort. Lace traced its edges like a quiet secret. She smiled when she saw me, not surprised, not relieved, but pleased, as though events were unfolding precisely as she expected.

For a moment, I stopped existing in time.

She looked unreal. Caramel skin smooth and luminous, her face so clean it seemed edited by a skilled hand rather than shaped by nature. Her eyes were almond, slightly angled, framed by thick, perfectly arched brows that looked sculpted rather than grown. Her face was long, her jaw proud, a Roman chin sitting confidently beneath lips that were full, supple, and dangerously expressive.

My mind stalled.

She noticed.

A soft snigger escaped her lips, light but deliberate, and she extended her hand toward me. The gesture snapped me back into myself.

“Oh. I am sorry,” I said quickly, averting my eyes as if I had been caught staring at something forbidden. I had not expected to see her this soon, and certainly not like this. In my head, this meeting had been scheduled for later, for a time when I would be prepared, when I could rehearse confidence in front of a mirror and hide uncertainty behind familiar lines. I had imagined tonight. Searched her out on the internet just as I did with her phone number on Truecaller. Studying her from a distance. Understanding her before she could understand me.

Instead, she was here. And I was exposed.

I masked my disarray poorly, pretending to notice something outside the window. For the first few minutes seated beside her in the back of that immaculate car, her eyes did not leave my face. They burned through me, not aggressively, but thoroughly, like heat sinking into metal. It felt as though something heavy and molten had poured from my head into my stomach, weighing me down from the inside.

I swallowed hard. Once. Then again.

She did not respond to my greeting. She simply watched me, silent, observant. I turned my head slightly and looked out the window, grateful for the soldier still standing outside, rigid and unmoving, a reminder that this was real and not a projection of my own imagination.

I needed to speak.

“Is your father…” I began, then paused, trying to arrange the sentence without sounding foolish. “I thought you said your father wanted to meet me?”

She laughed softly, almost indulgently. “Do not be funny,” she said. “That is not my dad.”

Relief rushed in before confusion followed close behind. If not her father, then who was he to her. And why was he here.

“So,” I said, forcing a smile as I turned back to her, “are you this quiet in person?” I needed to regain some balance. “Do you have all your conversations in your head?”

Instead of answering, she shifted closer and placed her hand around mine. The contact was light, but deliberate.

“It is a pleasure meeting you, Royce,” she said.

“And me too,” I replied, pointing at my head. “Feeding my eyes with you was so overwhelming it felt like my system was being hacked.”

Her gaze followed my finger, then drifted lower, resting somewhere I would rather it had not. Her smile deepened.

“That system?” she asked.

The implication landed immediately. She was flirting. Openly. Without apology. Without fear. I tried to flatten my stomach instinctively, adjusting my posture in a futile attempt to suggest definition where comfort had long replaced discipline. The shirt clung to me anyway, betraying every insecurity.

She noticed. Of course she did.

She placed her palm fully over my hand. Warm. Confident.

“Do you like what you see?” she asked, slowly running her tongue over her lips before biting the lower one.

My throat tightened. Saliva pooled uncomfortably and I had to clear my throat to keep my voice intact.

“Yes,” I said carefully. “So far, I think I like what I have not seen.”

The words surprised even me. They came from a place of instinct rather than calculation, from a part of me that had spent years crafting lines for others, watching them work like keys in locks that were never meant for me. Friends had used my words and succeeded. Sometimes girls ended up calling me instead. Maybe it was my voice. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was just luck.

Titi reached into her handbag and pulled out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. She offered me one without breaking eye contact. I declined. She returned them to the bag, slow and unhurried.

“So,” she asked, shifting back slightly, “how is work?”

“Work is fine,” I said. “After those four subscriptions, I closed shop. I just wanted to relax and disturb the peace until closing.”

I did not mention the activation. The discreet stimulants we took during breaks. The way we bought alcohol from the Aboki at the corner, mixed it with soft drinks, and drank from their plastic bottles concealed in nylon while calling clients, constantly watching ourselves so we would not be found out. Funny, It was the activation that had loosened my professionalism. That had opened a door to Titi. And now, here I was, sitting in the consequence of that openness.

Her lips caught my attention again. Flamboyant. Expressive. Almost theatrical. The kind of lips that made promises without words.

Conversation drifted. Light topics. Half confessions. She was touchy now, brushing my arm, leaning closer than necessary. It meant something. Or maybe it meant nothing at all. I did not dare to touch her back. Not yet. Beauty like this carried weight. Confidence like hers demanded caution.

I thought briefly of the girls I ignored. The ones who tried too hard. The ones who brushed against me deliberately and were met with indifference. They would have laughed if they saw me now, stripped of narcissism and self importance, sitting stiff beside a woman who intimidated me without effort.

After nearly fifteen minutes, she motioned for the soldier to get in. That was my cue.

I stepped out quickly to retrieve my belongings and submit my work phone. Inside, my teammates buzzed with curiosity. I gave them nothing but a smile.

“Later,” I said.

I turned to Serah. “Sorry, you were saying?”

Her eyes widened, surprise overtaking mockery. Dami said nothing. No one protested. It was not closing time, but no one stopped me.

When I stepped back outside, the contrast hit me. Inside the office was noise, fluorescent lights, unfinished conversations. Outside was silence, tinted glass, and something unknown waiting patiently.

As I slid back into the car, the door closing behind me once more, I realised the line had already been crossed.

Chapter Four: part 1

I wished there was a turning back. Well, there was, and that would have been me finding a backdoor and sprinting away into the anonymity of Lagos traffic. But that was not happening. Not now. Not with the man standing outside, watching like a hawk sizing up prey. My heart thudded in a rhythm that was both frightening and thrilling, each beat reminding me that I had crossed into territory far beyond my daily mundane existence.

The man outside looked like he was in his early forties, lean but muscular, every movement precise and controlled. But who was to say Titi was not younger than I had imagined? You know how rich kids are, what would take an average person years to accomplish, they seemed to attain in days. Her world was fast, polished, refined. Mine was slow, almost mechanical, and the contrast made my stomach twist with anticipation and nerves.

My thoughts were running wild, scattering in every direction like a rodent chased by a sudden beam of light, panicked and reckless. Yet, what could I do except be the man? Face it. Stand tall. Whatever her request was, I had no idea it would be this.

I stepped out of the office, Michael trailing behind, urging me on with nervous energy. Others in the room stretched their necks, craning to see out the glass door. I had already told Michael what was happening, tried to prepare him for the absurdity of it. The news had spread quickly among the team, whispered from desk to desk. Some gave encouraging nods and reassuring smiles, which boosted my confidence more than I expected. One girl, Serah, scoffed audibly.

“Then go deal with you,” she said. Her words were sharp, teasing, and laced with mockery. “See as your liver done cut finish.”

She was cautioned by a couple of teammates, but did I care? Not at all. I walked out with my head held high. Michael did not step beyond the door. That was for the best; he needed to remain a safe observer, a witness, not a participant. My consolation was this: I had not done anything with her. All the thoughts I had were mine alone, harmless in execution, and in that, I found some small dignity.

I walked towards the soldier. He was waiting, upright and alert, radiating authority and quiet menace. The precision of his posture reminded me of a Sicario in a Mexican film, a man who could end a life without hesitation. I felt my legs stiffen.

“Are you Royce?” he asked, voice firm, a slight edge as if testing me. I nodded.

He repeated the question, the same words, now charged with unspoken threat, as if he were ready to pounce. I answered quickly again, trying to mask any tremor. He gestured to the car door. “In,” he commanded

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