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Continued


Manager Francis was the type of manager people imagined when they heard the phrase “sits on his ass all day.”
Short.
Fair-skinned.

Soft in the face and round in the middle—fat without looking strong, just compressed and badly arranged. His eyes were small, lazy things that somehow always came alive when a woman walked past, lingering far too long to be decent.

His voice didn’t match him—thin, almost feminine, the sort that made people blink when they heard it the first time. It wasn’t innocent either; it carried the sly, greasy undertone of someone who enjoyed the power of subtle cruelty.

Francis rarely talked. But when he did, every employee on the 25th floor listened.
He was one of the many managers spread across the sixty-eight floors of the Lagos Hallmark Super Mall, but on his floor, he behaved like emperor, judge, and executioner.

And today, it was execution day.

He waved Ahmed toward the chair without saying a word.

Ahmed swallowed and sat gently, trying hard not to show the anxiety crawling up his spine.

Francis didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to—not yet.

He reached for a glass of water, sipped slowly, even made a small show of savoring it. Then he set it down. Then deliberately picked up a file. Then placed the file back down and adjusted his glasses. Then finally opened it again—with exaggerated care.

Every gesture was calculated.

Francis enjoyed this.
This was his performance art.

A method of injecting fear into his workers before the inevitable.

Ahmed’s shirt was damp at the collar. He shifted in his seat. Francis’s lips twitched in secret amusement.

Before this job, Francis had been a poultry farm manager—a position he lost for quietly siphoning crates of eggs for himself. That part of his past was buried as was his forged certificates, and he ensured nobody here knew. By a stroke of luck and manipulation, he had slipped into the mall’s management chain, and now he guarded the role with a vulture’s hunger.

Everyone on this floor answers to me.

That was the unspoken rule.

“Sir…” Ahmed tried, his voice as gentle and respectful as he could manage.

Francis ignored him, flipping another page he didn’t need to read.

“Sir, you called me—”

No answer.
Just Francis reaching for his glasses and sliding them onto his face with theatrical slowness. Only then did he look up at Ahmed—directly, intentionally—to enjoy the sight of the officer practically melting under pressure.

“Yes,” Francis finally murmured.

He lifted the file again—Ahmed’s employment application, reviewed many times already.

Thirty years old.
Former police constable.
Divorced.

None of it mattered. What bothered Francis was the idea of having an ex-police officer under him. It brought back old fears—old memories—old hostility. And Francis hated anything that made him feel smaller than he already was.

His expression hardened.

Ahmed leaned forward. “Sir, please, sir… I am very sorry over—”

Francis sliced the apology mid-air with a sharp wave of his hand.

Then, in that thin voice of his, he said:

“I want to know…”
He folded his hands over the file.
“…what exactly you intended to achieve by doing what you did, Mr. Ahmed. I don’t understand. Explain your actions.”

It was unnecessary. He already had the dismissal letter ready, but watching Ahmed break was part of the ritual.

Ahmed’s face fell.
The defeat in his eyes was plain, quiet, heavy.

Francis smiled—only with his eyes, the kind of smile that hid in the folds of cruelty.

He had him right where he wanted.


Ahmed swallowed hard and began to speak, voice low, careful, respectful—because his entire life depended on this moment.

“Sir… the burglaries on Floor Eight and Floor Twenty-Three… the jewelry shop and the phone shop… that night was not ordinary. It all happened in one night.”

Francis tapped his fingernail on the table, uninterested but pretending to listen.

Ahmed continued.

“I was on duty that night… on this floor. It was around 1:30 a.m. I… I closed my eyes for a moment—just a moment, sir.”

Francis arched a brow, already storing that confession to use against him later.

“And when I opened them…” Ahmed swallowed, “…I woke up in darkness.”

He paused, watching Francis’s face for any reaction.

There was none. So he went on.

“That is not supposed to happen, sir. Lagos Hallmark runs on a solar grid. It has a secondary automatic power backup from seven diesel generators. Even during the commissioning, they said there would never be total darkness in this building.”
He shook his head slowly.
“But that night… everything was black. Dead black.”

He remembered that eerie silence—like the entire building was holding its breath.

“And then… just when I began to feel something was off—lights came back on. Like nothing happened.”

He wiped his palms on his trousers.
“The next morning… the news broke. Two stores, both wiped clean. Not one pin left inside.”

Francis shifted his weight, pretending boredom.

Ahmed pressed on.

“There are three elevators on all floors. Two can be seen from the security post. The third—employees only—has been out of use for a month now after the incident. The burglars couldn’t have used any of them. That would leave the stairs as the only viable option And yet…”

He took a breath.

“The security team on those floors saw nothing. No movement. No shadows. No sound.”
“And the CCTV?” Francis asked lazily.
“Dead, sir. Same blackout. Forty-five minutes. Exactly. The electrical unit confirmed those floors control box was tampered with.”

Francis’s jaw tightened for a split second—something about that detail bothered him—but he quickly masked it.

“And so,” Ahmed said, “I… I decided to look into it.”

Francis stopped tapping his desk.

“I know the insurance investigators closed the case,” Ahmed added quickly. “I know compensations are being processed. But sir… two major stores robbed in a high-security building? No suspects? No trace? Nothing? Some people are saying its black magic already, I don't think so, ”

He shook his head.

“I couldn’t ignore it, sir. I talked to a few officers. Asked a few questions. Maybe… maybe too many. And maybe some people felt uncomfortable.”

Francis smirked.
He liked uncomfortable employees—it gave him excuses to play god.

“So you decided,” Francis said slowly, “that being a floor security officer—a glorified usher, traffic guide, and mall helper—wasn’t enough for you?”

“No sir—”

“You decided,” Francis pressed, leaning back, “that you wanted to do my job?”

“God forbid, sir. No!” Ahmed shook his head so fast his cap nearly fell off. “Sir, I will never—me, your job? Never!”

Francis sat back, satisfied.

Helpless men were his favorite.
Fear tasted better on them.

He reached for a file—the sack letter—dragging the motion out deliberately. Watching Ahmed flinch with every second. Watching his throat tighten. Watching his eyes deepen with dread.

Francis paused mid-reach.

He tilted his head, pretending sudden soft-heartedness.
A performance.

“I know you people think managers are wicked,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, “but sometimes… sometimes a man has to show mercy.”

Ahmed blinked.
Disbelief washed across his face.

Francis saw it—and revelled in it.

He would fire him tomorrow. No reason. No warning. Just purge him from the system and let the shock devastate him. Drag out the agony. Why waste such a delicious opportunity?

But today…

Today he played savior.

He placed the sack letter aside and folded his hands gently.

“I want to spare you,” he said with false empathy. “Truly. You’re a good boy. Misguided, but good. The mall needs people like you of course when they do as they are told,”

Ahmed couldn’t breathe.

“You mean… sir… I still…”
“Yes,” Francis said with a benevolent nod. “Go. Go and sin no more.”

Ahmed dropped to his knees in gratitude, tears stinging the corners of his eyes.
“Thank you sir! God bless you sir! God bless your family sir!”

Francis waved with theatrical humility.
“It’s nothing. I am a humble man. A strict man sometimes, yes, but I care for my employees.”

He waved again, dismissing him like a priest releasing a repentant sinner.

“Go.”

Ahmed rose shakily and walked out of the office, still stunned, still thanking God under his breath.

As soon as the door closed—

Francis burst into laughter.

A full, satisfied belly-laugh, deep and malicious.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered to himself.
“Tomorrow, we finish this.”

He wiped a tear of amusement from his eye.

He almost couldn’t wait.


Francis’ office phone buzzed—a sharp, insistent ring that sliced through the dull hum of his morning. He didn’t need to check the screen to know who it was. Only one person called with that particular authority, that self-important timing: the Senior Manager.

A role Francis wanted for himself. A role that sat on his chest like a weight every single day.

He exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. Ten floors. That was the Senior Manager’s domain—each one monitored, supervised, reported on with military precision. And above those floors stood their designated overseer, Mr. Adeyemi: young, polished, annoyingly competent… and worst of all, educated. Something Francis lacked—something Adeyemi made sure people knew he had.

The phone rang again, louder now. Francis grabbed it before the bitterness in his throat could harden any further.

“Francis,” Adeyemi’s voice erupted, already raised, already annoyed, “good morning. What is going on on your floor? CCTV repairs and the staff elevators were scheduled to begin today. I asked you for an update—where is it? Which shops are vacant? Which ones have not opened yet? Why am I not hearing from you?”

The tone always made Francis shrink, and the humiliation burned. The irony didn’t escape him—he, who barked at subordinates, became meek in the presence of this one man. A boundary of power he both hated and obeyed.

He forced out a thin apology. “Oga, sorry sir, my bad. I was just—”

“That’s okay,” Adeyemi cut him off, not because he forgave him, but because he didn’t have time for excuses. “Get the information ready. The maintenance team will come in later. We’re changing the lock systems on specific floors—yours included. Keep me updated. I want that report so I can forward it immediately.”

The line went dead.

Francis sat there, phone still in hand, the sting fresh on his face. The burglary. Everything had shifted since then—new cameras appearing almost weekly, tighter clearance levels, double routine checks, sweeping changes in security regulations.

But it was all noise. Once the doors opened and customers flooded in with endless chatter and footsteps, the tension dissolved into the background like mist.

He let out a tired, frustrated breath. Too early for stress, yes—but never too early for relief.

He opened the lower cabinet drawer. A small bottle of gin sat there, clear and comforting. He brought out a glass—thick, clean, familiar—and poured himself a measured shot. Then another, slightly less measured.

The liquid hit his throat with a burn that felt like permission. A steadier breath escaped him.

It always did him good, a glass or two… or more.

Continued



Ahmed Sule sat stiffly in the visitor’s chair outside Manager Francis’s office on the 25th floor of the Lagos Hallmark Super Mall—the new giant of West African retail, a building people were already calling Africa’s Shopping Capital.

The mall had opened just eight months ago to global attention. Its glass-and-steel exterior rose like a monolith into the Lagos skyline, sixty-eight floors of retail, offices, entertainment wings, and rooftop leisure decks.

At full capacity, it hosted over 1,200 shops, from tiny kiosk stands on the lower floors to sprawling multi-level showrooms, cinemas, restaurants, gaming arenas, corporate suites, luxury lounges, even a medical center and two helipads. The workforce alone was a small city—well over five thousand employees rotating in shifts.

It was the kind of place that symbolized power, ambition, wealth… the future.

But none of that mattered to Ahmed Sule today.

His palms were sweaty. His shirt collar felt too tight. His left foot tapped anxiously against the glossy marble floor. He wasn’t thinking about how the building glittered, or how it dwarfed every structure for miles. His mind was fixed on only one truth:

His job was on the line.

And he knew it.

He had seen the first man come out twenty minutes ago—eyes down, mouth trembling. Then the second, a bulky security officer who had once boasted he could charm his way out of anything. He was clutching the same white envelope. No words said. No explanations needed.

Both dismissed.

Ahmed was the third to be called.

He rubbed a hand over his face and stared at the shut office door.

How was he supposed to know being the floor’s security officer on this level was just a “glorified post”? How was he supposed to know that doing his job—doing it thoroughly, doing it well—would land him in trouble?

He sighed miserably.

“Doing too much,” he muttered under his breath.

It was always the same story.

Doing too much got him suspended in the police force. Too vigilant, too unwilling to look away when others expected him to. And now here he was again—about to lose his second job for the same reason: caring too much about what others preferred to ignore.

He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling in quiet frustration.

The door clicked.

His head snapped forward just as the second officer stepped out. Shoulders slumped. Eyes hollow. Envelope in hand.

Ahmed tried to speak—Bros, how far? Wetin happen?—but the expression on the man’s face shut him down immediately.

Nothing could be salvaged here.

Then he heard it.

“Ahmed Sule!”

Manager Francis’s voice carried through the doorway, sharp and clear.

Ahmed’s stomach dropped.
He exhaled shakily.

This was it.
The moment of truth.

He stood slowly, adjusted his shirt, smoothed his trousers with trembling hands, straightened his posture… and forced a smile on his face.

A fake one.
A survival one.

Then he stepped into the office.

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Continued

Caroline studied her face, and Emaido knew the older woman saw everything—the exhaustion, yes, but also the fear underneath.

"You haven't told them yet, have you?"

Not an accusation. Recognition. One woman understanding another's terror.

Emaido's throat tightened. The letter sat in her drawer, rewritten so many times the paper had gone soft at the creases. Every night she'd pull it out, read it, fold it back.

Every morning she'd wake up and the words would feel wrong again. Too final. Too permanent. Too much like stepping off a cliff without knowing what waited below.

Caroline sighed, dramatic and maternal all at once. "That Nike girl... running her mouth up and down this mansion like town crier. I swear, I will deal with her today. Just leave her for me."

Despite everything, Emaido smiled. Caroline had this gift—taking your burdens and somehow making them lighter, sprinkling humor over the weight. Of all the staff, she was the one Emaido truly trusted. On any day. For any matter.

But the question remained, circling in her mind like a vulture: Why can't you just submit it?

Fear? Anxiety? The unknown stretching ahead of her like an unlit road?

She still didn't have an answer.

"Where is she?" Emaido asked, redirecting.

Caroline hissed softly, folding her arms. "The devil is at the swimming pool."

"Caroline!" Emaido glanced reflexively at the hallway camera mounted near the ceiling. "There are cameras everywhere."

"So?" Caroline's confidence was absolute. "Pascal is on CCTV duty today—my husband. What will he do? Report me?" She kissed her teeth. "Abeg."

"Still..." Emaido shook her head gently. "You know how this house is. People get dismissed for less."

"I'm not a novice here," Caroline muttered, but her voice softened slightly. She knew Emaido was right. The Okoyes' generosity came with strings. Invisible ones that tightened without warning.

"Which swimming pool?" Emaido asked.

"The big one."

Emaido's stomach dropped.

The big pool. Too deep, too cold, especially in the mornings when the December harmattan had started creeping in. Sonia wasn't supposed to be there alone—not with her respiratory issues, her tendency to push herself past safe limits just to prove she could.

I need to check on her.

But first, they ran through the day's schedule. Security rotations. Kitchen prep for Mrs. Racheal's afternoon tea. The gardener's request for new equipment. Emaido moved through the details like she always did—calm, organized, efficient. The perfect estate manager the Okoyes had promoted her to be.

All while that folded letter sat in her drawer like a stone.

Footsteps interrupted them—quick, nervous. Nike appeared, clutching a package wrapped in the Okoyes' signature cream-and-gold paper. She was slim, dark-skinned, always carrying herself like someone expecting trouble even before it arrived.

"Aunty Caroline, Aunty Emaido..." She extended the package toward Emaido. "This is from Mrs. Racheal."

Both women's eyes dropped to it.

Emaido sighed.

December 1st.

Shopping day.

Which meant inside that package was whatever outfit Sonia had picked out for her—some yearly ritual where the girl treated her like a doll to be dressed up. Usually Emaido found excuses, politely declined, redirected. She was not their accessory. She was not their toy.

Still, she opened it.

Inside was a black gown—sleek, elegant, surprisingly tasteful. Nothing like the garish choices of previous years. The fabric whispered quality, the cut sophisticated.

Caroline leaned in, admiring it openly. "Ah-ah... this one is fine oh. Very fine."

Even Nike nodded, uncertain whether to smile.

For a moment, Emaido's irritation softened.

Then Caroline snapped her fingers. "Nike, come with me. Before you carry that your mouth into more trouble, I need to talk to you."

Nike's face fell. She knew exactly what this was about.

She followed, head bowed like a child heading for correction.

Emaido turned toward her room, the gown draped over her arm, exhaustion pulling at her heels.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, and for the first time that morning, Emaido could breathe.

Warm golden light filtered through sheer curtains, softening the cream walls, the polished floors, the jasmine scent drifting from the diffuser on her dresser. Beautiful. Expensive. Suffocating.

She laid the gown across her bed. Against the crisp white sheets, it looked even more exquisite—the kind of dress that cost more than most people earned in months.

Then she noticed the smaller package tucked inside.

Sunglasses. Designer, dark-lensed, ridiculous.

She laughed quietly, shaking her head.

Nothing surprised her anymore with this family. The wealth. The arrogance. The pride packaged as generosity. The loneliness that all their money couldn't touch.

She moved to her vanity and opened the small side drawer.

There it was.

The letter. Sealed in an envelope worn soft from too much handling.

She picked it up carefully, as though it might disintegrate.

For the hundredth time, she unfolded it. Read it line by line. Word by word. Her resignation, typed neatly, formal and final.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Okoye,

It is with sincere gratitude that I tender my resignation...

The words blurred slightly. Not from tears—she'd cried enough over this decision already. From exhaustion. From the weight of knowing that once she handed this over, there was no going back.

But this time, something felt different.

The fear was still there. The uncertainty still whispered in the background.

But underneath it all—something solid. Something steady.

Ready.

It was a new month. December 1st. A new day. A new opportunity to choose herself, her child, her future beyond these walls.

Emaido folded the letter back into the envelope. Pressed it flat against her palm.

Maybe today—finally—she would submit it.

Maybe today, she would walk out of this beautiful cage and into something unknown but hers.

She exhaled slowly, resting one hand on her belly where her baby shifted gently.

"Today," she whispered to the room, to herself, to the child growing inside her.

This time, it felt right.

Continued



The door swung open—and before Emaido could brace for Sonia's latest demand, Caroline wrapped her in a hug.

Caroline was soft where life had been hard, warm where the mansion's marble and glass ran cold. One of the kitchen staff—though "staff" felt wrong for a woman who'd raised four children and could read a person's heart in three seconds. She held Emaido tightly, rocking her the way mothers did, and for a moment Emaido forgot to be the manager, the nurse, the woman who had it all together.

She just leaned in. Let herself be held. Breathed in the scent of thyme and roasting peppers that clung to Caroline's uniform.

"Caroline..." Emaido pulled back, searching the older woman's face. "What—"

"Oh, my dear." Caroline's eyes shone, already misty. "I'm just going to miss having you around."

The words landed with unexpected weight.

Emaido's stomach dropped. "Miss me? But I haven't—"

Then it hit her.

Nike.

The Senior laundry girl. Two nights ago, hovering in the doorway with an armful of pressed linens, eyes flicking to the desk where Emaido had been writing. She'd covered the paper quickly—too quickly—and Nike had smiled that knowing smile before backing out.

In this house, you didn't need to see the words. A glimpse was enough. A gesture. The way someone held their pen over paper late at night when they should've been sleeping.

Emaido exhaled slowly, resignation settling into her bones.

Of course the news had spread. In a mansion with forty-five staff members, secrets had a half-life of hours.

Caroline stepped inside, her gaze sweeping across the room—the kind of look that came from years of service, familiar with luxury but never quite possessing it. "This house won't be the same without you."

Emaido managed a small smile, though her mind had already drifted backward.

Three years ago.

The hospital lights had been too bright, the emergency wing too loud. A little girl on the edge of respiratory collapse, her parents screaming at doctors, at nurses, at anyone within reach. The on-call physician trapped in surgery. Chaos everywhere.

And Emaido, who'd walked away from medicine in her final year—walked away from the pressure, the expectations, the weight of life-and-death decisions—had stepped forward anyway.

She'd ignored the father's threats of lawsuits. Ignored the mother's hysteria. Ignored the voice in her head that said *this isn't your responsibility anymore.*

She'd saved Sonia's life.

And when the girl opened her eyes hours later, still groggy from medication, she'd looked at Emaido with an intensity that didn't belong on a ten-year-old's face.

"I want her, Daddy."

Not a request. A claim.

The job offer came two weeks later. 360,000 naira monthly. Travel privileges. Medical benefits. A suite in Banana Island that cost more than most Lagos apartments.

Emaido had imagined she'd be caring for a fragile, grateful child.

Instead, she'd met Sonia properly.

The little girl who ran the mansion like a warlord. Who smiled sweetly while orchestrating small cruelties. Who tested every staff member until they broke—and they always broke. Drivers quit. Nannies fled. Even the head of security had resigned after six months.

But Emaido stayed.

She learned to read Sonia's patterns. To anticipate her moods. To hold firm when the girl pushed and to soften when she truly needed someone.

And somehow, impossibly, it worked.

The Okoyes noticed. Within a year, they'd promoted her to estate manager—overseeing staff, managing household operations, maintaining the careful machinery of their wealth.

She'd been good at it. Better than she'd expected.

Until now.

Now, at thirty-two, seven months pregnant with a baby she'd made in secret, she was walking away from it all.

Caroline squeezed her hand, pulling her back to the present. "You deserve a new beginning."

Emaido's hand moved instinctively to her belly. The baby stirred, restless.

Kindly Invite your friends and share, I promise you this will be one hell of a read for Christmas!

PART ONE


The retch tore through her like a wave she couldn't outrun.

Emaido bent over the marble sink, one hand gripping its cold edge. The nausea surged again, and she braced herself, listening to the sound echo against the glossy tiles. When it finally subsided, she spat, rinsed her mouth, and let water run over her fingers longer than necessary. Anything to delay looking up.

Through the bathroom window, silence pressed against the glass. Not the silence of peace—the silence of distance.

Out there, beyond the high walls and manicured lawns of Banana Island, Lagos roared and hustled and survived. But here, insulated by wealth and water and armed security, the city felt like a rumor.

Only the low hum of the central air conditioning reminded her she wasn't floating in a vacuum. That, and the faint purr of the backup generator somewhere in the service quarters—so expensive it barely made a sound.

The isolation used to feel like luxury. Now it felt like drowning.

She lifted her head. Her reflection stared back through the gold-rimmed mirror, misted at the edges. She wiped it clean with a towel, dragging the fabric slowly across the glass until her face appeared—pale beneath her fair skin, breathless, the kind of tired that sleep couldn't fix.

Thirty-two years old. Seven months pregnant.

And so, so done.

Her hair fell in damp waves around her face, freed from the tight bun she wore during the day.

She pushed it back, studying the woman in the mirror with something close to pity. When had the shadows under her eyes become permanent? When had her cheekbones begun to show like this?

Three years and two months.

Three years of waking at dawn when Sonia needed her tea prepared just so. Three years of monitoring vitals, administering medications, keeping detailed logs that no one but her would ever read. Three years of loving a child everyone else had labeled impossible—

A knock thudded against her bedroom door. Soft. Deliberate. Three taps, a pause, then two more.

Their code.

Emaido closed her eyes. Not tonight. Please, not tonight. Her body ached for rest, for silence, for a version of her life where she wasn't always needed by someone else.

"—I'm coming," she called, her voice thinner than she intended.

She rinsed her face one more time, patting away the clamminess that clung to her skin despite the air conditioning's steady hum. The bathroom gleamed around her—black-veined marble floors, pearl-white walls, a chandelier that threw soft light across surfaces too perfect to feel real. She'd lived here three years and still felt like an intruder every time she stood in this space.

The Okoyes believed appearances were everything. Even for the housing staff.

Especially for the staff.

Emaido straightened her robe and stepped into her bedroom. Rose-gold silk on the king-sized bed, barely disturbed—she'd been too nauseous to sleep. Persian rugs muting her footsteps.


Tall gold curtains framing the balcony where Victoria Island sprawled below, its lights winking like false promises.

A vanity table crowded with expensive perfumes she never wore, gifts from Madam Perez during the early days when they'd both pretended this arrangement was about more than transaction.

Her eyes drifted to the built-in medical cabinet—perfectly organized, every inhaler and thermometer and emergency supply in its place. Her professional domain. The only corner of this gilded cage that truly belonged to her.

The knock came again. Five taps this time, quicker.

Emaido placed a hand over her belly. The baby shifted, a gentle roll that felt more like a question than a kick. *What are we doing here, Mama? Why are we still here?*

She didn't have an answer.

"Coming," she said again, crossing the carpet toward the door. Her hand hesitated on the lock.

Beyond this door was duty. Routine. The careful performance she'd perfected over three years in this sprawling mansion where even the silence cost money.


She unlocked it, heart settling into the familiar rhythm of resignation, and pulled it open.