Chapter 6 IN THE STORM

(LEO POV)

Present Day

The memory fades as I watch Eve leave my office, the medical account promise hanging between us like a bridge I'm building without knowing where it leads.

Biodun appears seconds after she's gone, tablet in hand.

"Sir, the board meeting-"

"Cancel it."

He blinks. "Sir?"

"You heard me. Cancel it. Reschedule for tomorrow." I move to the windows, staring out at the city where Eve is probably heading to her cleaning shift.

"May I ask why?"

"No."

Biodun is silent for a moment. Then: "Sir, if I may... the cleaning staff member who just left-"

"Her name is Eve." I cut him off, voice sharp.

"Eve," he corrects smoothly. "She's caused quite a stir among the staff. Rumors are circulating about why the CEO is taking personal interest in a cleaning woman."

I turn from the window. "And?"

"And I wanted to make sure you're aware. The Sterling family has... opinions about propriety. If your grandmother hears that you're involving yourself with-"

"Biodun." My voice drops to the tone that makes executives sweat. "I pay you to manage my schedule, not my personal life. Eve's mother is ill. I'm helping. That's the end of the story. If my grandmother or anyone else has questions, they can bring them directly to me. Are we clear?"

"Crystal, sir."

"Good. Now get my accountant on the phone. I need a medical expense account set up within the hour."

He nods and exits.

I return to the windows, to the view that Eve was stealing glances at days ago.

What am I doing?

I've built my entire life on control, on keeping emotions locked away where they can't interfere with business. Sterling men don't do sentiment-my father taught me that before he died. Love is a weakness. Attachment is vulnerability.

Yet I just committed nearly two million naira to a woman I've known for three days.

My phone buzzes. My grandmother.

I consider ignoring it. Then reconsider-she'll only call back, and she has keys to my office.

"Grandmother."

"Leonardo." Her voice carries the weight of old money and older expectations. "I hear disturbing rumors about you and a cleaning girl."

News travels fast in my world.

"Her mother is ill. I'm providing medical assistance. It's charity, nothing more."

"Charity?" She laughs, sharp and knowing. "Sterling men don't do charity, my dear. We make investments. So what are you investing in?"

"Her name is Eve-"

"I don't care what her name is. I care that you're creating gossip. The family has a reputation to maintain. Your father understood that. Your grandfather understood that. You would do well to remember it."

My jaw clenches. "I'll handle my reputation, Grandmother."

"See that you do. We have important mergers pending. The last thing we need is scandal about you and some poor girl playing at Cinderella."

She hangs up before I can respond.

I grip the phone, anger simmering.

This is why I don't do relationships. Why I keep my world sterile and professional. Because the moment you show interest in someone outside your tax bracket, the vultures circle.

But even as I think it, I know I'm not going to back away.

Something about Eve-her pride, her exhaustion, the way she refuses to be pitied-has gotten under my skin.

And Leonardo Sterling doesn't give up on things that interest him.

My accountant calls back. Twenty minutes later, the medical account is established. I have a debit card printed with Eve's name on it, linked to an account I've seeded with two million naira.

More than enough for two years of treatment.

I should have it delivered to her. Professional. Distant.

Instead, I find myself asking Biodun, "What time does the evening cleaning shift start?"

"Seven PM, sir."

"I'll be working late tonight."

Biodun's expression is carefully blank. "Of course, sir."

At 6:45 PM, my office is empty except for me. The executive floor is quiet-most staff gone home to families, to lives, to things that don't involve spreadsheets and profit margins.

I'm pretending to review quarterly reports when I hear the elevator ding.

Voices in the hallway. The cleaning crew.

I wait, forcing myself to focus on the numbers in front of me.

A knock at my door.

"Come in."

It's not Eve. It's Mama Kike, the cleaning supervisor.

Disappointment stabs through me.

"Good evening, sir." She looks nervous. "We're here for the evening cleaning. Will we be disturbing you?"

"No. I'll be in the conference room. Clean the office."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

I gather my laptop and papers, heading to the conference room where I first saw her.

Through the glass walls, I watch the cleaning crew disperse across the floor. Mama Kike assigns tasks. Two women head toward my office.

Neither is Eve.

"Looking for someone?"

I turn. One of my senior managers, Folarin, stands in the doorway with a knowing smirk.

"Shouldn't you be home?" I ask coldly.

"I could ask you the same thing. Except I heard you're waiting for a certain someone." He leans against the doorframe. "A certain pretty cleaner who's got Lagos' most eligible bachelor acting like a lovesick puppy."

"Folarin, I suggest you remember who signs your paychecks."

"Oh, I remember." His smirk widens. "I also remember you once telling me that mixing business with pleasure was for weak men who couldn't separate their dicks from their decisions. Your words, Leo. Not mine."

"Get out."

"I'm going, I'm going." He raises his hands. "But a word of advice? If you're going to break your own rules, at least be smart about it. Your grandmother is already sharpening her knives."

He leaves.

I sit in the empty conference room, staring at nothing.

He's right, of course. I am breaking my own rules. Spectacularly.

But when I remember Eve's face when I offered to help-the war between pride and desperation, the strength it took to accept, the promise to pay me back even though we both know she might never be able to-

I don't care about the rules.

My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

"Is this Mr. Sterling?"

My pulse quickens.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"It's Eve. I got your number from your assistant. I wanted to say thank you again. For everything. I don't have words for what you've done."

I stare at the message, then type quickly:

"You already thanked me. No need to again."

"I know, but it feels like 'thank you' isn't enough for saving my mother's life."

"You would do the same if you could."

A pause. Then:

"Yes. I would."

Another pause. I watch the typing indicator appear and disappear several times. Finally:

"Why are you really helping me?"

I lean back in my chair, considering the question I've been asking myself.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could lie. Give her the charity line, the corporate responsibility speech, anything that maintains distance.

Instead, I type the truth:

"Because when I look at you, I see someone fighting a war they didn't choose. And I have the weapons to help them win. It seems like a waste not to use them."

Her response takes longer this time:

"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. Even if I don't fully understand it."

"You don't have to understand it. Just accept it."

"I'm not good at accepting things."

"I noticed. It's stubborn and admirable in equal measure."

"Are you calling me stubborn, Mr. Sterling?"

"Leo. And yes. It's a compliment."

"If you say so, Leo."

Seeing my name typed by her sends an unexpected thrill through me.

This is dangerous territory. I know it. But I keep typing anyway:

"Did you make it home safely last night?"

"Yes. Someone walked me. A man named Rico."

My jaw tightens. Rico. I know that name. Rico Blaze-gangster, street king, dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with boardrooms and everything to do with bullets.

What the hell was he doing near Eve?

"Rico Blaze?" I type carefully.

"You know him?"

"Of him. He's... not someone you should be around."

"He helped me. Some men were bothering me, and he scared them off."

Jealousy-hot and irrational-flares in my chest. Rico Blaze playing hero to my... to Eve.

"Still. Be careful around him."

"Everyone keeps telling me to be careful. I'm starting to think Lagos is just one big danger zone."

"It is. Especially for people like you."

"People like me?"

"Good people. The kind who see the best in others. The city eats people like that."

"Then I guess I better stay tough."

"You're already the toughest person I know."

Another long pause. Then:

"You don't know me, Leo."

"Not yet. But I'd like to."

I send it before I can reconsider.

Her response is immediate:

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because you're a billionaire CEO and I'm a cleaner. We live in different worlds. People like you don't really know people like me. They just think they do."

Truth in that. Sharp, uncomfortable truth.

"Then teach me. Help me understand your world."

"Why would you want to?"

"Because it produced you. That alone makes it interesting."

Several minutes pass. I think she's not going to respond. Then:

"You're strange, you know that?"

"I've been called worse."

"I bet you have. Look, I should go. Mama's waiting for dinner. But thank you again. For everything."

"Stop thanking me."

"Not a chance. Goodnight, Leo."

"Goodnight, Eve."

I stare at my phone long after the conversation ends.

What am I doing? What is this pull toward a woman I barely know? I've dated models, heiresses, corporate executives-women who understand my world, who want the same things I want.

None of them ever made me feel like this.

Like I'm standing at the edge of something vast and terrifying and exhilarating.

Like I'm about to jump.

"Sir?"

I look up. Mama Kike stands in the doorway.

"We've finished, sir. Have a good night."

"Wait." I stand. "The cleaner who was assigned here yesterday-Evelyn Adesua. Why isn't she here tonight?"

Mama Kike looks confused. "She has two jobs, sir. Market shift on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She'll be back tomorrow."

"I see. Thank you."

She leaves, and I'm alone with the realization that I'm disappointed.

Disappointed that I won't see her tonight.

Like a teenager with a crush.

Leonardo Sterling. Thirty-two years old. Billionaire. Acting like a fool over a woman who cleans his office.

My father would be ashamed.

My grandmother is already preparing her weapons.

And I?

I don't care.

Because tomorrow evening, I'll see her again.

Maybe I'll figure out what to do with this thing growing in my chest.

This thing that feels suspiciously like the beginning of something I promised myself I'd never feel.

Hope.