Chapter 2 The Invitation

Lagos doesn't really sleep. Even when I finished work late that night, the city outside my window was still buzzing lights flickering, horns blaring, the usual tension in the air like something was always about to happen.

I closed my laptop and let out a breath. My shoulders ached. My head throbbed. It had been one of those long days where everything blurs together, and all you want to do is stop thinking. But I couldn't. Not yet. I was too close.

Too close to the one thing I came here for.

I stood and stretched, trying to shake off the heaviness in my chest the kind that always showed up after a run-in with Ken. He had this way of getting under my skin. Intense one second, completely unreadable the next. Like he wasn't sure who he wanted to be that day.

I had just walked toward the window when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I didn't even need to check the name. Something in my chest told me before I saw it that's Ken Ibe.

I froze. He wasn't a stranger to late-night calls usually business stuff. Numbers. Strategy. One-word requests.

But tonight felt different. I don't know how. It just did.

I picked up.

"Adanna," he said. His voice was smooth, but there was something else in it something sharp. "I need you to come over. To my place."

He went straight to the point. No hesitation.

I blinked. "I don't think that's appropriate." I tried to sound cool. Like my heart hadn't just picked up pace. "We've always handled things through work. This doesn't sound like work."

"I'm not asking you to come as my assistant," he said. There was a flicker of amusement in his voice. "I'm asking you as... a guest. Maybe even a bit more than that."

I turned back to the window. The skyline looked different now blurred, like it wasn't really there. "Ken, I don't know if"

"Just talk," he cut in. "No pressure. But no walls, either. No suits, no desks. Just... you and me."

He didn't sound like a man trying to seduce me.

He sounded like a man who needed to be understood.

"I don't know if this is a good idea," I said quietly. My voice was steady, but inside, everything was shaking.

"I won't ask again," he said. "You know where I live. Penthouse. Eight."

Then he hung up.

Just like that.

I stood there staring at my screen like it might change. I hadn't said yes. Not out loud. But I knew I was already going.

He had opened a door and I was walking through it whether I wanted to or not.

By eight, I was standing in the lobby of his building.

I'd been here before, for meetings, but never like this. Never stepping into his world.

As I entered, the glass doors slid open, and I stepped inside. The place smelled like money and control. Everything was cold, sharp, perfect. Nothing out of place.

The elevator ride felt like a countdown. Each floor ticked down the space between us. I told myself I could still turn back. I didn't believe it.

When the doors opened, the penthouse looked like something out of a magazine sleek, dark, expensive. But it wasn't the furniture or the view that unsettled me.

It was the way it felt like everything inside had to earn its place.

Ken stood near the entrance, relaxed but watching me too closely. Like he wasn't sure if I was a surprise or a mistake.

He didn't say much. Just nodded toward a door. "Come in."

The living room was breathtaking. Glass, steel, shadows, and a view of Lagos that made the world feel far away.

"Do you live here," I asked, "or just exist in it?"

Ken looked up from uncorking wine. "Some days, same thing."

I walked in slowly. My dress brushed against my legs as I moved, and I felt the shift in air when I crossed into his space.

I said to him "You invited me for dinner, I expected... something warmer."

"I don't cook for people I don't trust." He said.

That made me laugh, but only a little. "And yet I'm here."

He poured two glasses. "You're not surprised." He said

"I'm not."

"Why?" He asked

I took the glass from him and sipped slowly. "Because you don't believe in generosity without reason. Everything you do has a price."

He tilted his head, studying me. "What's your price, then?"

I smiled faintly. "I like beautiful things."

"And I'm one of them?" He asked

I looked at him and gave a light smile "I haven't decided yet."

Dinner came in trays steak, rice, vegetables but it was plated like he cooked it himself. We ate slowly. Quietly. Every bite felt like part of a conversation we weren't ready to have.

Then I asked, "Did you love your father?"

His knife paused midair.

He recovered quickly, but I saw it. The crack.

"I respected him," he said.

"That's not what I asked."

Silence.

Then, softly: "No. Not after I saw who he really was."

"What was he?"

Ken stared at his wine like it held the answer. "Hungry. Always. For power. Control. Praise. It killed him."

I leaned in a little. My pulse was pounding now.

I should've hated Ken. His father destroyed mine. Everything about this should've made me cold.

But there was something in Ken's voice... not pride. Not grief.

Guilt.

And guilt can be shaped.

"You're not like him," I said.

He looked at me for a long time. "How do you know?"

"Because you brought me here to talk. Not to sleep with me."

A pause.

"And what if I regret that?" He asked

"Then you're still human."

He stood and walked to the window. I followed.

I turned to him. He was just inches away. I could see our faint reflections in the glass behind him blurred, almost touching.

"You don't know me," I whispered.

"Maybe not. But I know what I want."

My breath caught. "And what's that?"

He reached up, brushing his fingers lightly against my cheek. Just once. Just enough to make me feel it.

"You."