Chapter 4 A Spark in the Ash

I stayed in the office long after the city gave up. Hours slipped by, but I didn't move. I just sat there, staring out the glass like Lagos might finally give me something back.

It didn't.

The lights out there blinked slow and tired, like even the skyline was exhausted. I poured a drink from that overpriced bottle I keep but never touch. The kind people buy to impress people they hate.

It tasted like nothing.

There was a folder on my desk. I don't remember pulling it out, but there it was.

Obinna Umeh – 2011–2013.

Old name. Old blood. Old ghosts.

I hadn't said that name out loud in years, but the second I saw it, it burned through my chest like acid.

Why the hell did I open it tonight?

Why now?

Maybe it was her.

Maybe it was that kiss.

The way she pulled away like she'd just stolen something from me and left something behind in the same breath. Like she knew.

Because she did. I felt it.

I was in the kitchen, barefoot, drinking wine I didn't like straight from the bottle. It was too warm. Too bitter. I drank it anyway.

The house was quiet too quiet and I kept checking my phone even though I told myself I wouldn't. No message. No calls. Not even a damn emoji.

He was probably still at the office, same as always. Pretending the world could wait while he buried himself in numbers and silence and whatever ghosts kept him company after midnight.

I leaned against the counter and stared out the window. The city looked so far away from here. Blurry. Untouchable. Like I wasn't part of it anymore.

And maybe I wasn't.

There was a file on my screen. The file. The one I'd been digging for since I learned how to bury my grief under code and firewalls.

I found it buried deep inside Ibe Group's server, masked under numbers and encrypted trash, the same server I had once helped secure back when I believed in the company. Back when my father was still alive. Before.

Before the crash.

Before the lies.

Before my father died.

Before Ken touched me like he meant it.

And now, it was all there in front of me.

Two hundred million naira.

Fake permits.

Fake names.

A building that never fell because it never existed.

Obinna didn't just take the fall. He was pushed.

And at the bottom of the chain, like the rotting root of it all:

Lawrence Ibe.

Ken's father.

I should've sent it. Should've thrown it into the fire and watched the city burn. Should've hit send and let the EFCC, the press, X (Twitter) the whole damn country chew on the truth.

But I didn't.

Because when I closed my eyes, I didn't see Lawrence.

I saw Ken.

Not the billionaire. Not the company name. Just him.

Quiet.

Tired.

Touching me like he was trying to say something without words.

Looking at me like I wasn't just another crack in his foundation.

And it made me hesitate.

God, I hated that.

Hated that my heart didn't get the message my head had been screaming for years.

I should've hit send.

Should've buried them all.

But instead, I closed the laptop.

Whispered, Not yet.

Let him love me first.

Let him bleed.

Let him give me everything so I could break it piece by piece.

And maybe, when it's all ash, I'll finally feel clean.

The next morning, he came to my studio. No warning. No smile. Just walked in like he owned the place or needed saving. I don't even know which.

I was painting when I saw him. I froze.

He didn't say hi. Didn't ask.

"I looked up your father," he said.

Just like that.

His voice was low. Not sharp. Not angry. Just... broken at the edges.

I dropped the brush. Couldn't fake a thing.

He stepped forward.

"I know what my father did. To him. And to you."

My chest tightened. My mouth opened, but I had nothing to give. No clever line. No weapon.

Just silence.

He kept going. "I don't know why you're here. Or what you want from me."

I swallowed. My hands shook.

"But if you came here to destroy me," he said, so quiet I barely heard, "you'll have to get in line."

Then he turned and left.

And I just stood there, breath caught in my throat, not knowing whether to scream or cry.

Because I didn't expect him to know.

And I damn sure didn't expect to care that he did.