I stared at her like she'd lost her mind. Or maybe she was drunk? That seemed more plausible than whatever the hell she'd just said.
I didn't know much about her, but I did know this—she was engaged to one of the wealthiest men in Russia.
I remembered an old interview where she said that if she hadn't met him, she'd have pursued a career in basketball, because apparently, he didn't want his wife to work.
She was good at it, too. Her jump shots had gone viral many times.
Her favorite color? Brown. Though that apparently changed every month. She hated eating, adored plants, and couldn't stand animals.
Her type? Okay, maybe I knew a little too much. Corporate stalker much?
Still, she didn't look drunk. I raised a brow.
"Aren't you engaged?" I asked, folding my arms. I may have been a terrible judge of character, but cheating was still a line I didn't cross.
She tilted her head, eyes playful.
"So you do want to be my sex partner, and your only concern is that I'm engaged? Isn't that the point?"
Bold. Shameless. I had to give her that.
"My fiancé doesn't care what I do," she said, stepping closer. "Too complicated to explain, but believe me, you don't need to worry."
She closed the distance between us, the scent of mint teasing the air between us.
A slow smile tugged at her lips.
"What do you think?" she whispered.
She was good at this—too good—but I didn't have time for whatever game she was playing.
"I have things to attend to. If you'll excuse me." I gave a curt nod and turned to leave.
Before I could take a step, she caught my wrist and pressed a sleek card into my palm.
"Call me," she said simply, flashing a sly smirk before walking away. Her assistant trailed behind her, heels clicking like punctuation.
Back in my office, I loosened my tie. It felt tighter than usual. Maybe I needed to be around women more often, because how could one short exchange mess with my head this badly?
I glanced down at the card. Then dropped it into the trash.
All my friends had given up trying to set me up—guys, girls, didn't matter. They thought maybe I was asexual. Maybe I was. Or maybe I just hadn't met the one person who could flip that switch in me.
A phone call jolted me from my spiraling thoughts. I flinched slightly and reached for my phone—Caleb.
"How did yesterday go?" he asked.
I let out a slow sigh. Here I was, getting tangled up in whatever the hell that encounter with Miss Elevane was, while one of my own colleagues was lying in a hospital bed.
"She's okay," I began, voice tight. "But… she lost the baby."
There was a pause. Then Caleb responded, calm as ever. "Yeah. As long as she's alive."
And just like that, he hung up.
I stared at my phone, unsure whether I'd imagined the whole exchange. Most people would break down hearing that kind of news.
But that was Caleb—detached, unreadable. Maybe he was slightly autistic, maybe he just didn't know how to process emotions like the rest of us.
Lunch time rolled around. I left my office for the cafeteria, grabbed a quick bite, and stretched lazily on my way back. Time to get to real work.
In the elevator, I hit the button for the last floor, waiting as the numbers blinked upward. When the doors opened, I stepped out and walked down the corridor until I reached a blank panel in the wall.
Pulling out a key from my pocket, I bent down and inserted it into a small, near-invisible hole. A soft click. The oval door swung open, revealing a narrow ladder.
I descended into the hidden room, locking the hatch behind me.
The space lit up with rows of plasma screens mounted on the walls—each one displaying live feeds from various locations across the city.
In front of every screen sat someone, typing furiously, eyes locked on the monitors. Keyboards clacked. Data flickered.
"Hey, boss," Ashley called from the corner without turning. Headphones on, fingers dancing over keys. Probably gaming again.
That girl was a genius with code, but couldn't let go of her fantasy battles.
What was it with hackers and video games?
"Meeting in two," I said.
They nodded, already minimizing windows and preparing to gather.
I made my way into the next room—our briefing chamber. Long table, chairs lining each side.
The blinds were drawn, muting the light, but the ceiling fixtures kept it just bright enough.
"Terry?" I called.
He was slumped forward, dozing. At the sound of my voice, he jolted up, eyes wild for a second like he'd just woken from a nightmare.
"Rowan," he muttered, rubbing his face.
"You not sleeping enough?" I asked, taking my seat at the head of the table.
Before he could answer, the door opened and the rest of the team filed in, each taking their usual spot.
The meeting began.
"So, what's on the table today?" I asked, unfolding the report handed to me.
Damn. It was worse than I thought.
Ashley spoke up first. "There are multiple reports of missing children—quietly swept under the rug. Sexual assault cases are rising, and more and more perpetrators are walking free. Stats show a two percent increase in the last quarter alone."
I frowned. She continued, flipping through her notes.
"Marital murders. Domestic abuse. Pedophilia. Jealousy killings. Manslaughter. Theft. And the higher-ups? Silent."
I raised my hand to stop her.Yeah, that's me. You're probably wondering how I ended up here—running an underground team tackling society's filth like some Netflix vigilante.
You could chalk it up to watching too many superhero movies, but it goes deeper than that.
I used to be one of those people who ranted online about how messed up the world was. Every week, there was a new tragedy, a new injustice, a new person slipping through the cracks of a broken system.
And every week, the world kept moving like nothing happened.
I remember venting to my grandmother once, pouring out all my frustration. She scolded me. Told me to stop complaining and start fixing what I didn't like.
She was a crazy woman—still is. Doesn't know the full scope of what I do now, but she has a feeling her grandson is doing something good.
And honestly? That's enough.She's got a bit of a… colorful past herself. A story for another day.
Sometimes I wonder—why is it so hard for people to just be decent? Why does cruelty come so easily?
I turned to Britney.
"Can I continue?" She asked.
"No," i said, flipping through the documents. "One case at a time. Let's start with the simplest while I gather more resources from my end."
She smiled faintly. "Fair enough."
She landed on a new file. My stomach clenched for a reason I couldn't place.
"A woman was kicked out of the house she paid for—in full," she explained.
"It was meant to be a one-year lease. A few months in, the landlord sold the place and threw her out. She wants to sue but can't afford it. She turned to social media, but… nothing's come of it yet."
An easy win.
"Reach out to her—under Rowan Fashion Entity," I said. "I'll contact Mr. Francis for legal representation."
Then I turned to Terry, who was leaning back in his chair like he had all the time in the world.
"It's better if she doesn't mention us, right? We don't need unnecessary exposure. And—check your accounts. Salaries for the month have been wired."
Suddenly, their tired faces lit up. I smiled. I only had seven of them, but they were more than enough.
Don't correct me—I'm using inversion.
Ashley, the first hacker—brilliant with code and decoding.Britney, the second—an actual code writer.Lucas—our memory bank.
Handles surveillance and can sketch anything he sees.Naomi—our security head. Not just muscle, she runs the entire system.Caleb—fixes everything tech-related. If a virus hits, he's our guy.Terry—well, he's useless unless you need a clever idea in a tight spot.
And Abigail—our field agent. Beautiful, bold, and unshakable. Her face card never declined, which made her perfect for close-contact jobs.
And me? I had everything.
Just kidding. The only real thing I had was money.
That's how I got them to say yes to working with me at first—money speaks, even to geniuses.
But over time, we became something more. Not just a team. Almost like family.
After the meeting, everyone returned to their stations. I headed to my office.
That's when I felt it—in my pocket.
Her card.
I stared at it, confused. I was sure I threw it away. How did it get back?
I sighed, staring down at her name.
What had she meant by "the engagement"?
That guy—I didn't care enough to remember his name… except I did. Alexander Joel. A name just as bland as the man himself.
I unlocked my phone and typed:
Alexander Joel and Rhea Elevane engagement.
Dozens of headlines flooded the screen.
I clicked the first one, reluctantly. I'd been too bitter to read anything before, but this time I forced myself.
Apparently, there were rumors. People believed the engagement was a Lavender Marriage—a marriage of convenience, hiding something else beneath the surface.
My brow furrowed.
So that was the "complicated situation" she hinted at?
Still… I sighed. Complicated was the last thing I needed. I had my own chaos to handle.
She was a celebrity crush, nothing more—and nothing more she would remain.
I tossed the card into the trash. For real this time.
Then I dialed Mr. Francis.
He picked up on the second ring.
"What a beautiful afternoon, Mr. Francis."
"Well, well. Mr. Ashford," he chuckled.
"You actually took time out of your very busy life to call me? Dare I ask—what's going on?"
"I have a case I need you to take."
"Say no more. Name the place."
"Our usual spot," I replied, and the line went dead.
A knock at my door.
"Come in," I called.
Britney stepped inside.
"I reached out to her. She replied almost immediately," she said, placing an iPad on my desk.
"She has all the documents—proof of payment, the transaction, everything. Even evidence of how the landlord kicked her out after selling the place. She refused to leave, and he forced her out."
I raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."
Britney shrugged like it was no big deal.
"Should I meet with her, or…?"
I shook my head. "No. I'm the manager. I'll handle it myself."
She nodded and stepped back, leaving the iPad on the table.
I picked it up, typed in a meeting location, and stood up.
Time to meet Mrs. Spinach.
Yes, that was her actual name. Honestly, it made me crave vegetables.
As I stepped out of my Lamborghini—again, not trying to pepper anybody, just stating facts—I scanned the area.
Only a few people knew I was half Nigerian. My mom was born and raised in Nigeria. She said she met my dad during a tour in Russia.
They fell in love, got married, and had me.
To me, the story always sounded too simple. Too plain. But to them? It was magic.
They're still together, still ridiculously in love. They're currently in Nigeria because Mom's family missed her. They asked me to come, but I had too much going on.
So I stayed behind—with Grandma, of course.
Thanks to my mom, I picked up a few Nigerian slang words.
They became part of me—just something that slipped out when I felt completely at ease.
Inside the building, I scanned the lobby. I'd memorized the woman's picture.
I'd recognize her immediately.
And I did.
I spotted her from across the room, but she wasn't alone.
As I got closer, my steps slowed.
Wait—
Miss Elevane?