Amira stood by the window of the penthouse, watching the rain trace lazy patterns against the glass. The city was quiet tonight, as if holding its breath. Inside, the silence stretched too, but not from tension—something else entirely.
Idris was in his study, the door slightly ajar, the faint hum of his voice floating through as he ended a call. It had been three days since the board vote. Three days since Khalid's smear campaign failed to dethrone him. But she knew better than to believe it was over.
"Are you going to pace all night?" Idris's voice drew her out of her thoughts.
She turned as he stepped into the room. He looked tired. Not in a weak way—but in the way someone looks after climbing a steep hill and realizing there's still more ahead.
"I'm not pacing," she said softly. "I'm thinking."
"Dangerous habit." He smiled faintly and moved to pour himself a glass of water. "Want to share?"
Amira hesitated. "What happens when Khalid realizes you won't step down?"
"He already has." He leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Frank intercepted a message today. Khalid's applying pressure on the internal auditors. He's going for the one thing I can't defend—my family's finances."
Amira's brows drew together. "Your grandfather's trust fund?"
Idris nodded slowly. "And the off-record assets passed down through my father. Things even I don't fully understand. If he exposes that… it won't just be business I lose. It'll be everything."
She crossed the room to him, resting her palm against his chest. "Then we find the skeletons before he does."
He covered her hand with his. "Are you sure you want to be part of this?"
"I already am. You and I stopped being separate the moment you chose me. Whatever war you're in, I'm standing beside you."
His gaze softened. "Then I need to show you something."
The vault was hidden in the east wing of the penthouse, behind a wall panel Amira hadn't even noticed before. Idris keyed in the code, scanned his fingerprint, then twisted a mechanical lock.
The door creaked open to reveal a narrow room lined with files, old safes, and shelves stacked with leather-bound ledgers.
"This," he said, stepping in, "is where the past sleeps."
Amira followed him inside, shivering at the sudden drop in temperature. He knelt beside one of the chests and opened it. Inside were sealed envelopes, old photographs, and a large, red notebook.
"This was my father's," he said, holding it out. "He kept records of everything—deals, debts, favors owed."
Amira opened it carefully. The pages were filled with coded language, but beneath the ink she saw patterns—names, figures, locations. One name appeared over and over.
Naima Adebanjo.
"She's not just helping Khalid," Amira murmured. "She's been part of this from the beginning."
Idris nodded grimly. "My father paid for her silence years ago. She had dirt on him. On me. But the price was never about money—it was about power."
Amira flipped to the final page. There was a photo clipped to it—of Idris, much younger, standing beside a man who looked eerily like him.
"Who is that?"
"My half-brother," Idris said, voice flat. "Zayd."
Amira froze. "You never mentioned—"
"I couldn't," he said quietly. "Because he died. In an accident orchestrated by my father to avoid scandal. Zayd was born from a mistress—my father tried to erase him. But Naima knew. She threatened to expose it. That's how she got into our inner circle."
Amira's stomach churned. "She's been holding that over your family for years."
"And now, she's using it to destroy what's left of our name."
They were silent for a moment, the weight of history pressing down.
Then Amira spoke. "We don't run from this. We use it. The truth can be more powerful than secrets—if we control the narrative."
Idris looked at her. "You think the world's ready for all this?"
She met his gaze. "Maybe not. But I think it's ready for a man who doesn't hide behind shadows."
The next morning, Idris held a private press briefing.
No journalists. No cameras. Just a live stream, a chair, and a man ready to speak.
Amira stood behind the scenes, watching through the monitor.
"I'm Idris Leventis," he began. "For years, I have led this company with integrity. But I've also carried the burden of my family's past—a burden I no longer wish to hide."
He laid out everything.
The history of the Adebanjo family's entanglement with his own. The blackmail. The quiet settlements. The betrayal.
He didn't plead for sympathy—he demanded accountability.
"And to the man trying to break this legacy," he finished, "I say this: You can tarnish a name, but you cannot erase character. I will not be silenced. Not by fear. Not by you."
When the feed ended, silence hung in the room.
Then Amira walked up to him, cupped his face, and whispered, "You just set yourself free."
He pulled her close. "No, love. You freed me."
That night, they returned to the penthouse, only to find the front door slightly ajar.
Idris motioned for Amira to stay back. He pushed the door open slowly.
The lights were off—but the smell of perfume lingered in the air.
On the coffee table sat a single envelope.
Idris approached it, opened it.
Inside was a photo of Amira.
Sleeping.
In their bedroom.
His blood turned cold.
On the back of the photo were the words: "Next time, she won't wake up."
Amira had followed behind and gasped when she saw the picture.
"No more warnings," Idris said, eyes hardening. "They want to play dirty? Then I'll show them what happens when a Leventis stops playing nice."