The first time I attempted "billionaire baiting," it was a disaster. A certified, grade-A flop.
After the one-night-stand debacle at the lounge, Sophia and I had finished our drinks in silence. Like someone had dropped a wet blanket on both of us. The ride home was equally tragic. No music, no gossip, no laughter—just two defeated chickens dragging themselves back to the coop in the rain.
Sophia tried to cheer me up, of course. She rattled on about how the guy wasn't even all that fine if you really looked closely, and how any man who led with "one night stand" was beneath our manifesto. But I couldn't shake the sting of it. I had marched across that lounge floor with the confidence of a woman auditioning for a luxury brand campaign, only to come back with rejection stamped on my forehead.
Two days later, Sophia came barging into my temporary bedroom with a plan.
"Networking event. Luxury hotel. Real billionaires, not riffraff in rented suits," she announced, dropping her phone into my lap like it was a golden ticket.
"I don't know..." I mumbled, scrolling through the event flyer. The words Private Investors Forum glittered at the top. The venue: one of Lagos's five-star hotels that had chandeliers bigger than my entire bathroom back home.
Sophia leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Babe, this is perfect. High profile. Exclusive. Zero chance of street riffraff pretending to be rich."
"Exclusive?" I repeated slowly. "As in... invitation-only?"
She waved her hand. "Abeg, you worry too much. Just dress rich, act rich, and nobody will ask questions. Billionaires don't have time for gatekeeping—they're too busy sipping champagne."
I should've known that was the first lie.
The night of the event, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at myself with equal parts pride and fear.
Sophia had loaned me a flowing emerald-green gown she called "rich aunty core." It hugged my waist, draped elegantly over my hips, and shimmered under the dim bedroom light. My heels, on the other hand, were pure torture devices—pinching my toes so tightly I wondered if billionaires could smell desperation through footwear.
To mask my nerves, I doused myself in Sophia's designer perfume until the room reeked of "expensive woman who probably owned oil fields." By the time I left the house, I was a walking mosquito repellent.
The hotel lobby sparkled. Marble floors polished to mirror shine. Golden chandeliers dripping crystals like rain. Waiters glided across the room with trays of champagne flutes, each one holding bubbles that looked richer than my salary. Men in sharp suits strolled confidently, their watches gleaming, their laughter loud and unbothered.
I inhaled deeply, squared my shoulders, and tried to channel mysterious heiress vibes. You know the look—like I had grown up with maids who fed me grapes while I studied stock reports at age five.
I had barely taken three steps toward the hall when the receptionist blocked my path.
"Good evening, ma'am," she said, smiling politely. "Are you a delegate?"
Delegate? Nobody told me billionaires required credentials.
"Yes," I blurted, clutching my thrifted clutch like it was an ancestral relic. "Delegate of... emerging markets."
Her smile tightened. "Which organization?"
My brain stuttered. My heart thudded. The room suddenly felt hotter. "Um... self-employed."
There was a pause. A pause so long I could practically hear my dignity sliding out the lobby doors. Her eyes scanned me from head to toe, and I swear I saw the words broke girl detected flash in her pupils.
"Right," she said, tone sugar-sweet but sharp enough to cut. She reached under the counter, retrieved a small pack, and handed it to me. "Please, have a complimentary biscuit. The event is strictly for delegates."
And just like that, she pointed me toward the exit.
I stepped back out into the humid Lagos evening, clutching my free biscuit like a participation trophy. Men in tuxedos brushed past me into billionaire paradise while I stood there, humiliated, a mosquito-repellent heiress without credentials.
That night, back at Sophia's apartment, she laughed so hard I thought she'd choke on her shawarma.
"Delegate of emerging markets?!" she wheezed, tears streaming down her face. "Babe, you could have said oil and gas, real estate, even cryptocurrency investor. But you chose emerging markets?!"
I threw my biscuit at her. She caught it mid-air and burst into fresh laughter.
"Don't laugh," I groaned, flopping face-first onto the couch. "It was terrifying. The woman's eyes were burning my soul."
Sophia collapsed beside me, still giggling. "Babe, you need training. Billionaire baiting is not for the faint of heart. You can't just show up in a thrifted gown and expect to pass as Dangote's long-lost niece."
I buried my face in a pillow. "So what now? Do I just... give up?"
"Never." Her tone snapped into seriousness. "We regroup. We strategize. We elevate. You will not be defeated by complimentary biscuits."
The next morning, Sophia woke me up at 7 a.m. sharp, dragging me into what she called Billionaire Baiting Bootcamp.
"Lesson one, Posture" she rattled on, pacing up and down in front of me like a general. "You must walk like money is beneath your feet," she said, balancing a book on my head. Every time it fell, she clucked like a disappointed teacher.
"Two" she said lifting up two fingers "Conversation". She quizzed me on billionaire topics—stocks, philanthropy, luxury travel.
"What do you say if someone mentions Davos?" she asked.
"Uh... is that a new Afrobeats artist?" I replied.
She nearly fainted.
The next lesson was Style. Sophia raided her closet, throwing outfits at me like she was styling a celebrity. "This is Versace—don't eat suya in it. This is Zara—affordable rich girl. This is thrift—but we'll call it vintage couture."
By the end of the day, I was exhausted but strangely excited. It felt like we were preparing for battle, only instead of armor, I had contour and perfume.
That night, alone in bed, I replayed the humiliation at the hotel over and over. My chest tightened with a question I didn't dare say out loud: Was I built for this?
The truth was, I wasn't Sophia. I didn't ooze confidence or drip money vibes naturally. I was a small-town girl with peeling wallpaper in my bedroom and dreams bigger than my bank account. Every outfit I wore was borrowed or thrifted, every answer rehearsed.
But then I remembered the vow I had made—no more stingy men. No more wasted time. If I wanted to level up, I had to push past the humiliation. Even if it meant getting kicked out of luxury hotels.
So I promised myself one thing: next time, I wouldn't fail.
Two days later, while Sophia and I were scrolling Instagram for "potential targets," her phone buzzed.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, eyes widening. "Perfect timing."
"What?" I asked, craning over her shoulder.
She turned the screen to me. A message from one of her contacts—an invite to a private charity gala the following weekend. Black-tie, five-star, the kind of event where even the air probably wore designer.
Sophia grinned. "Babe, this is it. No biscuits this time. And importantly the elusive billionaire Adrien Cole is going to be there. I heard he just came back to the country and would be attending the event. This is where we make our mark."
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding with equal parts fear and excitement. Billionaire baiting round two.
And this time, I'd be ready.