The rain was a solid, unforgiving wall of water. It hammered against the penthouse windows, blurring the glittering Lagos skyline into a smear of angry light. Inside, all was warm and soft. Trisha, now four months old, was finally asleep in her crib after a fractious evening, her little chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. The scent of camomile tea from Mina's mug mingled with the sweet, clean smell of baby powder.
Mona checked her phone for the tenth time. 10:47 PM. Adams was late.
'Stuck finalizing the Q2 reports. Don't wait up. Kiss my girl for me.'
His text had come through two hours ago. A familiar ache of disappointment settled in her chest, but she smothered it with practicality. This was his life. This was their life. The empire demanded sacrifice. She walked to the nursery, pressing a soft kiss to Trisha's downy head, fulfilling his request.
"Daddy will see you in the morning," she whispered.
She was about to head to bed when her phone rang, the shrill tone cutting through the apartment's quiet. Her heart gave a little jump. Adams, calling to say he was on his way.
But the name on the screen wasn't 'My Love'. It was 'Emmanuel'.
A cold prickle of confusion touched her neck. The driver never called this late.
"Emmanuel? Is everything alright? Is Adams with you?" she answered, her voice tight with sudden, unnamed fear.
There was a beat of silence on the other end, filled only with the sound of rushing wind and… was that rain? Then, a voice, but it wasn't Emmanuel's calm, professional baritone. It was younger, strained, laced with panic.
"Madam… Mrs. Dared?" the voice stammered.
"Who is this?" Her grip on the phone tightened, her knuckles turning white.
"It's Femi, madam. Emmanuel's nephew. I… I drive the backup car sometimes." The young man's words tumbled over each other, breathless. "There's been… there's been an accident."
The word landed like a physical blow to her solar plexus. The world tilted, the warm light of the apartment suddenly feeling garish and false.
"What?" The word was a choked whisper. "What do you mean? Where is Adams? Put Emmanuel on the phone!"
"I can't, madam," Femi's voice broke, edging into a sob. "The boss's car… a tanker. On the Third Mainland Bridge. The rain… it lost control. It hit them. It's bad, madam. It's really bad."
The details were ice picks stabbing into her brain. Tanker. Third Mainland Bridge. Bad.
"Where is he?" she demanded, her voice rising in pitch, hysteria clawing at her throat. "Femi, where is my husband?!"
"They… they are taking them to General Hospital. The ambulance just left. I'm following. I'm so sorry, madam. The car… it's crushed. The front is completely crushed."
Crushed.
The phone slipped from her numb fingers, clattering onto the polished concrete floor. The sound echoed in the terrifying silence of the apartment. For a moment, she just stood there, frozen, the world reduced to the hammering of the rain and the frantic, ragged sound of her own breathing.
Then, a primal sound tore from her throat, a half-gasp, half-moan. She stumbled, catching herself on the back of the sofa.
Move. You have to move.
Her body went into a frantic, automated mode. She lunged for the phone, her hands shaking so violently she could barely punch in the numbers. Lara. She had to call Lara.
The line rang once before her sister picked up. "Mina? What's wrong?" Lara's voice was instantly alert, sensing the terror in the silence.
"Lara…" Mina's voice was a broken thing. "There's been an accident. Adams… on the bridge. They said… they said it's bad." A sob escaped, harsh and raw. "He's at General Hospital."
She heard Lara's sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Okay. Okay. Breathe, Mina. I'm on my way. Right now. I'll meet you there. Just breathe."
The line went dead. Mina stood in the center of the room, swaying. General Hospital. The place where it had all begun. The irony was a cruel, vicious joke.
Her gaze swept the room—the beautiful, sterile, empty room. The reports on the coffee table. The half-finished tea. The abstract art on the walls that suddenly meant nothing. This life, this beautiful, precarious life they had built, could be shattered. Right now.
A thin, reedy cry came from the nursery. Trisha was awake.
The sound shattered her paralysis. She ran to the nursery, scooping her daughter out of the crib, clutching the warm, sleepy bundle to her chest. Trisha's cries intensified, sensing her mother's panic.
"Shhh, my love, shhh," Mina whispered, rocking her, tears streaming down her own face, dripping onto the baby's blanket. "It's okay. Daddy's… Daddy's…"
She couldn't say it. She couldn't form the lie.
She had to get to the hospital. But she had a baby. She couldn't take a newborn into an emergency room. The logistics, the sheer terrifying impracticality of it all, threatened to drown her.
Frantically, she dialed again. The only other person who had a key to the penthouse. The head of building security, a kind, older man Adams trusted.
"Mr. Adebayo… please… I need help…" she sobbed into the phone, the story tumbling out in incoherent fragments.
Within minutes, there was a knock at the door. Mr. Adebayo stood there, his uniform neat, his face grave with concern. "Madam Dared. My wife is downstairs. She will stay with the baby. My car is waiting to take you to the hospital."
The efficiency of it, the kindness, unlocked a fresh wave of tears. She handed a crying Trisha to his capable wife, her heart tearing in two. "Thank you," she choked out, grabbing her purse, not even putting on shoes.
She ran out of the penthouse, into the private elevator, down into the lobby where a car was indeed waiting, its engine running. The rain lashed against the windows as the driver sped through the nearly empty streets.
Mina stared out, unseeing. Her mind was a chaotic reel of images. Adams's smile that morning as he kissed Trisha goodbye. The text message. The word 'crushed'. The sound of Femi's panicked voice.
She prayed. She bargained with a God she hadn't spoken to since her parents died. Please. Not him. Take anything else. Take the penthouse, the money, the empire. Just let him be alive.
The car screeched to a halt under the bright, unforgiving lights of the General Hospital emergency entrance. It was a grotesque echo of her first time here, but a thousand times more terrifying.
She flung the door open and ran inside, her bare feet slapping against the cold, wet linoleum. The chaos of the ER hit her like a wave—the smell of antiseptic and blood, the moans of the injured, the hurried footsteps of doctors.
Her eyes scanned the room wildly, looking for Femi, for a doctor, for any sign of him.
A young man in a soaked company polo shirt shot up from a plastic chair. Femi. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed.
"Madam!" he cried, rushing toward her.
"Where is he?" she demanded, grabbing his arms, her fingers digging into his wet sleeves. "Where is my husband?"
Femi's face crumpled. He just shook his head, gesturing helplessly toward the double doors that led to the trauma bays. "They took him straight back. They wouldn't let me go. A doctor said… they said they would come out to talk to the family."
Family. She was his family. She was all he had here.
Mina stood there, soaked and shivering in the bright, noisy hell of the emergency room, her whole world hinging on a set of swinging doors. The empire, the future, their bliss—it all meant nothing. The only thing that mattered was behind those doors.
And she had no idea if the man she loved was alive or dead. The storm had not just gathered; it had broken, and it had swallowed him whole.