Chuka couldn't stop thinking about her.
The gala had ended hours ago, yet Amara Roman's voice lingered in his mind like a melody he couldn't place — soft, intelligent, edged with quiet fire. He remembered the way the chandelier light had caught the curve of her earrings, the way her eyes, sharp and searching, seemed to weigh every word before giving an answer. She hadn't spoken like the others — not with the distant politeness of wealth, but with the urgency of someone trying to understand her place in the world.
He replayed their first meeting in his thoughts as he walked across the quiet campus the next morning. Her emerald-green gown had glimmered like wet leaves after rain, moving with an effortless grace that didn't belong to vanity. It was a color that reminded him of the forest near Nok, where the relic had first been unearthed — alive, ancient, whispering. The faint scent of jasmine she wore had mingled with the metallic tang of champagne and the hum of jazz, and for a fleeting second, he had felt something irrational — as though her presence had stirred the same energy he once sensed in the earth beneath his homeland.
But it wasn't her beauty that haunted him. It was the discrepancy — the contrast between the poised daughter of power and the quiet unrest in her eyes. When she spoke of history and ownership, of stories told by outsiders, she hadn't been reciting the words of a scholar. She had been confessing.
Chuka had known people like her before — people who wanted to bridge worlds. But there was something about Amara that defied the easy categories he'd built around privilege. She seemed to carry her father's empire like a burden, not a crown. Even the way she'd looked at him — curious, unguarded — had made him feel exposed, as though she could see the parts of himself he'd tried to bury under scholarship and ambition.
Now, sitting in his narrow dorm room with his research spread before him, he realized her words had planted more than a spark — they'd struck a nerve. Legacy isn't what we build; it's what we choose not to give away. He had written those words in his notebook, underlining them twice.
He wondered if she truly believed that — or if, like him, she was still trying to convince herself.
Outside, the winter sky hung low and pale, a dull mirror of his thoughts. Snow began to fall softly, coating the cobblestones in silence. Chuka leaned against the window, watching the flakes gather on the ledge. Somewhere in that silence, he felt the first whisper of an unease he couldn't name — as though his meeting with Amara had shifted something larger than either of them understood.
Amara Roman hadn't expected to remember his name.
Her father had hosted hundreds of galas, each one blurring into the next — polite laughter, champagne flutes, and men who spoke of Africa as though it were an investment portfolio. Yet somehow, she couldn't forget the archaeologist from Jos with the quiet eyes and rough hands.
She'd noticed him before he noticed her — standing near one of her father's display cases, his posture slightly defensive, like a man forced into borrowed space. The suit he wore was well-fitted but modest, dark charcoal that matched the seriousness in his gaze. He looked uncomfortable in it, though not from pride; it was as if the stiffness of the fabric fought against the rhythm of his spirit. And when she approached him, she'd seen it in his face — that slight hesitation between deference and defiance.
He wasn't like the others.
Amara had grown up among people who spoke in rehearsed tones, their words crafted to impress or conceal. But Chuka's voice had carried the weight of something real. He'd looked her in the eye when he spoke about legacy — not her father's version, carved into marble plaques and business towers, but a legacy buried in the soil of forgotten ancestors.
It unnerved her.
She had spent her whole life trying to navigate the space between her father's world and her own — one polished by power, the other haunted by questions she was never supposed to ask. Yet, in a single conversation, Chuka had made those questions feel legitimate, alive. His words had left her with the same restlessness she often felt staring out the window of her penthouse suite — that quiet ache for something authentic.
Later that night, as the city lights bled into the fog beyond her balcony, she thought of the way he had looked at her — not with admiration, but recognition. As though he saw the parts of her she tried hardest to hide.
She poured herself a glass of wine, still wearing the emerald-green gown that shimmered under the soft glow of her room. Her reflection in the mirror looked composed, untouchable. But inside, she felt an unfamiliar pull — not romantic, not yet, but something deeper. Curiosity, maybe. Or fate whispering too soon.
For the first time in years, Amara Roman wondered if she had just met someone who could challenge the story her family had written for her. And that thought, more than any spark of attraction, was what frightened her most.