The meeting room was the very definition of understated power with dark mahogany paneling, soft amber light spilling from ornate sconces, and a long polished table that gleamed beneath the weight of authority. Heavy curtains muted the city outside, leaving the room quiet except for the faint hum of air circulation and the soft shuffle of papers. The plush leather chairs lined the table, but it was Oluwafemi's seat at the head that commanded attention it was perfectly tailored to his presence. Every inch of the room whispered control, prestige, and the kind of intimidation that left everyone conscious of their place.
"Dismissed," Oluwafemi said, his voice calm and one by one, men and women rose, gathering their things, moving out with a practiced of caution.
"Stay behind, Ayomide."
The tall man 6'3", red-haired, dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, and carrying himself with the weight of years despite being only thirty-two nodded, sliding into the last empty seat with casual precision.
"Yes, sir."
Oluwafemi's gaze stayed locked on the polished surface of the table, but his tone was lethal, almost venomous. "I was told you stood Jasmine up."
Ayomide's jaw tightened. "I do not find her… suitable, sir."
"Suitable," Oluwafemi repeated slowly, his voice soft but sharp enough to cut. "That's what you said about the last three." His eyes flicked up, studying him like a predator circling a cornered animal. "And yet… here you are."
Ayomide's hands flexed on his thighs. "I am aware of my duties, sir."
Oluwafemi leaned back, chair creaking just slightly, the motion deliberate. "Duties, yes. But this isn't about duty, Ayomide. This is about legacy. About the alliances we've fought tooth and nail to secure. Do not let this… hesitation ruin it."
The words hung heavy and the unspoken weight pressed against Ayomide like the walls themselves. He shifted subtly, tension tracing every line of his tall frame. To marry, to produce an heir with the Adelusi's clan's first child it had been expected. But compliance didn't mean submission, not entirely.
"You understand what's at stake?" Oluwafemi's voice dropped, almost a whisper, but the threat in it was clear. "One mistake… one misstep, and it won't just be the marriage that suffers. Do you think I'll forget disobedience?"
Ayomide's red hair caught the dim light, sharp against his dark skin. His eyes didn't flinch. "I understand, sir. And I will not fail the clan."
A flicker of satisfaction or perhaps calculation passed over Oluwafemi's face. He sat back, letting the silence stretch, letting the tension press into the room like a living thing.
"Then excuse yourself," he said finally, his hand gesturing with subtle finality.
Ayomide rose, long legs moving smoothly, every motion a mix of deference and barely contained defiance. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving the room steeped in the unspoken expectation, and the sharp, lingering bite of authority.
The hallway outside the meeting room was a long, reverberating stretch of wealth and legacy and it was impossibly elegant. The marble floor carried a faint sheen, reflecting the soft gold light from sconces carved with traditional Yoruba patterns. Ornate frames lined the walls: oil paintings of past Agbaje leaders, each one captured with the same unyielding expression of power. Between them sat glass cases displaying old artifacts bronze figurines from Benin, ancestral masks, ceremonial daggers plated in gold. Every piece was curated to remind anyone walking through this corridor exactly who the Agbaje Clan were: history, dominance and dynasty.
Ayomide moved through the hallway with long, controlled strides, but inside he was unraveling. His chest felt tight, his jaw clenched. He needed space, air. Being heir to the Agbaje Clan came with a weight he carried every second of every day and the marriage arrangement was one of the chains slowly coiling around his throat.
They'd decide for him eventually. They always did.
Still… stalling was the only rebellion he had left.
As he approached the gym, faint voices and the rhythmic thump of fists on leather drifted into the corridor. The Agbaje gym looked like any elite fitness center state-of-the-art machines, gleaming weights, polished floors but everything here was upgraded, reinforced, designed to train warriors rather than casual gym-goers.
Tunde was in the boxing ring, sweat slick on his dark skin as he moved with lethal grace. He had a sharp taper cut and a fighter's build lean, fast and deadly. He ducked a punch from one of the guards, countering with a hook so clean it echoed. Tunde was the chaotic one of the siblings, but chaos in the Agbaje family was still efficient, controlled, and terrifyingly skilled.
On the far side, perched casually on the treadmill, was Kikelomo Kiki. Youngest sibling, but no less formidable. Her curly light-red hair, streaked with black, bounced slightly as she adjusted her headset. She wore ash-and-black workout leggings and a half-cut top that showed off her toned, sculpted figure. She lifted a set of dumbbells with perfect form, R&B humming faintly from her headphones.
Ayomide lingered at the doorway, watching them his siblings, his clan, his future until someone stepped up beside him.
Darren, his closest friend and the only person he could ever breathe around.
The only one who knew the truth, the desire he buried, the men he watched, the men he imagined. Ayomide wasn't out not to his family, not to anyone but Darren.
"What'd boss man say?" Darren asked, folding his arms as they both watched Kiki raise the dumbbells again, muscles tightening with practiced ease. Nothing less than perfection, nothing ever was in the Agbaje house.
Ayomide huffed a humorless breath. "Oh, you know," he said quietly, "the usual reminder of my place… and the ass-kicking that comes with it."
Darren clicked his tongue, gaze still on the siblings but attention fully on him.
"Wanna go fight it out?" he asked,
"No," Ayomide muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. "Not right now. I don't wanna ruin this pretty face."
He tried to joke, but it came out thin. Then Ayomide exhaled, shoulders slumping as if he'd been holding the weight up for too long.
"I can't keep doing this," he whispered. "I'm tired, D. Like… really tired. My head, my body everything feels heavy."
Darren's expression softened, all teasing gone. "Ayo…" he said quietly. Ayomide swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the floor, his voice cracking despite how hard he tried to steady it.
"It's like… no matter what I do, it's never enough. I'm never enough. And I'm so damn tired of pretending it doesn't hurt."
Ayomide let out a shaky breath, the kind that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for years. "I'm the first son," he said quietly, almost like a confession. "Everything falls on me. Every failure, every responsibility, every stupid expectation." His voice thinned. "And I'm tired, D. I'm so damn tired. It feels like I can't breathe without disappointing someone."
Darren's body angled toward him, "Ayo…" he said, softer than before.
Ayomide shook his head, eyes burning. "I don't get to mess up. I don't get to rest. I don't even get to be angry. I just carry and it's… it's breaking me, D."
For a moment, he looked like he might crumble right there. Darren reached out, resting a warm hand on his shoulder firmly and grounding.
"You don't have to carry all of that alone," Darren said. "Not with me here."
Ayomide's breath stuttered, and he closed his eyes, just for a second, leaning into that touch like it was the first real support he'd had in a long time.
"Come on," Ayomide said, "Let's go collect our rounds of money from those bastards before night catches up with us."
Darren followed closely behind him.
He understood better than anyone the price of being both heir and enforcer the weight Ayomide carried, the perfection he'd been forced to grow into over the years. It sat heavy on his friend's shoulders, even when he tried to hide it behind confidence and swagger.
They stepped out into the fading daylight, the city already humming with the kind of danger that made most people nervous but made men like Ayomide and Darren feel alive.
Ayomide unlocked the car, sliding into the driver's seat with the sharp confidence of someone born to rule a kingdom built on fear.
Darren's phone buzzed just as he shut the passenger door. He checked the caller ID. One of his boys someone who only called when the information was worth something.
He answered.
"Talk to me."
The voice on the other end didn't waste time. "We got movement. A Dragunov is in town."
Darren went still.
The Dragunovs weren't just anyone they were power, wealth, and bloodshed wrapped in a family crest. And their heir… he was the kind of man who didn't step into a city unless he planned to shake it. They'd been rivals since forever, The Dragunov and the Agbaje Clan fighting for dominance and control
The both families were alike but so far different than most people think
"You sure?" Darren asked, his voice low.
"Positive. We've seen him around a couple times already. But…" The guy hesitated. "He's been frequenting Chamber XII."
Darren's brows lifted, of course it would be that place.
Chamber XII the newest, most exclusive sex club in the city. Gay, lesbian, elite, A place where secrets were currency. Only the wealthy and the powerful walked through those doors. And the Dragunov heir fitting right in? That made things interesting.
Ayomide glanced over, sensing the shift instantly. "What's going on?"
Darren hung up, pocketing his phone.
"A Dragunov heir is here. And he's been spending his nights at Chamber XII."
Ayomide let out a slow whistle.
"Well… shit. That's the last thing we need."
But there was something else in his voice curiosity and a spark. Trouble, tempting them both.
Darren leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowing as the city lights reflected off the windshield.
"Yeah," he murmured. "But something tells me he didn't come here for business."
A pause. "And that makes it worse."
Ayomide smirked.
"Looks like tonight's about to get a whole lot more interesting."