Rain poured heavily that evening, beating against the roof of the Ibrahim family's small home. Thunder rolled in the distance, a reminder of the storm already shaking their lives long before the weather began. Amira sat on the worn-out sofa, her fingers twisting together as she tried to calm the fear eating at her stomach.
Her mother lay on a mat in the corner, wrapped in a blanket, still recovering from her surgery. Her father paced the room restlessly, wiping sweat from his forehead even though the air was cold.
"Dango will come any day," he muttered, voice shaking. "He said he wants his money this week. I don't even know where to find ₦60 million."
"Papa, please sit down," Amira said softly. "You'll make yourself sick."
Her father stopped pacing, but he didn't sit. He looked older than his 53 years, carrying the weight of a failed business and a mountain of medical bills on his shoulders.
Before she could say more, three slow, heavy knocks hit the door.
Knock… knock… knock.
Not rushed.
Not polite.
A confident, powerful knock — like someone who had never been denied in their life.
Her father froze. Her mother sat up shakily. Amira felt her heart drop into her stomach.
"That's not Dango," her mother whispered, fear trembling in her voice. "He never knocks like that."
Her father walked to the door slowly, each step heavy with dread. He opened it halfway—
Then his breath caught.
Standing outside was a tall man in a perfectly tailored black suit, the kind that cost more than their yearly rent. His face was cold, unreadable, framed by the dim glow of the streetlight. Behind him stood four men — one driver waiting at the car, and three others with him: two bodyguards and one assistant holding a black folder.
But the man in front needed no introduction.
Adrian Cole.
The billionaire everyone feared.
The name that made businessmen panic.
The face that appeared in newspapers and financial magazines.
And now he was standing at their small, leaking doorway.
"Mr… Mr. Cole?" Amira's father stuttered.
Adrian stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. The two bodyguards followed silently, their presence filling the tiny living room like shadows. The assistant closed the door behind them.
The room suddenly felt smaller. Colder.
Amira stood up slowly, her heartbeat loud in her ears. Adrian's eyes swept the room once, expression unreadable, until they finally landed on her. His gaze held hers for barely a second — cold, detached, unreadable — then moved away as if she were nothing important.
Her stomach twisted.
Her father swallowed hard. "Sir… why are you here? We— we don't know you."
Adrian clasped his hands behind his back. When he spoke, his voice was smooth but sharp, carrying the kind of authority that crushed opposition.
"You don't need to know me," he said calmly. "All you need to understand is that your debt is no longer owed to Dango."
Her mother gasped, and Amira's breath caught.
"What?" her father whispered.
Adrian nodded to his assistant, who stepped forward and opened the black folder.
"I have purchased the debt you owe," Adrian continued, his tone cold as steel. "Every naira. Every interest. Every penalty."
Amira stared at him, shocked. "You bought… our debt?"
"Yes."
"Why?" her father asked, confusion and fear tangled in his voice. "Why would a man like you—"
"You owe sixty million naira," Adrian cut in, unmoved. "₦27 million from your wife's medical bills. And ₦33 million from the business you collapsed."
Her father lowered his head in shame.
Adrian's gaze swept across the small home again — the peeling paint, the dim bulb, the tired furniture — but his expression remained blank, as if none of it mattered.
"You have one week," he said.
Amira blinked. "One… week?"
Adrian turned to her fully this time. His eyes were cold, emotionless, like he was looking at someone who already belonged to him.
"One week," he repeated. "Seven days. If you cannot pay the full ₦60 million…"
He paused, letting the silence suffocate the room.
"…I will take what belongs to me."
Her father stiffened. "W-What does that mean?"
Adrian's eyes moved back to Amira, locking onto her with a finality that made her chest tighten.
"I will take your daughter," he said simply.
The words dropped like a hammer.
Her mother cried out, "No! She is not—she is not a thing to take!"
Adrian didn't flinch. His bodyguards didn't move. His assistant continued flipping pages like he'd heard such things before.
"She becomes mine," Adrian continued, voice dangerously calm. "She will come to my house. She will stay there. Under my control. Under my protection."
Amira's heart slammed against her ribs. She stepped backward instinctively, fear rising in her throat.
Her father moved in front of her. "You cannot take my daughter! This is wrong!"
Adrian took one single step forward — and the entire room felt his presence deepen. His eyes darkened like a gathering storm.
"I own your debt," he said softly, which made it even scarier. "And if you cannot repay what you owe, I will collect the only valuable asset you have left."
He looked at Amira again.
"Her."
Amira's knees weakened.
Her father's voice cracked with desperation. "Please… she is all we have."
Adrian's reply was merciless.
"Then find sixty million in seven days."
Her mother burst into tears.
Adrian turned away, clearly done with the conversation, his expression still cold, untouched by their suffering. His assistant closed the folder sharply.
"We will return in one week," the assistant announced.
Adrian started toward the door, his bodyguards moving in sync behind him. But before stepping out, he paused and looked over his shoulder — directly at Amira.
"One week," he repeated quietly.
Their eyes met — cold vs terrified — and even then, he revealed nothing. No kindness. No warmth. No hint of the secret reason he had once watched her in a hospital hallway.
Only ownership.
Then he walked out into the rain.
And Amira felt her world collapse with every step he took away from the house.