Micheal
The world came to him in whispers. Never in noise.
That was how he liked it. Silence was the only true luxury left for a man in his position, and he had paid for it in blood, in secrets, in empires carefully built so that his name traveled further than his face.
This morning, though, the whispers were louder.
Micheal leaned back in the leather chair of his Ikoyi penthouse office, a crystal glass of Azul catching the morning light at his side, untouched but waiting. Across from him, one of his men scrolled nervously through a tablet.
"She posted again, sir," the man said, clearing his throat. "Anna Obi. The influencer."
Micheal's eyes narrowed at the name. Of course he knew her—his people had brought him a file days ago. Bright, reckless, beautiful in the way fire is beautiful when you forget how quickly it spreads.
"What did she say?" His voice was smooth, calm, the kind of calm that made lesser men sweat.
The man handed over the tablet. Micheal skimmed the words, her post dissecting his latest acquisition as if she'd been in the boardroom herself. She hadn't uncovered anything lethal—yet—but her tone was what concerned him. Sharp. Unafraid. And dangerously persuasive to the gullible masses who fed on outrage like oxygen.
Beneath the post were replies. Tens of thousands of them.
Some mocking. Some praising.
And then, the ones he cared about most—the faceless accounts. His people. Already warning her, already tightening the circle.
Micheal let the tablet fall to the desk. He steepled his fingers, his eyes narrowing on the skyline as if Anna's voice itself were scratching at the glass.
"She talks too much," he said flatly.
The man swallowed. "Should we... deal with it, sir?"
Micheal's lips curved into a slow smirk. "Deal with it? She isn't a threat. She's an insect buzzing at my ear. Irritating, yes—but you don't burn down the house to kill a mosquito, do you?"
The man shifted nervously. "Then what do you suggest we do, sir?"
Micheal leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His tone dropped, quiet but edged like a blade. "Nothing. Not yet. Let her shout. Let her believe she's untouchable. When the time comes, she'll learn noise has a price."
Only then did he reach for the glass, swirling the Azul lazily before taking a slow sip. The tequila burned smooth, settling like fire in his chest.
Because in truth, he had all the time in the world.
And somewhere out there in the chaos of Lagos, Anna had just written herself into his silence.
Anna
The echoes of the warnings wouldn't leave her.
"Anna, leave that man alone."
"You don't know what you're playing with."
"He's not like the rest of them. He's... Micheal Igwe. This man can tell the president to shut up, and he would."
Each voice clung to her ribs like smoke, but instead of choking her, it fueled her lungs. If everyone was so desperate to keep her away from him, then that was exactly where she needed to go.
By noon, she was already dressed, her curves wrapped in a fitted blouse and jeans, her lips painted in a shade that gleamed beneath the Lagos sun. Her phone buzzed with fresh notifications—comments, likes, shares on her last post. His name was everywhere, the algorithm carrying it further than she expected. She told herself it was validation, proof she was striking a nerve.
But her heart whispered something else.
That maybe, just maybe, she wanted him to notice.
The drive to Victoria Island dragged on, the sky growing heavy with clouds that smothered the sun. By the time her cab pulled up in front of the towering glass building, rain was already slicing down, drumming against the pavement like a warning.
The building didn't scream wealth—it commanded it. Clean lines, tinted windows, security guards who scanned faces like they were reading sins. She tried to walk in like she belonged, chin high, but the moment she asked for Micheal Igwe, the receptionist's eyes hardened.
"Do you have an appointment, ma'am?" the woman asked, her voice clipped but polite.
Anna blinked. "No. I don't need one. Just tell him Anna Obi is here. He'll want to hear what I have to say."
The receptionist's expression didn't so much as twitch. "Mr. Igwe's schedule is booked for the next three months. Anyone who wishes to see him must be cleared and confirmed weeks in advance. I'm afraid I can't help you."
Anna's jaw clenched. She had expected him to be rushing to meet her in some desperate attempt to clear his name. Instead, even the receptionist didn't deem her important. She was almost certain everyone working under Micheal would have heard of her by now—her posts, her accusations, her voice stirring up storms online.
And yet, here she was. Brushed aside.
She lingered in front of the desk, nails tapping against the marble, heartbeat rattling her chest. She could leave, retreat into the storm outside, tell herself she had tried. Or...
Her eyes flicked toward the elevators.
Her pulse leapt.
One reckless thought curled its way through her head: What if I just run?
She hesitated, biting down on her lip. A voice in her head screamed don't, another whispered now or never.
And then she moved.
Her heels slapped against marble floors as she dashed toward the elevators, eyes fixed on the top floors where she imagined his office would be. For one wild, breathless moment, adrenaline made her feel unstoppable—until two security guards moved in unison, blocking her path.
"Miss, that's enough."
Hands, firm but not cruel, seized her arms.
"Let me go," she snapped. "I literally just wanted to say hi, you guys are being too uptight."
But the security guard picked her up like a toddler and dumped her outside the building, straight into a puddle of water.
Rain slammed against her skin, soaking through her blouse within seconds. The glass building loomed behind her, untouched by the chaos, as if mocking her.
She staggered to her feet, chest heaving with frustration. She had asked her cab to wait. That was the only thought holding her together as she wiped rain from her eyes and scanned the blur of headlights and windshields.
Through the storm, she spotted a black car by the curb. Relief flickered. Finally.
Without hesitation, Anna darted across the puddled street, yanked the passenger door open, and slid inside, dripping water onto the pristine leather seats. She barely paused to catch her breath, heart still hammering from the humiliation inside.
The door thudded shut, muting the storm outside.
It took her a beat too long to notice.
The silence.
The faint hum of the engine.
The air—cool, heavy, scented with leather and cologne, nothing like the on-time cabs she was used to.
Her pulse skipped.
And then—
A voice, low and velvety, cut through the quiet.
"Hello, criminal."