If I had known that insulting a stranger would destroy my entire life, I would have kept my mouth shut, held my breath, and swallowed the anger burning my throat.
But Lagos heat + hunger + stress is a terrible combination.
I was standing in the long queue at Falomo Supermart, holding the last ₦2,500 I'd scraped together for bread, eggs, and a sachet of Milo. The cashier's system was slow, the AC wasn't working, and the man in front of me was acting like he owned the place.
Tall. Dark suit. No expression.
He stood at the counter, not moving, not speaking, just staring coldly at the cashier like she was supposed to read his mind.
The girl was panicking.
People behind me were complaining.
My feet were burning.
And me?
I had reached my limit.
"Excuse me, sir," I said, tapping his shoulder lightly. "Some of us have lives to return to. If you're done freezing the entire supermarket with your ice block attitude, could you kindly move?"
Gasps.
Everywhere.
The man slowly turned around.
And God.
His eyes.
Sharp, grey, emotionless. Like storm clouds deciding whether to destroy a city.
He looked at me the way a lion looks at an ant that dared to climb its paw.
But I was irritated — and stupid — so I didn't stop.
"Some of us are hungry, okay? You can't just stand here and intimidate everyone because you think you're special. Please shift."
He didn't speak.
He didn't blink.
He didn't even breathe.
He just stared.
"Madam," the cashier whispered urgently, "that's—"
But she didn't finish.
Because the man finally turned back to the counter, picked up his receipt, and walked away without a word.
I exhaled, shaking my head.
"People and pride."
I paid, carried my nylon, and walked home feeling strangely victorious.
If only I knew.
If only someone had warned me that the man I'd just humiliated in public was Adrian Kole — the youngest billionaire CEO in Nigeria, owner of Kole Group, a man whose employees said he had no soul, no patience, and definitely no mercy.
But of course, the universe allowed me to walk home peacefully, unaware of the disaster waiting for me the next morning.
---
THE NEXT DAY
I arrived at ZentraTech, the small digital agency where I worked as a customer support rep. My boss — a grumpy Igbo man named Mr. Eze — was standing by my desk.
His expression told me everything.
"Good morning, sir," I greeted slowly.
"Zara," he sighed, "you're fired."
My nylon of breakfast fell to the floor.
"What? Why?"
He handed me a file.
Inside was a printed email.
From: Chairman's Office, Kole Group
Subject: Unprofessional Behavior – Action Required
I blinked.
"This is a mistake," I whispered.
"It's no mistake," my boss said quietly. "Chairman himself sent your picture and said you insulted him publicly yesterday."
My heart stopped.
No. No, no, no.
"Kole… Chairman…" My voice cracked. "Sir, I didn't know it was him!"
"And he doesn't care," Mr. Eze said, rubbing his forehead. "He said he will blacklist ZentraTech from future contracts if I don't remove you."
My legs went weak.
I sank into the nearest chair, tears burning my eyes.
I had insulted a billionaire.
Not just any billionaire.
That billionaire.
I remembered his cold stare.
His silence.
His expressionless face.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
"I'm really sorry, Zara," my boss said softly. "You're a good worker, but I can't risk the company."
And just like that, he walked away.
I sat there shaking for a full minute before packing my things.
I walked out of the building with my entire life in one nylon bag.
The sun felt hotter.
The world felt heavier.
By the time I reached the bus stop, my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
We need to talk.
I frowned.
Me:
Who is this?
No reply.
I ignored it. Boarded a keke. Went home. Locked my door.
I spent the entire evening crying into my pillow until sleep finally dragged me under.
---
THE DAY AFTER THAT
It was a Saturday. Just past 7 a.m.
I was still in my oversized shirt, hair scattered, eyes swollen, when someone knocked aggressively on my door.
"Who is it?" I yelled.
No answer.
I peeked through the window.
And my heart fell out of my chest.
A black SUV.
Two men in suits.
And standing right in front of my door…
Adrian.
Fucking.
Kole.
Tall. Impossible.
Dark grey shirt.
Expression colder than yesterday.
Hands in his pockets.
Eyes locked on my door like he had been waiting his whole life to knock it down.
"Open the door, Zara," he said, voice deep and calm.
I froze.
How did he know where I lived?
Why was he here?
What did he want?
"Open the door," he repeated, "or I will open it myself."
My hands shook as I turned the key.
The moment the door opened, he stepped inside, filling the room with his scent — dark, expensive, dangerous.
He looked around my small apartment slowly, then back at me, his eyes traveling from my messy hair to my oversized shirt.
His jaw tightened.
"You look different when you're not shouting," he said quietly.
I swallowed. "What do you want?"
He pulled a folded document from his inner pocket and handed it to me.
"This," he said, "is a contract."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"A contract for what?" I whispered.
He stepped closer. Too close.
His voice dropped to something dark and final:
"You're moving in with me."
"You'll follow my rules."
"And you'll start tonight."
I staggered back. "What? Why me?"
Finally, for the first time since I met him, he smiled.
A small, dangerous, slow smile.
"Because you were bold enough to speak to me."
"And stupid enough to disrespect me."
"Now I want you."
"And when I want something, Zara…"
He leaned in, his breath brushing my cheek.
"I take it."