Morning arrived without ceremony, slipping through sheer curtains and settling softly on the polished floor of her new apartment. The silence was unfamiliar—thick, luxurious, intimidating. She lay still for a moment, listening to the quiet hum of a city waking beneath her, her heart beating with the strange awareness that nothing about her life was ordinary anymore.
This place was temporary, she reminded herself. Everything was always temporary until she earned permanence.
She rose, padding barefoot across the marble floor, stopping at the floor-to-ceiling windows. Lagos stretched endlessly before her—chaotic, beautiful, unforgiving, from this height, it looked calmer, almost obedient and she liked that illusion. It gave her courage.
Twenty-five years old, no family name to protect her, no shortcuts just discipline, intelligence, and a hunger she had learned to hide behind elegance.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
8:15 a.m. — Driver waiting.
She exhaled slowly, today wasn't about fear, it was about proof.
In the bathroom mirror, she studied herself carefully not for vanity—for strategy. Hair pulled into a sleek low bun. Minimal makeup. A tailored ivory blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers, power dressing without arrogance and confidence without invitation.
By the time she stepped into the black car waiting downstairs, her spine was straight and her face calm. The driver greeted her respectfully, eyes forward. She appreciated that.
The building came into view twenty minutes later—a glass-and-steel giant rising above the city like a quiet warning. This was where decisions were made, and where legacies were built or buried.
She walked in without hesitation.
The lobby was alive with polished shoes, controlled smiles, and the subtle arrogance of wealth, conversations paused just long enough for glances to register her presence—measured, curious, dismissive but she felt it all and absorbed nothing.
Reception directed her upstairs.
The elevator ride was silent except for the soft music playing overhead. As the doors opened, she stepped into a world that smelled like ambition and expensive cologne. The executive floor was pristine, almost cold. A long glass corridor led to a boardroom where voices hummed with authority.
She paused just outside the door.
This was it, not the beginning—she'd begun long before today, in cramped rooms and quiet nights, studying while others slept, but this was the moment when preparation met opportunity.
Inside, men and women sat around a long table, tablets glowing, coffee untouched ,s ome glanced up as she entered while others didn't bother.
She took her seat without being invited, making few brows lifted.
Good, she thought, let them notice.
As presentations began, she listened more than she spoke, absorbing the rhythm of the room, the power dynamics, the subtle dismissals. When the moment came—when a flawed projection slid across the screen—she spoke calmly, clearly, dismantling the numbers with precision.
Silence followed, then questions sharp ones testing ones, and she answered without rushing.
By the time the meeting adjourned, the energy had shifted, not acceptance—not yet but acknowledgment.
As she gathered her things, she felt it someone watching, she looked up and across the room, near the glass wall overlooking the city, stood a man who hadn't spoken once during the meeting, he is tall, composed, expensive without trying. His gaze held hers—not curious, not dismissive—assessing.
She didn't look away, power recognized power. And for the first time since last night, she felt something other than determination stir quietly in her chest, interest.
She turned and walked out before it could become anything more, because ambition came first.
Always.