The call on the balcony was a breach in protocol. Akanbi's system had glitched, revealing a vulnerability. A true manipulator does not rage at a crack in his armor; he analyzes it, then uses it to forge a stronger, more deceptive one.
He spent the weekend in a cold, focused fury, not at Peter, but at his own loss of control. He took it out on Rachel, his on-again, off-again ex, who was always a willing receptacle for his darker moods. He met her at her upscale apartment in Lekki Phase 1, didn't speak a word, and took her with a brutal, detached efficiency that left her breathless and, he could tell, unnerved. Afterward, as she lay beside him tracing patterns on his chest, he felt nothing but a hollow echo.
"You're even more intense than usual," she murmured, a question disguised as a statement.
"Life is full of irritations," he replied, his voice flat. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the click of ending the call with Peter. That moment of silence before Peter's defiant "Is there something else you need?" It wasn't fear. It was… challenge.
On Monday, he slept with Chioma, Rachel's closest friend and a rising TV host. He did it at Rachel's favorite spa, in a steam room, precisely because he knew the transgression would get back to Rachel. It was a move on a chessboard only he could see, a way to reassert his dominion over the world of women, to feel the familiar thrill of manipulation. Chioma was pliant, eager for the secret, thrilled by his dangerous aura. But as she whispered gossip in his ear afterward, all he could think was how her voice grated compared to the calm, steady tone that had questioned him over the phone.
The obsession was no longer a drip it was a redirected river. He stopped seeing Peter as merely a nuisance to be billed. He began to see him as the ultimate conquest. A conquest that would, in one move, reassert his total control and purge this sickness of preoccupation. If he could not dismiss Peter from his mind, he would own him instead. He would reduce him to a used thing, a notch on his bedpost, and then discard him with the same ease he discarded Rachel and Chioma and all the others. That was the solution. It had to be.
The insurance process was finally winding down. The Bentley was restored, good as new. The logical tie was severed. Akanbi needed a new thread to pull.
He found it in his research. Peter's family business, Emmanuel & Sons, was bidding for a lucrative but mid-level import contract. A contract that passed through a subsidiary of a company Akanbi indirectly controlled. It was a small thing, a speck of dust in Akanbi's financial empire, but it was a lever.
He didn't call. When he arrived.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when Akanbi's black Range Rover pulled up in front of the modest but clean offices of Emmanuel & Sons in Ikeja. He walked in, a panther in a Savile Row suit entering a yard of domestic cats. The receptionist stammered, recognizing him from society pages.
"I'm here to see Peter Emmanuel. Concerning the Bentley." He offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Minutes later, he was shown into a small, functional meeting room. Peter entered, looking genuinely surprised. He was dressed in a simple blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, a pen behind his ear. He looked competent, real. Not like the gala-night playboy or the voice on the phone. This was a different facet, and it intrigued Akanbi viciously.
"Mr. Onobanjo. Is there a problem with the car?" Peter asked, closing the door. The polite mask was back, but his shoulders were tense.
"The car is perfect," Akanbi said, not sitting. He slowly circled the small room, forcing Peter to turn and track him. "No. I'm here on a different matter. I understand your company is bidding on the Dantata pharmaceutical contract."
Peter's eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion cutting through the politeness. "We are. That's… not public knowledge."
"Little is, to me," Akanbi said, stopping directly in front of him, invading his space. He could smell Peter's cologne something clean and citrusy, not the heavy, expensive musk he was used to. "I have an interest in the parent company. I've seen your bid. It's… adequate. But it lacks a certain persuasive backing."
The unspoken threat hung in the air. I can sink this for you.
Peter's gaze hardened. The gold in his eyes seemed to spark. "Are you here to threaten my family's business over a car accident? Because if you are, I think our lawyers should talk."
Akanbi let out a low, soft laugh. It was the first genuine sound he'd made in days. "Threaten? No, Peter. I'm here to offer a solution. A private one." He took half a step closer, his voice dropping to an intimate, conspiratorial murmur. "The committee is swayed by connections. By reputation. My reputation, attached to your bid, would make it a formality."
"And why would you do that?" Peter asked, his voice tight. He hadn't backed up, meeting Akanbi's gaze head-on. The defiance was a live wire.
Akanbi leaned in, his lips almost brushing Peter's ear. He could feel the heat from his skin. "Because I find you interesting. The way you handle pressure. It's… uncommon." He pulled back slightly, his eyes boring into Peter's. "Have dinner with me. Tonight. Discuss the bid. Consider it… a business development opportunity with a very personal touch."
It was out there. Not a demand for sex, but the opening move. The lure of professional gain, wrapped in the unmistakable foil of personal seduction. He was using the same playbook he used on ambitious women, but the stakes felt infinitely higher, the target infinitely more resistant.
Peter stared at him, a storm of emotions in his eyes shock, anger, disbelief, and a dawning, horrified understanding. He finally understood the nature of Akanbi's obsession. And in that moment, Akanbi saw not fear, but a deep, visceral revulsion.
It was the exact reaction Akanbi had predicted. The reaction he wanted. For this disgust to be mutual would make the eventual breaking of him so much sweeter.
"You're insane," Peter breathed, the words barely audible.
"I'm thorough," Akanbi corrected, straightening his cuff. He placed a pristine business card on the table between them. It had only his private mobile number. "Think about it, Peter. The contract for your family. Or my… displeasure. Dinner is at 8. I'll text you the address. Wear something nice."
He turned and left, leaving Peter standing alone in the sterile meeting room, the air thick with the scent of a predator's intent.
As his driver pulled away from the curb, Akanbi felt a familiar, dark thrill course through him. The game was on. He had forced the obsession into a format he understood: a transaction, a seduction, a power play. He would manipulate Peter Emmanuel into his bed, and in doing so, he would finally cure himself of this madness.
He was certain of it.