Peter stood in the silent meeting room long after the door clicked shut. The air still vibrated with the violation of Akanbi's presence. His citrus cologne now smelled like a chemical weapon. The pristine business card on the table gleamed under the fluorescent lights like a shard of ice.
"Have dinner with me."
The words echoed, not as an invitation, but as a command wrapped in a threat. It wasn't about food. It was about consumption. Akanbi Onobanjo had just looked at him, his family's livelihood, and seen something to be acquired. A business deal with a "very personal touch."
A violent shudder ran through Peter. He braced his hands on the cool table, head bowed. The disgust was physical, a sour heat rising in his throat. He'd heard whispers about Akanbi. The player. The heartless bastard who collected people and discarded them. He'd seen the way women orbited him, drawn to the danger and the money, only to be left hollowed out. Rachel, that socialite who was always in the magazines looking bruised behind her eyes she was one of his. Peter had never cared. That world was a distant spectacle.
Now, the spectacle had walked into his office and put a price on him.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him. It was Fess.
"Guy,you won't believe the gist I just heard! About that Akanbi guy you hit! Apparently, he slept with Rachel's friend Chioma at Rachel's spa! The man is a demon-"
"Fess," Peter cut him off, his voice strangely calm. "He was just here."
Silence. Then, "Where? Here in Ikeja? Why? The car don finish again?"
"No. The car is fine. He came about the Dantata contract."
Fess sucked in a breath. "Oh god. He's blocking it? Because of the accident? I knew it! I told you that man's eyes were dead-"
"He's not blocking it," Peter said, closing his eyes. The words felt filthy in his mouth. "He's offering to secure it. For a price."
Another beat of silence, then Fess's voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "What price?"
Peter looked at the card. "Dinner."
The line was so quiet Peter thought it had disconnected. Then Fess erupted. "DINNER?! What kind of dinner, Peter?! That kind of dinner does not end with dessert! The man is a fucking shark! He doesn't want dinner, he wants to eat you alive! You cannot go!"
"And the contract?" Peter's voice was hollow. "Michael has been working on that bid for eight months. It would stabilize the customs branch for two years. Dad is counting on it."
"So you'll go and let that... that freak... what?!" Fess was sputtering with protective rage. "Peter, no. We'll find another way. That man, he's not just rich and ruthless. People say he's... twisted. The things he likes... it's not normal. He breaks people for fun."
Peter's mind flashed to Akanbi's eyes in the valet area cold, assessing. Then again today, in this room hot with a terrifying, possessive interest. Fess was right. This wasn't a simple seduction. It was a targeted hunt. And Peter had been marked as prey.
"I know," Peter said quietly.
"So what will you do?"
Before Peter could answer, his phone chimed with a new message. An unknown number. His blood ran cold.
Unknown: 8 PM. Nocturne. Victoria Island. Come alone. Wear the blue shirt from today. It suits you.
The precision of it the demand, the time, the location, the comment on his clothes was like a spider's silk wrapping around him. It wasn't a request. It was a blueprint for his surrender.
Peter's jaw clenched. A fire ignited beneath the disgust and fear. He wasn't a woman Akanbi could charm and ruin. He wasn't some desperate hustler. He was Peter Emmanuel. And this man, with all his money and menace, thought he could be bought with a contract and bullied into a bedroom.
"Peter? You there?" Fess asked, panic rising.
"I'm here," Peter said, his voice now steely. He picked up the business card, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were contaminated. "He just texted. The details."
"And?"
Peter crushed the card in his fist, the stiff paper cutting into his palm. The physical pain was a welcome anchor. "I'm going."
"PETER!"
"I'm going," Peter repeated, his tone final. "But I'm not going to be his dinner. I'm going to show him that some things can't be bought. And some prey bite back."
He ended the call, dropping the crumpled card into the trash. He would go to Nocturne. He would wear the blue shirt. He would walk into the lion's den.
But Akanbi Onobanjo was about to learn that Peter Emmanuel was not a lamb. He was a scorpion. And he'd brought his own poison.