After the discovery, she did not confront Akindele immediately. Not because she was afraid but because she was watching.
Knowledge changed her posture, her silence, the way she looked at him. Every word he spoke now carried weight. Every pause felt deliberate. She studied him the way one studies a locked door: not to force it open, but to understand its design.
Akindele noticed. He always noticed.
It was in the way his eyes lingered on her longer than necessary. In the way he adjusted his stance when she entered a room, as if recalibrating around her presence. In the way his voice softened almost imperceptibly when he addressed her, even while the world outside their walls sharpened its knives.
The house was quieter these days.
Not safer quieter. Storm-quiet.
One evening, as rain drummed softly against reinforced glass, Zainab found Akindele in the library. He sat alone, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, shoulders tense as he reviewed documents spread across the table.
He looked… tired.
Not physically Akindele never appeared physically worn but emotionally, in a way she had never seen before. His guard was still up, but the edges had dulled.
Am I interrupting? she asked.
He looked up quickly, as if surprised she'd caught him unguarded.
No, he said. Then, after a beat, Never.
She moved closer, drawn by something she didn't fully understand. The silence between them felt different now not cold, but heavy with things unsaid.
You don't sleep much, she observed.
I sleep enough.
That's not an answer.
A corner of his mouth twitched. Old habits.
She hesitated, then sat across from him. Not beside. Across. A choice that mattered.
Where did you learn to be like this? she asked quietly.
He didn't ask what she meant.
Akindele leaned back in his chair, eyes lifting to the ceiling as if the answer lived somewhere he rarely visited.
"War zones," he said simply.
She waited.
When you grow up learning that hesitation gets people killed, he continued, you stop believing in softness. You learn control. Distance. Precision.
Zainab folded her hands together, heart steady but aching.
"And before that?" she asked.
Silence stretched.
She thought he would deflect. He usually did.
Instead, he exhaled slowly.
I was seventeen when my father died, he said. Not peacefully. Not cleanly.
Her breath caught.
He trusted the wrong people. Believed loyalty was permanent. It wasn't. Akindele's jaw tightened. I learned early that love without protection is just an invitation to loss. Zainab felt something shift.
This wasn't a strategy.
This was a confession. she asked.
Yes.
Even me?
He met her eyes.
Especially you.
The honesty in his voice startled her more than anger ever could.
They sat in silence, rain whispering against glass, the space between them charged with something fragile and new.
You're not what I thought you were, Zainab said finally.
Neither are you.
She smiled faintly. You thought I was weak.
I thought you were sheltered.
And now?
I think you're dangerous, he said quietly. Because you feel things deeply. And people who feel deeply don't survive this world without scars.
Her chest tightened. Yet you married me anyway. The words should have hurt. Instead, he added softly, But staying distant from you… It is becoming harder.
That was the first crack.
Not in his armor but in his restraint.
They spoke more. Not about politics or threats, but about memories. About small things. Music. Childhood fears. Moments that shaped them.
He never touched her. But sometimes, when she laughed, his gaze lingered too long. Sometimes, when she was quiet, he watched her like he was memorizing something he feared losing.
One evening, she found him on the balcony, staring into the city lights.
You look like you're planning an escape, she said.
I am, he replied.
From what?
He turned to her slowly. From you.
Her heart skipped. That doesn't sound like something you want."
It isn't. She stepped closer, the space between them shrinking dangerously.
Then why say it? Because you're changing the way I calculate risk," he said. "And that terrifies me."
She searched his face, seeing the man beneath the weapon seeing fear not of death, but of attachment.
Akindele, she said softly, you don't have to protect me from yourself.
His jaw clenched.
That's exactly who I need to protect you from.
Silence.
Then, quietly, almost reluctantly, he said the words that changed everything:
I care about you.
Not love.
Not yet.
But something just as dangerous.
Zainab felt warmth bloom in her chest, tempered by restraint. She didn't reach for him. Didn't close the final distance.
Instead, she said, I care about you too.
For one moment—just one—he let himself feel it.
Then he stepped back.
Physically. Emotionally
His expression hardened, walls slamming back into place.
This can't continue," he said abruptly.
Her heart dropped. Why?
Because love compromises judgment.
Is that what this is?
Yes, he said, too quickly. And it's a weakness I can't afford.
He turned away, retreating toward the door.
Akindele, she called.
He paused but didn't turn back.
Please, she whispered. Don't punish us for feeling something real.
His voice was low when he finally spoke.
Real things get destroyed first.
And then he left.
Zainab stood alone, heart racing, realizing something frightening and beautiful at the same time:
She had reached him.
And that scared him more than any enemy ever could.
Threats had a way of creeping in quietly before they roared. Zainab felt it in the mornings: a small envelope left on the breakfast table, white, unmarked, except for a single sentence typed neatly in black ink:
"Not everyone survives what you carry".
At first, she tried to dismiss it. Perhaps it was a prank. Perhaps someone had slipped it in from outside the estate.
But when the second one appeared, pinned to the mirror in her dressing room, with a barely legible note scrawled in red ink:
"Shield or target, the difference is thin."
Her stomach sank. This was no joke.
And then the car accident happened.
She was on her way to the city with a new driver, one of the replacements her father's empire had placed to manage her movements. A sedan swerved sharply in front of them on the highway. The brakes screamed. Tires skidded across the wet asphalt. Zainab had only a split second to hold her breath, the world tilting as metal screamed against metal. The sedan behind them, an anonymous black vehicle, accelerated, then disappeared as quickly as it appeared. The driver swore it was a coincidence, but Zainab's instincts screamed otherwise. She realized with a jolt: she was a target. A pawn. A shield.
The servants who vanished overnight added weight to the revelation. One morning, the housekeeper who had quietly straightened her clothes for years did not appear. She asked the guards. Transferred, they said.
"Or…" she asked, voice low, removed?
The silence that followed said everything.
Akindele noticed. He always noticed.
That evening, she found him in the private library. The firelight flickered across the angular lines of his face. He had removed his jacket, sleeves rolled up, revealing arms marked with scars from a past she had never dared to question before. He did not speak at first. He simply observed her, the faintest crease of worry between his brows.
You're rattled, he said finally, his voice calm but dangerous, like a blade she could not see.
I'm… aware, she admitted. I think I'm… seeing the world as it really is.
He let out a quiet breath. It isn't pretty.
And then, slowly, like the first raindrops before a storm, he allowed her a glimpse of the man behind the weapon.
The world expects me to protect you, he said. "Not just from enemies outside, but from people who should be friends, from decisions that your father's empire makes that you will never understand."
She leaned forward. "You're not just a husband. His eyes met hers, dark, unreadable. "And you're not just a wife. You're a responsibility I cannot fail."
For the first time, Zainab felt the weight of his truth not the surface-level security he projected, but the fierce, calculating devotion that made him a weapon capable of burning anyone in his path.
The nights became long. They shared silence more often than words, sometimes sitting together on the balcony, sometimes in the library, watching shadows stretch across the estate. Words became unnecessary; presence alone sufficed.
She saw him reading the world in ways she had never imagined—every movement of a servant, every knock at the door, every flicker of light outside.
And he saw her in ways no one else had ever noticed how she adjusted a vase, how she let a sigh slip through her lips when tired, how her eyes lingered on things for longer than necessary. He was learning her.
One rainy night, Zainab dared to speak.
You ever regret it? she asked softly.
"Regret?" His gaze followed hers across the balcony railing. Regret marrying into this?
Yes. Marrying me. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he lowered his head, letting the firelight catch the edge of his cheek. I didn't plan to feel anything, he said finally. Not for anyone. I thought I could remain… detached. That my work, my duty, would be enough.
She searched his face, seeing a flicker of something unguarded. And now?
Now, he whispered, I see things differently. I see you. Something in her chest fluttered, dangerous and thrilling. They were supposed to be a contract, an arrangement, a marriage built on duty. Yet here they were, sharing truths that no one else would ever know.
Zainab felt herself softening. She leaned slightly closer, not touching, but bridging the space that had always existed between them. And for the first time, Akindele didn't stop her.
He let her see him not the soldier, not the guardian, but the man beneath the armor.
For a moment, words weren't enough. Glances carried their confessions. Silences became their language. But as quickly as the vulnerability arrived, he stepped back.
Zainab, he said, voice low, rough at the edges. This… whatever this is… it's dangerous. She frowned. Love?
He looked away, jaw tight, shoulders stiffening. "I can't… not now. Not when the world is already trying to take you from me."
And just like that, the spell broke. He returned to the wall of discipline, the weapon he had always been, leaving Zainab with a pulse that raced faster than fear, faster than desire, faster than anything she had ever felt in her protected life.
She realized then, fully, terrifyingly: love was no longer a possibility between them.
It was a weapon. And they were both armed.