Selene's POV
She wore white.
It wasn't a conscious choice—or so she told herself. White meant clarity. White meant control. White meant a woman who walked into rooms and commanded them through sheer force of presence, not through tricks or seduction or any of the weapons women were supposed to use.
But as she stood in the waiting room of Adeola Fabrics offices, folder in hand, Selene knew she was lying to herself.
She'd worn white because three years ago, in a masked bar, she'd worn gold. And three years before that, in a broken apartment, she'd worn nothing but grief.
Now she wore white. Clean. Untouchable. Ready for war.
"Ms. Obi? They're ready for you."
She stood. Gathered her things. Walked through the conference room door with her spine straight and her jaw tight, ready to do what she'd done a thousand times: perform invulnerability.
The table was long. The Adeola team on the left—the owner, managers, assistants. Empty chairs waited for whoever Damien would bring.
She was alone. Intentionally. A woman who didn't need backup was a woman who couldn't be intimidated.
Then the door opened.
And Damien Kai Osei walked in.
For a moment, Selene forgot every strategy she'd ever learned.
On screens, he was impressive. In person, he was something else entirely. He moved like a man who'd spent his entire life commanding attention without asking for it. Charcoal suit. Expensive. Tailored. The kind of clothes that spoke a language she understood: power.
But it wasn't the suit that made her stomach drop.
It was his face.
He looked up as he entered, and his gaze swept the room—professional, assessing—until it landed on her.
And stopped.
He went still.
Not physically. He didn't pause mid-step. But something in him halted. Some internal mechanism that had been functioning smoothly suddenly seized. His eyes found hers across that table, and neither of them looked away.
One beat.
Two.
Three beats too long.
He almost looked like he was trying to remember something. Like her face was a puzzle he'd spent three years solving, and now that he was looking at her directly, all the pieces were clicking into place.
Selene felt it like a physical blow—the weight of his recognition, the realization that he was seeing her. Not the rival. Not the competitor. Something else. Something from before.
"Ms. Obi," he said, and his voice was exactly as she remembered it from the airport. Controlled. Quiet. The kind of voice that made you lean in without realizing you were doing it. "I wasn't aware you'd be personally handling this negotiation."
"I handle my important contracts myself, Mr. Osei." She said it smoothly, professionally. Her voice didn't shake. "I assume you're here for the same reason?"
"Perhaps." He sat across from her, his gaze still locked on her face like he was trying to read something written in invisible ink. "Though I suspect your reasons and my reasons might be very different."
The Adeola team shifted uncomfortably, sensing tension they didn't understand. Professional tension, they would think. Business rivalry. They had no idea that the real conversation happening across this table had nothing to do with fabric manufacturing.
"Let's discuss terms," Selene said, opening her portfolio with hands that remained absolutely steady. "I'm prepared to offer Adeola Fabrics a premium partnership rate—thirty percent markup on bulk orders, guaranteed minimum quarterly volumes, and full brand integration."
Damien didn't look at the documents. He looked at her.
"That's competitive," he said. "But let me offer something more."
He opened his folder. Slid a contract across the table.
"Three-year partnership. Fifty percent markup. Guaranteed volumes at double your current capacity. Full operational funding for facility upgrades."
The room went silent.
Selene's stomach dropped. This was beyond rational. This was a man willing to lose money to make a point. This was calculated ruthlessness disguised as generosity.
This was him showing her something she couldn't compete with.
The Adeola owner's hands trembled as he read. His managers were already whispering. They were going to take it. Of course they were—
"Unless," Damien said quietly, still watching her, "you have something better. Something I haven't anticipated."
There was a challenge in those words. Not a business challenge. Something deeper. Something that sounded like: I know you. I know what you're capable of. Show me.
Selene took a breath.
She thought about everything she'd planned for. Every sleepless night in London. Every penny she'd saved. Every moment she'd told herself: I am enough. I don't need him. I am enough.
And she opened her mouth and made a counter-offer that was so precise, so calculated, so perfectly designed to address every weakness in Damien's proposal that the room actually gasped.
She offered lower markup but guaranteed long-term investment. She offered smaller volumes but with premium pricing and exclusive contracts. She offered not just money, but a business partnership that would position Adeola as a luxury brand—something Damien's mass-market approach couldn't do.
It was brilliant.
It was perfect.
And when she finished, Damien was smiling slightly—not because he'd lost, but because he was watching her win, and apparently that mattered to him more than winning himself.
The Adeola owner looked between them, torn.
Then he looked at the contracts. And slowly, deliberately, he reached for Selene's proposal.
"Ms. Obi's terms," he said. "We'd like to move forward with this partnership."
Damien's smile didn't fade.
Selene picked up her folder. Stood up. Walked toward the exit with her head held high and her pulse thundering in her ears.
As she reached the door, she heard his voice one last time:
"You're very good," he said. Not a compliment. Just a fact. An observation. A promise of something unfinished.
She didn't look back.
She got to the lift. Pressed the button. Waited for the doors to close.
And as soon as they did, her hands started shaking.
Badly.
She had no idea why.