Selene's POV
The text had haunted her for three days.
"We met before, Selene. I know we did. I just need you to help me remember."
She hadn't responded. She'd deleted it. She'd told Zara nothing beyond a vague "false alarm" and thrown herself into work with the intensity of someone trying to outrun her own mind. Work was safe. Work was something she could control. Work didn't require her to confront the fact that somewhere in her past—or somewhere in her present—was a man who seemed to be methodically unraveling every wall she'd built.
The meeting invitation had come through her assistant at 9 AM.
Osei Holdings requests a meeting to discuss vendor negotiations regarding the Adeola Fabrics partnership. Time-sensitive matter. 2 PM conference room at the Metropolitan Business Centre.
Professional. Formal. Exactly the kind of communication that suggested nothing unusual was happening. That this was simply business.
But Selene had read between the lines of business communication for three years, and she knew what this really was: a summons.
She arrived at 1:55 PM.
Damien was already there, sitting at a long conference table with documents spread in front of him. Alone. No team. No witnesses. Just him and a folder and the kind of patience that suggested he'd been waiting for this moment.
"Thank you for coming," he said, not standing. "I know your schedule is busy."
"You said it was time-sensitive," she replied, taking a seat at the opposite end of the table. "I'm here about the vendor situation."
"Of course you are." He didn't open the folder. Instead, he watched her hands as she placed her own documents on the table. Watched them with an intensity that felt like he was trying to solve a puzzle written in her fingertips. "The Adeola Fabrics partnership requires coordination on our end. We're both using the same shipping logistics company. There's potential for conflict if we're not strategic."
It was a reasonable business concern.
It was also completely irrelevant. They could handle logistics through their teams. This meeting didn't require either of them personally.
"I can have my logistics coordinator contact yours," she said carefully. "There's no need for direct involvement."
"Perhaps not," he agreed. "But I find there's value in direct conversation. Don't you?"
The way he said it made it clear they weren't talking about shipping logistics anymore.
Selene's hands tightened slightly on her folder. She noticed him notice it.
"Say what you actually want to say," she said quietly. "Please."
He leaned back in his chair, studying her with an intensity that made her skin feel alive in ways she'd trained herself not to notice. "I want to propose a partnership. Not in business—though that would be profitable for both of us. But in something more fundamental. A collaboration. A truce, if you prefer."
"A truce." She repeated the word like it tasted strange. "We're not in a war, Mr. Osei."
"Aren't we?" He finally opened the folder, but he didn't show her the contents. Instead, he just held it. "You came back to Lagos with a specific intention. I know because I've been watching your business strategy unfold. You're not just building a company. You're building it directly in opposition to mine. Every contract I pursue, you counter-bid. Every manufacturer I approach, you've already approached. Every market segment I move into, you're there."
Her jaw tightened.
"That's called competition," she said coldly. "It's how business works."
"It is," he agreed. "But competition comes from strategic necessity. What you're doing comes from something personal. Something... motivated." He paused, watching her hands again. "Which tells me something happened. Something that made you decide, before you even returned to Lagos, that destroying me was worth your time."
Selene stood.
"This meeting is over."
"I haven't made my offer yet."
"I don't care about your offer."
"You will," he said, and there was certainty in his voice. "Because it's not what you think. Sit down, Selene. Please."
Something in the way he said her name—not "Ms. Obi," but her actual name—made her pause. Made her sit back down. Made her realize that he was right: she did want to hear the offer.
"I'm proposing," he continued slowly, "that we stop treating each other as enemies. That instead, we collaborate. Share resources. Pool our expertise. Build something neither of us could build alone."
"A merger," she said flatly.
"A partnership," he corrected. "One where you retain full autonomy over your brand vision. One where we simply agree to stop fighting for scraps when there's an entire market waiting to be developed."
It was a good offer. Strategically brilliant, actually. Together, they could dominate sustainable fashion in West Africa. Together, they could access capital and logistics and manufacturing networks that neither of them could access alone.
Together, they could build an empire.
But together meant proximity. Together meant she couldn't avoid him. Together meant she'd have to sit across from him in meetings and work dinners and strategic sessions, and she'd have to pretend that she didn't feel like he was trying to remember something in the way he looked at her. That she didn't feel like he'd been hunting for her since the moment she landed in Lagos.
"No," she said.
Damien nodded slowly. Like he'd expected this answer. Like he was satisfied by it.
"Someday," he said quietly, "you'll stop treating me like the enemy."
Selene stood, gathering her documents. "Earn it first."
She walked toward the conference room door, her back straight, her composure intact, her heart thundering against her ribs because she could feel him watching her. Could feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
She reached the door. Put her hand on the handle.
"Selene," he said, and she stopped. Just for a moment. Just enough for him to speak. "Whoever hurt you—whoever made you so determined to destroy someone you've never actually wronged—I hope it was worth it. Because you're brilliant, and you're wasting it on revenge."
She left without responding.
She got to the lift. Pressed the button. Waited for the doors to open.
And just before they closed behind her, she heard it: the sound of Damien Osei smiling. A quiet sound, almost inaudible, but unmistakable to anyone who'd ever heard him speak.
He was smiling.
She didn't see it. But she heard it, and it was somehow worse than if she'd seen it, because a smile she couldn't witness was a smile that might be about anything. It might be triumph. It might be satisfaction. It might be the smile of a man who was playing a game three moves ahead of everyone else on the board.
That evening, Selene sat in her home office with a bottle of wine and her London notebook open.
"He had quiet hands. He held mine and didn't ask for anything. I don't know his name. I'll never know his name."
But she was beginning to suspect that she did know his name. That she'd known it for three years, she just hadn't made the connection.
She pulled up her phone. Searched for images from the Black Veil Charity Masquerade—the event that had been held at the underground bar three years ago. The news coverage had been minimal, the guest list private.
But there were a few photos. Anonymous faces in masks. And in the background of one grainy image, a man in a black mask stood beside a woman in gold.
The woman was her.
The man had his arm around her in a way that suggested intimacy. Familiarity. The kind of closeness that didn't come from minutes of conversation.
She enlarged the image.
Even through the mask, even at this distance, even in this poor quality photo, she could see his jawline. Could see the way he stood. Could see something in his posture that she recognized from the conference table just hours ago.
Her phone buzzed.
Text from unknown number: "The woman in gold looks like she's never been held before. The man beside her looks like he'd hold her forever. I wonder what happened to them."
Selene's hands went numb.
She looked at the photo again. Looked at the man. Looked at the way his hand was positioned on the small of her back—protective, possessive, tender.
"No," she whispered to her empty office.
But it was him.
It had always been him.
Damien Osei was the stranger from The Black Veil. Damien Osei was the man with quiet hands. Damien Osei was the man she'd spent one night with three years ago, the man she'd become pregnant by, the man whose son had his impossible brows and his quiet intensity.
And he'd just offered her a partnership.
Which meant he knew. Or he was beginning to know. Or he suspected enough to be testing her.
Which meant her entire careful plan—her revenge, her strategy, her three years of building—was about to collide with a truth she'd been running from since the moment that airport screen lit up.