The penthouse felt different at night.
No boardroom polish. No flashing cameras. Just soft golden lamps, the low hum of the city below, and rain tapping the windows like it was trying to get in on our secrets.
I arrived at 7:58 p.m.—not early, not late. Chioma had insisted on helping me get ready again, this time with a simple black wrap dress that clung in all the right places, gold hoop earrings, and my hair down in loose curls. "If you're going to war," she'd said, "at least look like the general."
I stepped out of the elevator into the open-plan living area. Kian was already there—sleeves rolled to his elbows, top buttons undone, standing at the kitchen island pouring red wine into two glasses. The table was set simply: candles, takeout containers from that fancy Jollof spot in Ikoyi, plates warmed in the oven. No chef. No staff. Just us.
He looked up. His gaze swept over me—slow, deliberate. Something flickered in his eyes before he masked it with a nod.
"You came."
"I said I would." I crossed my arms. "So let's talk. No games. No dodging. Why did you leave five years ago?"
He set the bottle down. Took a slow breath.
"Sit first."
I didn't move.
"Please, Ada."
The please did it. It was the first time he'd said it since the wedding. Soft. Almost broken.
I sat.
He sat across from me. Pushed a glass toward me. I didn't touch it.
"Five years ago," he started, staring at the table instead of me, "my father called me the night before the wedding. Said if I went through with it, he'd cut me off completely. No trust fund. No shares. No company. Nothing. And he'd make sure your father's clinic lost its biggest client—the Adeleke Foundation grant. They'd pull funding. Your dad would lose the hospital wing he was building. Your sister's scholarship? Gone. Everything."
My stomach dropped.
"You're lying."
"I wish I was." He finally met my eyes. "I was twenty-six. Arrogant. Thought I could fight him. But when I saw the documents—proof he'd already started the paperwork to freeze the grants—I knew he wasn't bluffing. He would have ruined your family to keep me in line. To keep me from 'marrying beneath us.'"
I felt the air leave my lungs.
"So you ran."
"I left a note in the car I sent for you that morning. Told the driver to give it to you at the venue. Explained everything. Begged you to understand. Told you I'd fix it. That I'd come back when I had leverage."
"I never got any note."
His face changed—shock, then fury.
"He must have intercepted it." Kian's voice was low, dangerous. "My father. Or one of his people. I should have known."
I laughed—hollow. "You should have fought harder. You should have told me. Face to face. Instead you disappeared to London and let me stand there in a white dress while everyone whispered."
"I was trying to protect you."
"By breaking my heart?"
"Yes." He leaned forward. "Because if I'd stayed and fought openly, he would have destroyed your family out of spite. I thought… if I left quietly, built something on my own, came back when I had real power… I could fix it. I could buy back the leverage. I could come for you."
I stared at him. Rain streaked the window behind his head like tears the city was crying for us.
"And did you?" My voice cracked. "Did you build that power?"
He nodded once. "Three years ago I bought enough shares to threaten a board coup if he didn't back off. Last year I forced him to reinstate every grant he'd threatened. Including your father's clinic. That's why the bills suddenly stopped being a problem before I came to you with the contract."
I felt dizzy.
"You… you fixed it. Quietly. Without telling me."
"I was going to. I came back to Lagos six months ago. Planned to find you. Explain. Beg if I had to." He swallowed. "But then I saw the hospital statements. Saw how deep in debt your family still was—because the clinic had taken emergency loans during the lean years. I realized if I just showed up, you'd hate me too much to listen. So I went to my father. Made a deal. He clears the debt. I get the wife he always wanted—someone 'appropriate.' And you get your family safe."
I stood up so fast the chair scraped.
"You used my family as collateral. Again."
"No." He stood too. "I used myself. I signed away my freedom for 101 days so you wouldn't lose everything. So your father could get the new treatment. So Chioma could finish school without fear. I didn't want your gratitude, Ada. I wanted you to survive."
Tears burned my eyes. I hated them.
"And what about after 101 days? You divorce me quietly and walk away again?"
He stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the pulse in his throat.
"If that's what you want."
I searched his face. Looking for the lie. The arrogance. The boy who ran.
All I saw was a man who'd carried five years of guilt alone.
My hand lifted—almost on its own—and pressed against his chest. Right over his heart. It was racing.
"I hate you," I whispered.
"I know."
"I've hated you every single day for five years."
"I know."
"And I still—" My voice broke. "I still can't stop."
He covered my hand with his. Warm. Steady.
"Then don't."
The rain pounded harder.
I rose on my toes.
He met me halfway.
This kiss wasn't for cameras. Wasn't careful. Wasn't pretend.
It was five years of pain and longing and stupid, stubborn love crashing together.
His hands slid to my waist, pulling me against him like he was afraid I'd vanish. I gripped his shirt, fingers twisting fabric, anchoring myself.
When we broke apart, foreheads pressed together, breathing ragged, he whispered against my lips:
"101 days. Or 1,001. Or forever. Whatever you decide. But I'm not running again."
I closed my eyes.
The countdown in my head shifted.
Not days until I stop loving him.
Days until I admit I never did.
End of Chapter 6