Alexander wasn't just a billionaire in the city—he was the city.
He owned half of it: schools, hospitals, entertainment, and whole chains that kept people employed and fed. Even the supermarket where Vicky bought the eatery stock belonged to him.
So, in Ruben's mind, this was simple math.
Vicky should pack her bags and leave the city.
What was she thinking?
Maybe she was tough in Goreangab, but against the city's billionaire? That was not courage—that was suicide with pride attached.
Ruben bolted out of the car towards the growing crowd. He was Alexander's driver, personal assistant, and bodyguard—a weird combination, suspicious even, but that was the job. And right now, the "bodyguard" part of the job had arrived on time.
His boss had just been assaulted.
Alexander stood rigid, one hand clamped over his cheek like it was on fire. The slap had come from someone smaller than him, but it landed with the kind of force that bruised more than skin.
"Are you crazy?!" Alexander roared, his voice cracking through the air.
Phones were already up. Recording. Zooming in. People loved a spectacle, and this one was premium content: a common girl just slapped the city's billionaire.
Alexander didn't even look at the phones. He didn't care—not because the videos couldn't damage him, but because he knew they wouldn't leave his city. With a single call, he could erase every clip before it reached the internet.
Still… she had done it. In front of everyone.
"Do you know who I am?!" he roared again.
Vicky stared at him, blank and cold. Disrespect was disrespect—she didn't care whether it wore a suit, drove a Bentley, or owned the road.
"Yes," she snapped back, matching his energy. "A spoiled brat."
Alexander's eyes widened. People didn't speak to him like that. Not openly. Not in public. Not with that kind of fearless disrespect.
Vicky stepped closer, voice sharp enough to cut. "What did you think would happen? That I'd pick up the trash you threw at me and bow like—'Thank you, Your Highness'?"
Alexander shifted without meaning to, his feet giving half a step back. Something about her was becoming dangerous—not physically, but socially. A person like Vicky could embarrass him with nothing but a mouth and a backbone.
Ruben moved in fast, stepping between them. "Ma'am—"
"Don't 'ma'am' me," Vicky cut in, eyes never leaving Alexander. She pointed at Alexander without hesitation. "Is this your boss?"
Ruben nodded carefully, still shielding Alexander. His posture was calm and professional—like a man trained to absorb chaos and keep his principal intact.
Alexander leaned to the side, peering around Ruben like he couldn't help himself. He looked at Vicky again, properly this time—curious now, irritated and curious.
Who is she? he thought.
He bent and picked up the money he'd thrown on the road. He tapped the stack against his palm, tongue clicking in irritation like he was already late for something important—and she was a delay he didn't respect.
"I've always known poor people can be stupid," he muttered, almost to himself, "but not to this extent."
Vicky heard him.
"Really?" she said, folding her arms across her chest, chin lifted. "Listen to me properly, sir. Money is nothing to me. What matters is self-respect and dignity. The day you tamper with that, I'll show you something you've never imagined."
Her eyes didn't blink. "And since you rich people think money fixes everything—let me teach you where your weakness is."
In one swift move, Vicky snatched the stack from Alexander's hand.
Before Ruben could react—and before Alexander could even process the audacity—Vicky started dividing the money among the onlookers.
Hands reached out instantly. People gasped, laughed, hesitated, then took it anyway. The crowd shifted from spectators to participants, and Alexander, for the first time in a long time, lost control of the room.
Vicky wasn't stealing in secret. She was making a statement in broad daylight.
Alexander held his cheek again, but the pain had changed. It wasn't the slap anymore. It was like an invisible blade had gone in deeper.
First, an unwanted wedding that made his stomach sour.
Second, Monica drove off in his G-Wagon like he was a joke in his own home.
And now this crazy woman—this stranger—turning his money into charity against his will, right in front of him, like he was powerless.
Can this day get any worse?
Vicky watched his face and allowed herself a satisfied grin—small, bitter, and victorious. Alexander stared at her longer than he should have, as if he was trying to memorize the shape of her disrespect for later.
Then he turned sharply, got into the car with Ruben, and drove off.
Only when the Bentley disappeared did Vicky release the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her expression cracked. The satisfaction drained. Her eyes glossed, and a tear tried to form.
Because pride didn't replace stock.
Now where was she going to get money to buy everything again?
At Shikongo Industries, it was meeting time.
The boardroom was full. Members sat around the long table with laptops open, reports stacked, and pens ready. All the usual corporate theater—until Alexander arrived carrying rage like it was part of his suit.
Ruben stood beside him, professional and steady. Alexander was still tense, jaw clenched, eyes sharp. You could feel the heat on him like a live wire.
"Start," Alexander said suddenly.
His voice was deep, laced with anger. A few board members flinched without meaning to. They exchanged looks—confused, cautious—then stared down at their documents like paper could protect them.
Ruben saw the tension rising and prepared to steer the meeting back onto the rails, but Alexander spoke again before he could.
"Where do you live, John?" Alexander asked, eyes locking onto John, the manager from MediPrivate Hospital—the man responsible for overseeing that arm of the enterprise.
John blinked, caught off guard. "Goreangab, sir," he answered slowly, confusion thick in his tone.
"Goreangab," Alexander repeated, dangerously calm. "Why?"
John's hand went to his tie. He eased it loose, suddenly sweating even though the air-conditioning was blasting right above him. Why is the boss asking about my home? His face spoke, even if his mouth stayed quiet.
"Um…" John started.
"Did you forget why you live there?" Alexander pressed.
John looked like a man who had been dragged through dust daily. He was a managing director under Shikongo Industries, yet he often appeared like someone earning N$200 a month for a bag of rice. Always dusty. Hair standing up like he'd survived an electric shock.
John struggled under Alexander's glare. "Because… it's cheaper," he managed. "And it's my family's place. Our estate is there."
In Goreangab, John carried status and respect. People rented businesses from his family properties. Back there, he was somebody.
Here—under Alexander's eye—he looked like nothing.
"It's cheaper?" Alexander echoed, voice rising. "So you're saying I don't pay you well? What do you mean, 'cheaper'? What's wrong with Goreangab people?"
The room froze.
"The money we make here—what do you do with it? Where does it go? What do you buy, exactly?" Alexander leaned forward, ruthless now. "Just look at you. Look at your hair. Always dusty."
The board members sat in stunned silence. No one dared interrupt him. No one dared defend John.
Ruben stepped in before the damage became permanent.
"I think we'll have to postpone this meeting," Ruben said firmly, voice controlled. "For today, everyone—leave your reports at Cidy's office. She'll deliver them. You are all dismissed."
Chairs scraped back immediately. People gathered papers too quickly, eyes down, escaping like the building was burning.
When the room finally emptied, Alexander stood, shoved his chair hard, and it rolled back with a violent screech.
"FUCK!" he yelled.
He dragged a hand down his face, then turned on Ruben like the rage needed somewhere to go.
"I'm going to make her pay," he spat. "Ruben, did you see what she did? No one does that to me. No one!"
Ruben didn't argue. This was the first time he had seen Alexander worked up like this—unfocused, emotional, reckless. The kind of state that made a powerful man make stupid decisions.
Ruben lowered his voice. "I saw it," he said. "We'll handle it."
Victoria returned to the eatery with tears in her eyes, voice shaking as she narrated what happened on the road to Tonia.
"What are we going to do now, Toni?" Vicky cried, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "It's almost opening hour, and we have nothing to sell."
Tonia pulled her closer with a look that tried to be calm, even as her body moved carefully with pregnancy discomfort.
"It's okay," Tonia said. "For now, we cook vegetables. We blend smoothies. Something light, something quick." She reached for her phone. "I'll call Sam to bring us new stock—"
"No," Vicky cut in immediately. "We can't use Sam's money."
Tonia understood her. Vicky didn't accept charity—not even when she needed it. Pride and survival were tied together in her.
"We'll take it as a loan," Tonia said smoothly, already engineering the solution. "We pay it back once we make sales."
Vicky hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. A loan."
Tonia turned on the radio while they worked—chopping, boiling, rinsing, blending—forcing routine to hold the day together.
Then the newsreader's voice changed tone.
"…five drug criminals, already identified by police…"
Vicky froze mid-motion like someone had pressed pause on her body.
Tonia's brow creased. "Victoria… what's wrong?"
Vicky stared at the radio, face drained pale, eyes wide with something that wasn't just fear—it was shock.
"I had a dream," Vicky whispered. "Last night."
Tonia stepped closer. "A dream about what?"
Vicky swallowed, throat tight. "Killing five guys."