The title is HIDDEN LOVE* _by Prince Ugochu_*Genre*: Billionaire

### *HIDDEN LOVE* #### *Chapter 1: 24 Hours* The rain in Lagos didn’t fall. It attacked. Victoria Adams stood under the leaking bus stop in Yaba, clutching her portfolio to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her alive. Because it was. Water dripped from the torn roof onto her shoulder, soaking through the black fabric of her only “interview dress.” It was thrifted. 3,500 naira from Yaba market. She had ironed it twice this morning with a pressing iron she borrowed from her neighbor. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Again. She didn’t need to look. She already knew. `MTN: Your balance is N47.20` `Zenith Bank: Debit N15,000 - Hospital Bill Reminder - St. Mary’s Hospital Benin` `Zenith Bank: Debit N15,000 - Hospital Bill Reminder - St. Mary’s Hospital Benin` The same message. Twice. Because they wanted to make sure she was scared. N850,000. That was the amount needed for her mother’s next round of dialysis. Due tomorrow. Her mother, Grace Adams, 48. Kidney failure. Three times a week at St. Mary’s in Benin City. Victoria was 22. First-class graduate in Graphic Design from UNIBEN. Top of her class. Award for “Best Portfolio 2025.” And right now, she had N47.20 to her name. “Miss, bus full o!” the conductor shouted as another BRT sped past, splashing muddy brown water up to her knees. She didn’t flinch. Three months ago she would have cried. Three months ago when her dad’s phone repair shop in Benin burned down at 2am. When the insurance said “not covered.” When her last savings, 200k, went into the hospital. Now she was just tired. She shifted her portfolio. Inside were 12 printed designs. Logos, brand kits, social media templates. She had emailed 47 companies this month. 46 rejections. 1 ghosted. Her phone rang. Unknown number. Lagos area code. Victoria stared at it. Scammers called every day. “Congratulations you’ve won 2 million naira.” But what if… “Hello?” Her voice was dry. She hadn’t had water since morning. “Is this Victoria Adams?” The voice was male. Deep. Cold. Like it was used to people saying “Yes sir” immediately. “Yes. Who’s this?” “This is Daniel. I’m Mr. Victor Black’s personal assistant.” Victoria’s breath caught. Victor Black. BlackTech. 28 years old. Forbes “30 Under 30 Africa.” Net worth: 400 million dollars. The man who built BlackTech from his NYSC corper allowance to the biggest tech company in West Africa. “Mr. Black saw your design proposal on Behance,” Daniel continued. “The one you did pro bono for the ‘Save Our Girls’ NGO. He was impressed.” Victoria’s heart was pounding. That NGO project. She did it for free 4 months ago because she believed in it. It only got 200 likes. “He wants you at BlackTech Tower, Victoria Island. Tonight. 8pm. For a 24-hour project.” Victoria frowned. “A 24-hour project? What kind of project, sir?” “You’ll be briefed when you arrive. The fee is 5 million naira. If you complete it. If you don’t, you get nothing. And you cannot tell anyone about this project. NDA will be signed.” _Click._ The call ended. Victoria stood in the rain, water dripping down her face. 5 million naira. That was her mom’s surgery. That was 1 year of rent in Benin. That was freedom from loan apps, from shame, from watching her mother get weaker every day. She didn’t go home. She didn’t have a home to go to. She was crashing on her cousin’s floor in Surulere. She got on the next bus to Victoria Island. --- By 7:55pm, Victoria was standing in front of BlackTech Tower. It was 33 floors of glass and steel that reflected the Lagos skyline. Lights on every floor. Cars with tinted windows pulling up. Men in suits and women in heels walking in like they owned the world. Because they did. Two security men in black suits and earpieces stood at the entrance. They scanned her from head to toe. Wet hair. Wrinkled black dress. Wet heels. 2,000 naira bag from Jumia. “Name?” the taller one asked. “Victoria Adams. I was called. For Mr. Black.” The man spoke into his earpiece. “Miss Adams for Mr. Black. 8pm.” A pause. “11th floor. Don’t touch anything. Don’t take pictures. Phone must be on silent.” The lobby was marble. Cold. There was a waterfall feature inside the building. An actual waterfall. The elevator was glass. As it rose, Lagos spread out beneath her. Victoria Island. Ikoyi. Banana Island in the distance with houses that cost billions. The world she had only seen on i********:. Ding. 11th floor. The doors opened to almost nothing. White floors. White walls. Recessed lighting. And at the very end, a desk. And behind it, him. Victor Black. He didn’t look up when she entered. He was sitting in a black ergonomic chair, leaning forward. Black suit, but the jacket was off and draped over the chair. White shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A silver watch on his wrist that Victoria later learned cost 12 million naira. Hair slightly messy, like he had been running his hands through it for hours. A laptop, 3 iPhones, and a cold cup of coffee in front of him. The smell of stress and money hung in the air. “Miss Adams,” he said without looking up. His voice matched the one on the phone. Deep. Final. “You’re late.” “I’m 5 minutes early, sir.” Now he looked up. Dark eyes. Sharp jawline. 3-day stubble. The kind of face that was on billboards in Lekki and in every girl’s Pinterest board. Cold. Calculating. Tired. He studied her for exactly 3 seconds. Took in the wet dress, the cheap bag, the determination in her eyes. Then he frowned. “You’re the best designer in Lagos?” “I’m trying to be, sir.” “5 million naira is a lot of money to give to someone who’s ‘trying’.” He closed his laptop with a sharp snap. “Follow me.” He stood. He was tall. 6'2 maybe. And he walked like the floor belonged to him. Victoria followed. He led her through a door that looked like part of the wall. Inside was… a house. Inside the office building. It was a penthouse. Marble floors that reflected the ceiling lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing all of Lagos glittering below like diamonds. A kitchen that was bigger than her entire apartment in Yaba. Stainless steel everything. A living room with a couch that probably cost more than her school fees. No pictures on the walls. No books. No warmth. Just black, white, and grey. Minimal. Cold. Like him. “This is where you’ll stay for the next 24 hours,” Victor said. He went to the glass water dispenser and poured himself a glass. Didn’t offer her any. “You will design a new brand presentation for BlackTech. It launches tomorrow at 8am to investors from Dubai, London, and New York. 200 million dollars is on the line. If it fails, BlackTech loses its biggest funding round. If you fail, you get nothing.” Victoria’s mouth was dry. “24 hours? Here? Without leaving?” “You can leave,” he said. “But you don’t get paid.” He set the glass down. “House rules: Don’t go into my bedroom. It’s that door. Don’t use my phone. Don’t ask me personal questions. Cook your own food. WiFi password is on the fridge. My assistant will bring you a laptop charger in 10 minutes.” He turned to leave. “Wait,” Victoria said. Her voice shook a little. “Sir. Why me? There are 100 bigger design agencies in Lagos. Why a broke graduate?” Victor stopped. He didn’t turn around. “Because big agencies talk. They leak. They want credit.” He turned his head just slightly. “You don’t have anything to lose. And I need someone desperate enough to not sleep for 24 hours.” Then he walked away, down the hallway, and closed a door. Silence. Victoria stood in the middle of a billionaire’s house with 3% battery on her phone and a dead laptop. 5 million naira. She found an outlet. Plugged in her laptop. Opened Photoshop, Illustrator, and After Effects. Her hands were shaking. She got to work. --- #### *Hour 3: 11:17pm* Victoria’s back hurt. Her eyes burned. She had 6 concepts done, but none of them felt... enough. BlackTech wasn’t soft. It wasn’t cute. It was power. Money. The future. The fridge was full. Steak. Salmon. Fruits. Greek yogurt. Things she hadn’t eaten in months. She made Indomie instead. She didn’t want to owe him anything. Footsteps. Victor came out of his room in a black t-shirt and black sweatpants. He looked different. Less CEO. More human. Younger. He went straight to the coffee machine. He saw her. Saw the Indomie. Saw the dark circles under her eyes. “You’re still working,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Deadline is 8am, sir.” “You should sleep.” “I can’t. My mom is in the hospital. In Benin. If I don’t get this money—” She stopped herself. “Nothing.”