My Accidental Baby With The CEO

Episode 9–Mike Is Watching

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* - Mike Is Watching*

Monday. 7:58am. Moore Global Headquarters.

The elevator smelled like Caleb’s cologne. Wood, smoke, and something expensive I couldn’t name. My stomach was in knots so tight I thought I’d throw up.

I had barely slept.

Caleb’s text was still sitting in my phone. Unread. Unanswered.

_Meet me tomorrow. 2pm. The hospital cafe. Alone._

It was 8am on Monday. Tomorrow was today.

The doors dinged open on the 42nd floor.

The office was already buzzing. Assistants running with files, heels clicking on marble, phones ringing. The smell of coffee and ambition.

Everyone here looked like they owned the place. And I looked like I was borrowing my life.

"Morning Bella," the receptionist smiled. "Boss is already in."

I sat at my desk and tried to type. My hands were shaking.

Every time I closed my eyes I saw Jasmine in the garden yesterday.

"Uncle, he has my eyes."

What did that mean? Did Caleb believe it? Did he know?

If he knew, why hadn’t he said anything?

If he didn’t, why was he asking to meet me alone?

At 8:03am, Mike walked in.

Caleb’s PA. Perfect suit. Perfect hair. Perfect fake smile. The kind of man who files your coffee order and your sins in the same folder.

"Morning Isabella," he said, too sweet. "Boss wants you in his office. Now."

My heart dropped. "Now? I have the 8:30 report for finance—"

"He said now." Mike’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Inside, Caleb wasn’t there.

Just his massive desk. Floor to ceiling windows. Lagos spread out below like a toy city. Traffic moving, people rushing, lives I couldn’t afford.

And on top of the desk... a manila folder.

My name typed on it in bold.

_ISABELLA PETERSON - BACKGROUND CHECK_

My hands went cold.

I shouldn’t open it. I should wait for him.

But curiosity and fear won.

Inside:

My address in Surulere. 2-bedroom flat. Landlord’s number. Even the amount I paid for rent.

Jasmine’s school name. Primary 1, Greenfield Academy. Class teacher’s name. Her report card scores.

Photos of us at the hospital entrance yesterday. Me holding Jasmine’s hand. Her pink sandals.

Bank statements. My BVN.

And then... a photo of me at that party 7 years ago.

Blurry. From far. Red dress. Laughing. My head thrown back.

Taken by someone’s phone. Someone who was there that night.

The door opened behind me.

Caleb.

"Don’t," he said the second he saw the folder in my hands.

"Don’t what? Investigate me?" My voice came out higher than I wanted. "Don’t you dare—"

"I didn’t ask Mike to do this," he cut in, closing the door behind him.

"Liar!" I threw the folder. Papers scattered across the marble floor like snow. "You think I’m a spy? A gold digger? That’s what this is?"

Caleb bent and picked up the photo from the floor.

He stared at it. At 19-year-old me dancing. At the way my body was moving. At the red dress.

His jaw ticked.

"Who else has seen this?"

"The whole internet soon," Mike said from the doorway, checking his phone. He didn’t even look sorry. "Someone sent it to GistLover 10 minutes ago. Anonymous account. Caption: _Moore CEO’s new secretary was a stripper. More videos loading..._"

The word hit me like a slap.

Stripper.

I was never a stripper. I was just dancing at a party. But who would believe that?

Caleb punched the wall. The sound was loud. Mike flinched.

"Find who leaked it. Now. I want names, accounts, IPs. I want that account banned. Now."

Mike ran.

Silence. Just the hum of the AC and my own breathing.

Caleb turned to me.

"You’re suspended. Effective immediately. For your own safety."

"I don’t need your protection!" I yelled. Tears were burning my eyes. "I need you to stop treating me like a problem to manage! I need you to tell me the truth!"

"You are a problem," he said quietly. Too quietly. "Because if this gets out, Moore Global tanks. Shareholders panic. Stock drops. And your daughter gets bullied in school. Is that what you want?"

I hated that he was right.

I hated that the first thing I thought of was Jasmine in her green uniform, kids pointing. _Your mummy is a stripper. Your mummy dances for money._

He walked to me. Lifted my chin with two fingers. His thumb was warm.

"I’m going to fix this, Isabella. Trust me."

I slapped his hand away.

"I don’t trust you. Not since that night. Not since you—"

He grabbed my wrist. Not hard. Just firm.

"Then trust this," he said, and kissed me.

Not angry this time. Not claiming.

Desperate.

Like he was drowning and I was the only air in the room.

For a second I forgot everything. The folder. The photo. The blackmail.

His lips were soft. Familiar. Like 7 years ago in that hotel room at Eko Hotel.

I could smell him. The same cologne. The same Caleb.

Then I remembered.

I pushed him back hard.

"Don’t."

"Why?" His eyes were dark. Hurt.

"Because I don’t know which one is real. The CEO who investigated me or the boy from 7 years ago who didn’t even ask my name."

His phone rang. Unknown number.

He answered on speaker, eyes never leaving mine.

A distorted voice, robotic: _Mr Moore. We have photos of your secretary. A stripper. We have videos. Pay ₦50M to this account in 24 hours or we post everything. Every angle. Every video. To the blogs. To HR. To her daughter’s school._

The line went dead.

Blackmail.

Caleb’s face didn’t change. But his hand clenched on the desk until his knuckles went white.

"Get security," he told me. "And go home."

"I’m not—"

"Go home, Belly."

He used my name.

The name Seun called me that night.

Belly.

I left his office shaking.

At 12pm, I was home trying to cook stew when my phone blew up.

Seun: _BELLY!!! Is that you on GistLover???_

Then a link.

I didn’t open it. I couldn’t.

Jasmine was in the room watching cartoons. Singing along.

What if she saw it? What if her teachers saw it?

By 2pm, I was supposed to be at the hospital cafe. Alone.

I didn’t go.

At 2:15, another text from Caleb: _Where are you?_

At 2:30: _They’re escalating. They sent a video to HR. To legal._

At 2:45: _Please answer me. I’m worried._

At 3:00: _Belly, please._

I turned my phone off.

That night, there was a knock at my door. 9pm.

I looked through the peephole.

Caleb.

No suit. Just black t-shirt and jeans. Hair messy. Eyes tired.

In his hand: a brown envelope.

I opened the door but kept the chain on.

"What do you want?"

"To help you," he said. "Can I come in?"

"No."

"Belly, please. They sent the video to your boss at Greenfield too. Jasmine’s headmistress got an email."

My knees went weak.

"Let me in."

I unchained the door.

He stepped in and looked around. Small living room. Jasmine’s toys on the floor. The smell of stew. My dad’s old chair in the corner.

He looked... out of place. And human. Not the CEO. Just a man.

He handed me the envelope.

Inside: printed screenshots. Bank account details. A number in Dubai. A crypto wallet.

"They want ₦50M," he said. "But I traced the account. It’s a burner. They’ll ask for more if we pay."

"So what do we do?" My voice was shaking.

"We fight," he said. "But first, I need to know the truth."

He looked at me. Really looked. Like he was seeing 19-year-old me and 26-year-old me at the same time.

"Is Jasmine mine?"

The question I’d been dreading for 6 years.

I wanted to lie. To protect her. To protect myself.

But his eyes... God, his eyes. The same eyes Jasmine had.

"I don’t know," I whispered. "I was scared. I was 19. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I didn’t—"

"You should have told me."

"And what? You would have married me? Paid me off?"

"I would have been there," he said, voice breaking. "For both of you. From day one."

Jasmine walked out of her room, rubbing her eyes. "Mummy? Who’s that?"

Caleb knelt again. Like in the garden.

"Hey, Jasmine."

"Uncle. You came to our house." She smiled, sleepy.

He looked at her. Then at me.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I did."

His phone buzzed. Mike.

"Boss, we found something. The leak came from inside. Jessica’s assistant. She sent it from a company laptop."

Jessica.

His ex. The one who was at dinner with us last week. The one who smiled too wide.

Caleb closed his eyes.

"I’ll handle it," he said. "But Belly, I need you to do something for me."

"What?"

"Come to dinner. Tomorrow. With me. With Jessica and Victor. We end this."

"Dinner? Are you crazy? She’s the one—"

"It’s the only way to smoke them out," he said. "We confront her. With proof. Please. Trust me one time."

Jasmine tugged my hand. "Can uncle stay for dinner, mummy? Can we eat rice?"

I looked at Caleb. At my daughter. At the mess we were in.

At the man who might be Jasmine’s father.

_If I say yes, I’m walking into the lion’s den._

_If I say no, they might destroy us anyway._

_And if he’s really her father... what happens after dinner?_

My phone buzzed one more time.

Unknown number: _24 hours, Mr Moore. The clock is ticking._

Caleb saw it. He stood up.

"I won’t let them hurt you," he said. "Either of you."

He left.

I sat on the floor with Jasmine and cried.

_What happens at dinner with the devil... and will Caleb choose me or his reputation?_

_TO BE CONTINUED..._

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