He's Alive.
614 Words
0:00:00.
The timer on Amara’s phone hit zero and stayed there.
No call. No scream. No line going dead.
Just silence.
The kind of silence that meant something had already gone wrong.
Damien didn’t flinch.
He kept his eyes on the camera, his hand locked around Amara’s like he could transfer his own calm into her.
“To whoever’s listening,” he said, voice low and final.
“You’re out of time.”
Amara’s heart was hammering so hard she thought she’d pass out.
5 hours 00 minutes ago, her father had been a bargaining chip.
Now it was all or nothing.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown: _Check your hospital._
Damien saw it. He nodded once at his head of security, who was already on the line.
“Patch me through to Lagos General ICU,” he said.
The feed went live on the studio monitors.
Nurses running. Machines beeping.
And in bed 7—
Her father.
Eyes open. Awake. Alive.
Amara broke.
She covered her mouth with both hands, a sound tearing out of her that wasn’t a sob or a laugh.
Something in between.
Damien pulled her against him, his forehead against hers.
“He’s okay,” he whispered. “I told you.”
On screen, a doctor stepped into frame.
“Mr. Adewale? Mr. Okafor is stable. We have your security team downstairs. No one’s been harmed.”
Amara slid to her knees.
Relief hit her like a truck.
The studio erupted.
The host was screaming for commercials.
The live chat was exploding with _HOLY s**t_ and _DAMIEN DID THAT_.
But Damien wasn’t done.
He turned back to the camera, his expression turning to ice.
“To my mother,” he said.
The studio went dead quiet.
“I know it was you. I know you hired them. You wanted me to choose between my company and my wife.”
His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.
“You miscalculated.”
Amara’s blood ran cold.
Mrs. Adewale.
The woman in the black suit laughed, even with security’s grip on her arms.
“Prove it,” she said.
“You have nothing.”
Damien smiled.
It was ugly.
“Check your phone, Mother.”
Across town, in her penthouse on Banana Island, Mrs. Adewale’s personal phone buzzed.
A video started playing.
Her. In the black SUV. Giving orders.
Her voice, clear as day:
_If she doesn’t deny him on air, pull the plug._
Her face drained of color.
Damien hadn’t been bluffing.
He’d been recording her from the start.
Back in the studio, Damien looked down at Amara.
Her eyes were red, swollen, but she was looking at him like he’d just walked out of a war and won.
“Come home,” he said.
Amara nodded.
As they walked out, the host’s voice chased them down the hall:
“M-Mr. Adewale! Are you and Mrs. Adewale still together?”
Damien stopped.
He turned, pulling Amara flush against his side.
“We never stopped being together,” he said.
“Try again.”
The doors slammed behind them.
In the car, Amara finally let herself breathe.
Her father was alive.
She wasn’t alone.
And Mrs. Adewale had just signed her own death warrant.
Damien’s phone buzzed.
Security: _We have her. Where do you want her?_
Damien looked at Amara.
“What do you want to do with her?”
Amara’s hands shook.
She thought of the photo.
The threats.
The night she almost lost everything.
“Not here,” she said.
“Not like this.”
Damien nodded.
“Then we do it my way.”
The car pulled out into Lagos traffic.
And the war was just beginning.
[To Be Continued…]
- Writer
