Say It To My Face.
556 Words
The studio hallway smelled like sweat and cheap coffee.
Amara sat on the edge of a plastic chair, staring at her hands.
They weren’t shaking anymore.
That was worse.
5 hours 04 minutes.
The woman in the black suit hadn’t left her side since she stepped off stage.
“Don’t try anything stupid,” the woman murmured. “The driver’s outside. One call and your father’s line gets pulled.”
Amara didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
The studio doors burst open.
Damien.
Security tried to stop him. He moved past them like they weren’t there.
Suit jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled up, blood still drying on his knuckles.
His eyes found her instantly.
The room went silent.
The woman in the black suit stepped forward.
“Mr. Adewale, this is a private—”
“Move,” Damien said.
She didn’t.
He didn’t argue. He grabbed her wrist and shoved her aside hard enough that she hit the wall.
Amara stood up before she realized it.
“Damien, don’t—”
“Don’t what?” His voice was low, dangerous, barely controlled.
“Don’t come for you after you humiliated me on live TV? Don’t call you a liar to your face?”
Amara’s chest tightened.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“Everyone has a choice.” He stopped a foot from her. Close enough that she could see the rage and hurt warring in his eyes.
“You chose to throw me under the bus.”
“Because if I didn’t, my father dies!”
The words ripped out of her before she could stop them.
Damien froze.
The hallway went dead silent.
The woman in the black suit smiled.
Oops.
Amara clamped a hand over her mouth.
Too late.
Damien’s face went blank.
The kind of blank that scared her more than anger ever could.
“Your father,” he said slowly.
“That’s why you did this.”
Amara’s eyes burned.
“Don’t look at me like that. Like I’m weak.”
“I’m not looking at you like you’re weak,” Damien said.
“I’m looking at you like you should have trusted me.”
“Trust you?” She laughed, bitter and broken.
“They have him, Damien! They’ve been watching him! If I said one wrong word, he dies!”
Damien stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper only she could hear.
“Then we end them. Together.”
The woman in the black suit moved fast.
She pulled a phone from her pocket and hit dial.
Amara saw it.
“No—”
Damien moved faster.
He knocked the phone out of her hand, pinned her against the wall, and said into her ear:
“You picked the wrong family to mess with.”
Amara’s phone buzzed in her pocket.
She didn’t need to check it to know.
Unknown: _0:03:00. Say goodbye, Mrs. Adewale._
Amara’s knees buckled.
Damien caught her before she hit the floor.
“Amara?”
She looked up at him, tears finally spilling over.
“It’s my father,” she whispered.
“They’re going to kill him. In three minutes.”
Damien’s expression changed.
No more rage.
No more hurt.
Just war.
“Not today,” he said.
He pulled out his phone and made one call.
One word.
“Now.”
[To Be Continued…]
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