Chapter 3: The Devil's Right Hand
1283 Words
The revolving glass doors swallowed me whole.
The first thing I noticed wasn't the architecture.
It was the silence.
Not the ordinary silence of a quiet office. This one felt engineered. Conversations happened in low voices. Shoes struck polished floors with measured confidence. Phones vibrated instead of ringing. Even the air-conditioning hummed with military precision.
Nobody wasted movement.
Nobody lingered.
Everyone looked as though they had somewhere important to be and exactly thirty seconds to get there.
Interesting.
Companies often reflected the people at the top.
If this building had inherited Damien Osei's personality, then the man himself probably scheduled his heartbeat.
Black marble stretched across the lobby floor like still water. Massive steel columns rose toward a ceiling so high it made everyone beneath it seem deliberately insignificant. Soft gold lighting warmed the sharp edges without making them friendly.
Luxury.
Power.
Control.
Nothing here begged to impress.
It simply assumed you already were.
I tightened my grip on my suitcase before remembering I'd left it with the concierge downstairs. Another quiet efficiency. My luggage had disappeared behind a discreet counter with the promise that it would be waiting for me after my interview.
Trust was expensive.
I wasn't rich enough to afford it.
The reception desk stood at the center of the lobby like the bridge of a ship.
Behind it sat a woman so perfectly composed she looked sculpted rather than born.
Dark hair pulled into a flawless knot.
Cream silk blouse beneath a tailored black blazer.
Not a wrinkle.
Not a stray strand of hair.
Her smile arrived exactly two seconds after I approached.
Timed.
Measured.
Professional.
"Good afternoon."
Her accent carried traces of London polished by years abroad.
"Welcome to Osei Industries."
"I'm Adaeze Nwosu."
She nodded once.
"We've been expecting you."
Of course they had.
She didn't ask for my name again.
Didn't fumble through a visitor's list.
She already knew exactly who I was.
Interesting.
Her fingers moved over a sleek keyboard.
A tiny green light flashed.
"May I have your passport, Miss Nwosu?"
I handed it over.
She scanned it, returned it immediately, then placed a slim visitor badge on the desk.
"Fortieth floor."
She looked directly into my eyes.
"Please wear your badge where it's visible at all times."
Her tone remained perfectly polite.
Yet somehow it sounded less like a request and more like a law.
"I will."
Another faint smile.
"The elevator on your left has already been programmed."
Already programmed.
Meaning they knew the exact minute I walked through the front doors.
Security cameras watched every corner of the lobby.
Discreet.
Almost invisible.
Small black domes blended into the ceiling.
Two men in tailored suits stood near the elevators pretending not to watch anyone.
Security.
Not ordinary security either.
Former military if I had to guess.
Their posture gave them away.
I thanked the receptionist.
She inclined her head.
Nothing more.
No unnecessary warmth.
No curiosity.
No attempt at conversation.
I stepped toward the elevators.
One opened before I reached it.
Of course it did.
The building seemed determined to stay three steps ahead of everyone inside it.
The doors closed silently behind me.
No buttons.
Only a touchscreen displaying 40.
The elevator moved so smoothly I barely felt it.
Glass walls revealed Dubai unfolding beneath me.
Roads curved between glittering towers.
The afternoon sun scattered itself across distant windows until the entire skyline shimmered like something imagined instead of built.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
The city reminded me of a diamond.
Worth a fortune.
Capable of cutting flesh if held carelessly.
The elevator chimed.
Fortieth floor.
The doors opened onto another world.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall framing the city like living artwork.
The carpets swallowed footsteps.
Dark wood.
Black steel.
Fresh white orchids stood in arrangements that probably cost more than my monthly rent back in Lagos.
Someone had mastered the art of making wealth whisper instead of shout.
A young assistant greeted me almost immediately.
"This way Miss Nwosu."
She couldn't have been older than twenty-three.
Her smile seemed genuine.
That made her the first genuinely smiling person I'd seen since entering the building.
She led me into a waiting lounge overlooking the skyline.
"Mr. Osei is in meetings."
Interesting.
Not if he would see me.
When.
"We'll be with you shortly."
Coffee appeared within seconds.
Water.
Tea.
Fresh fruit.
The efficiency bordered on telepathy.
Once alone I did what I always did.
I watched.
Observation had saved me more times than luck ever had.
Three assistants crossed the hallway carrying tablets instead of folders.
Nobody knocked before entering offices.
They waited for permission through tiny earpieces.
An older gentleman hurried past with architectural drawings tucked beneath one arm.
He looked exhausted.
Not frightened.
Just determined not to fail.
People here didn't simply work.
They performed.
Like actors who understood mistakes carried consequences.
One woman emerged from a nearby conference room wiping invisible lint from her jacket.
Her breathing was shallow.
She looked relieved.
As though she'd survived something rather than attended a meeting.
Another point for my growing theory.
Damien Osei inspired more caution than affection.
Power often did.
A chessboard occupied one corner of the lounge.
Mid-game.
Black pieces winning.
Of course.
I almost laughed.
If that wasn't deliberate interior decoration someone here possessed an excellent sense of symbolism.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass.
Professional blouse.
Dark trousers.
Hair neatly tied back.
Calm expression.
Nobody looking at me would guess my pulse had begun beating just a little faster.
Not from fear.
From proximity.
After three years I had finally reached the edge of whatever truth waited for me.
Whether Damien Osei knew anything about my father remained uncertain.
But powerful men knew other powerful men.
Information traveled through wealth faster than through friendship.
This job if I got it could become exactly the opening I'd spent years searching for.
The lounge door opened.
A woman entered with the quiet confidence of someone who never introduced herself twice.
She was tall.
Elegant.
Dark-skinned.
Her charcoal suit fit perfectly.
Not fashionable.
Functional.
Every line about her suggested discipline.
Sharp cheekbones.
Intelligent eyes.
No visible jewelry beyond a simple watch.
She stopped three feet away.
Looked directly at me.
Not my clothes.
Not my visitor badge.
Me.
The examination lasted only seconds.
It somehow felt much longer.
"Adaeze Nwosu."
Not a question.
"Yes."
"I'm Zara Mensah."
Her handshake was firm.
"Head of Operations."
There it was.
The invisible weight she'd carried into the room.
She wasn't someone's assistant.
She was someone people listened to.
"Come with me."
No wasted words.
No small talk.
I followed her through a corridor lined with glass offices.
Employees acknowledged her with subtle nods.
Nobody interrupted.
Nobody attempted conversation.
Respect.
Not the kind earned through popularity.
The kind earned because disappointing her probably had consequences.
We entered a spacious office overlooking the Burj Khalifa in the distance.
She gestured toward a chair.
"Sit."
I did.
She remained standing for another moment studying a tablet in silence.
Then she finally looked at me.
"Your résumé is impressive."
I waited.
Whenever someone started with a compliment the real conversation usually came afterward.
"You graduated with honors."
"Yes."
"You turned down two offers in Nigeria."
"I did."
"You've never worked as a personal assistant."
"No."
Silence again.
She wasn't reading my answers.
She was reading me.
Finally she sat opposite me and folded her hands.
"I'm not interested in rehearsed interview responses Miss Nwosu."
"I didn't prepare any."
One corner of her mouth moved almost imperceptibly.
Not quite a smile.
"Good."
She leaned back.
"So tell me..."
Her eyes never left mine.
"What makes you believe you can survive working for Damien Osei?"
- Writer
