“Married to My Mother's Killer”

The blood wouldn't stop. It soaked into the white rug beneath her mother's lifeless body, creating a crimson halo around her skull. Amira Okoye stood frozen, her fourteen-year-old fingers trembling as they clutched a cordless phone with shaking urgency. “911—what’s your emergency?” “M-my mother… she’s…” Amira gasped, struggling to breathe as the metallic scent hit her throat. She’s been shot. Please—please come quickly. There’s so much blood.” Through the blurred stream of tears, she saw him. A tall silhouette at the top of the stairs, dressed in a tailored black suit, face hidden in the shadows—but those silver cufflinks glinted in the hallway light. He didn’t run. He just watched her. Cold. Still. Unbothered. And then he disappeared. That was the night everything changed. The night her world died—along with her mother. Five Years Later Amira Okoye zipped her worn leather bag and took a breath so deep it hurt. "You're doing this for her," she whispered, staring at her reflection in the lobby glass of King Global Towers—the most powerful financial building in Lagos. Her long curls were pulled into a confident twist, lips colored a rich wine-red to match the power in her stare. She'd spent five years fighting to get here—top of her class in law school, internships, sacrifice, and a hunger most people couldn't understand. A hunger for truth. For justice. For him. Her fingers closed around the access card like it was a blade. Her pulse raced. She stepped inside. The elevator ride to the 53rd floor was silent. Clean chrome. A soft piano tune playing over invisible speakers. When the doors slid open, she expected a flurry of assistants and energy. Instead, she met silence. And then— “You’re late.” The voice was deep, clipped, and unmistakably male. She turned. And froze. It was him. The man from that night. The one from the stairs. He hadn’t aged a day. Sharp cheekbones. Ice-gray eyes. A five o'clock shadow perfectly sculpted like a Roman statue. Xander King, CEO of King Global. Billionaire. Power broker. And possibly—her mother’s killer. The hallway shrank around her. “I—I’m not late,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “You were supposed to be here at 8:00 a.m. "It’s 8:06,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. Her gaze dropped onto it. Silver cufflinks. Her breath caught. He noticed. “You’re staring,” he said. Amira quickly looked away. “I was... just surprised. I didn’t expect to meet you so soon.” “Disappointed?” he asked, stepping closer. She flinched as the scent of cedarwood and dark spice filled her lungs. Everything about him screamed danger wrapped in designer silk. “No,” she lied. “Good,” he said, his eyes scanning her face like he was memorizing it. “Because you intrigue me, Amira. And I don’t like being intrigued.” His words curled around her like smoke. This was not how she'd imagined it. She thought he’d be hard to reach. Distant. A ghost in the tower. Instead, he was right here, watching her with unnerving calm—as if he already knew her. Her instincts screamed: Run. But instead, she smiled. Because she'd made a vow the night her mother died. Get close. Earn his trust. And then… end him. “Then I guess I’ll try not to intrigue you,” she said smoothly. But Xander only smirked. “Too late.”