The sun had begun its slow descent over the Lagos skyline when Collins walked into the discreet luxury lounge nestled atop a high-rise on Victoria Island.
The warm gold of the evening light bled into the room through wide glass windows, casting a rich hue over the deep mahogany furniture and dim-lit chandeliers that swayed gently above.
Every surface reflected exclusivity, and every second ticked with unspoken tension.
He spotted her at once.
Isabella Richard sat alone in the farthest booth, her posture regal and her expression unreadable. She wore an ivory silk blouse tucked into a fitted pencil skirt, her heels crossed at the ankle like she ruled this world—and perhaps she did.
A pair of black sunglasses shielded her eyes even indoors, and a gloved hand cupped the stem of a half-f
