the wrong guest list
Chapter 1:
page I:
The ballroom at Okon Towers smelled like money and orchids.
Ola adjusted the strap of her camera, her palms sweating against the worn leather. She wasn’t supposed to be here. The email had said “Okon Charity Gala – Photographer, 7 PM, Service Entrance.” It didn’t say anything about dodging security and stepping on a $2000 Persian rug.
“Miss, this area is restricted.”
She turned. Tall, tailored suit, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Of course the first person she ran into was him.
“Chinedu Okon,” he said, like the name was supposed to mean something. “And you’re not on the guest list.”
Ola forced a smile, lifting her camera like a shield. “I’m the photographer. Your father hired me.”
His eyes dragged over her - thrifted black dress, scuffed boots, hair in a messy bun because she’d spent her last 2000 naira on SD cards instead of a blowout.
“You look like you got lost on your way to a protest,” he said flatly. “My father doesn’t hire people off the street.”
Her cheeks burned. “Your father hired me because I’m good. Unlike some sons who think a trust fund counts as a personality.”
Something shifted in his expression. Amusement. Annoyance. Interest?
“Careful,” Chinedu stepped closer, voice low enough that only she could hear. “Insult me again and I’ll have you escorted out before you take a single shot. But…” his gaze flicked to her camera, “if you can prove you’re worth the hassle, maybe I’ll let you stay.”
The orchestra started. Somewhere behind him, his father was giving a speech about legacy and responsibility.
Ola raised her camera. “Then don’t move. You make a great subject when you’re mad.”
_Click._
The flash caught him off guard. For half a second, the billionaire’s son looked human.
And for half a second, Ola forgot why she was supposed to hate him.
---page2 – cont’d
Ola moved fast once the music started.
The gala was chaos in motion - waiters balancing trays, women in sequins laughing too loud, businessmen closing deals between sips of champagne. She kept to the edges, lens trained on candid moments. A child tugging at his mother’s gown. An old couple slow-dancing like nobody was watching.
She was good at this. Finding the real stuff under the glitter.
“Still here, I see.”
Ola didn’t turn. She knew that voice. Low, infuriatingly calm.
“Shocking,” she said without looking up from her viewfinder, “a man who doesn’t take no for an answer.”
Chinedu stepped into her frame. Perfect posture, sleeves rolled up just enough to look deliberate. “I wanted to see if you’d run. Most people do when I talk to them like that.”
“Most people aren’t being paid by the hour,” Ola said, finally dropping the camera. “And I don’t run from bullies. I document them.”
He almost smiled. Almost.
“Document this,” he said, gesturing toward the center of the room where his father stood surrounded by investors. “Tell me what you see.”
Ola raised the camera again. Through the lens, it was obvious. Mr. Okon’s smile was too tight. His hand trembled slightly on his glass. The man who’d built an empire looked cornered.
“Your dad looks like he wants to be anywhere but here,” she said quietly.
Chinedu’s jaw tightened. “He is. But he won’t say it. Not in front of them.”
For a second, the arrogance dropped. Ola saw it - the weight he carried, the son expected to be ready for a throne he never asked for.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” she said before she could stop herself. “I’m just the girl with the camera.”
“Good,” Chinedu replied, voice low. “Because if you were anyone else, I’d have to worry about what you’d do with that.”
Before she could answer, a loud crash echoed from the far side of the room. Champagne glass shattered. Heads turned.
Ola’s instincts kicked in. She moved before Chinedu did, weaving through the crowd toward the noise.
“Don’t,” he called after her. “Ola, wait.”
She heard her name on his lips and kept going.
Whatever was happening, it was a story. And stories were what she chased.
Even if the billionaire’s son didn’t want her to.
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