chapter 1
The problem with ambition, Amara Bello often thought, was that it never slept.
It sat beside you at 2:13 a.m. while your laptop burned heat into your thighs and your third cup of coffee turned cold on the desk.
It whispered:
Work harder.
Do more.
You’re already behind.
“Amara.”
She looked up from her screen.
Her best friend, Teni, stood in the doorway of the apartment kitchen holding two instant noodles cups and the expression of someone deeply concerned for another human being.
“You know normal people sleep, right?”
Amara adjusted her glasses without looking away from her presentation. “Normal people also don’t pitch national campaigns at nine in the morning.”
“You’re twenty-four.”
“And?”
“And you’re behaving like a divorced father with unpaid taxes.”
Amara snorted despite herself.
Teni gasped dramatically. “Oh my God. She laughs. She still has emotions.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t eat the noodles I made.”
Amara finally looked up. “You made noodles. Let’s not call you Chef of the Year.”
Teni dropped onto the couch beside her. “One day you’ll thank me when you become rich and famous.”
“I’ll already be rich and famous.”
“See?” Teni pointed at her. “That confidence is exactly why men are afraid of you.”
Amara rolled her eyes. “Men are not afraid of me.”
“They absolutely are. You talk like a motivational speaker with Wi-Fi issues.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means every time a man says hi, you look at him like he’s interrupting your TED Talk.”
Amara tried not to laugh again.
Failed.
Teni grinned victoriously before her eyes narrowed at the laptop screen.
“You’re still changing the slides?”
“It’s not perfect yet.”
“Amara, if you touch that presentation one more time, I’m reporting you to the government.”
“It needs better transitions.”
“It needs Jesus.”
Amara leaned back against the couch and rubbed her eyes.
Outside, Lagos pulsed restlessly through the apartment windows — distant horns, loud music somewhere down the street, the city never fully asleep.
She loved it.
Loved the movement.
The competition.
The endless possibility.
Some people dreamed about marriage.
Or babies.
Or falling hopelessly in love.
Amara dreamed about success.
A corner office.
Recognition.
Freedom.
Love was messy. Unpredictable. Temporary.
Success stayed.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
MUM.
Amara sighed immediately.
Teni saw the caller ID and winced. “Oof. General Bello.”
“My mother is not that bad.”
“Last week she asked me what my five-year plan was while I was eating chicken.”
“She means well.”
“She scares me.”
Amara answered the call anyway.
“Mum?”
“Are you still awake?”
Amara glanced at the glowing laptop. “Yes.”
“You work too much.”
That almost made her laugh.
Coming from her mother — the woman who scheduled vacations like business meetings — the statement felt deeply hypocritical.
“You raised me,” Amara replied.
“Hm.” Her mother paused. “Your father wants you at dinner on Sunday.”
“Why?”
“There are important people coming.”
Of course there were.
In the Bello family, there were always important people coming.
Politicians.
Business owners.
People with polished smiles and hidden agendas.
Amara pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll be there.”
“And wear something decent this time.”
“I always wear decent things.”
“Your ripped jeans are not decent.”
“They’re fashionable.”
“They’re unemployed-looking.”
Teni nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Amara shook her head. “Goodnight, Mum.”
“Goodnight. And Amara?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget. Your career comes first.”
The line went dead.
Silence settled briefly in the apartment.
Then Teni slowly turned toward her.
“Well,” she said carefully, “that explains... everything.”
Amara threw a pillow at her.
The next morning arrived too quickly.
By 8:15 a.m., Amara was speed-walking through Victoria Island in heels that should honestly qualify as weapons.
Coffee in one hand.
Laptop bag over her shoulder.
Phone trapped between her ear and shoulder.
“No, move the budget sheet to the final slide,” she said into the phone while weaving through traffic outside her office building. “And tell Daniel if he changes my concept again, I’ll actually fight him.”
A motorcycle sped past.
Someone shouted.
A danfo bus honked aggressively enough to shake her soul.
Typical Lagos morning.
Amara reached the café beside her office building and pushed the glass doors open, grateful for air conditioning and silence—
—and immediately slammed into someone.
Coffee exploded everywhere.
“Oh my God—”
Warm liquid splashed across her white blouse.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
“I’m so sorry,” a deep male voice said.
Amara looked up, already prepared to destroy whoever caused this disaster.
Then she froze.
The man standing in front of her looked unfairly calm for someone who had just ruined another person’s morning.
Tall.
Dark curly hair.
Plain black T-shirt.
Relaxed posture.
And eyes that carried the kind of confidence that came from someone entirely unbothered by life.
Unlike her.
He held up both hands innocently. “Before you murder me publicly, I’d like to say the floor was slippery.”
“You walked into me.”
“That sounds biased already.”
Amara stared at him in disbelief.
He was smiling.
Actually smiling.
Her blouse was stained, her meeting started in thirty minutes, and this stranger looked like he was seconds away from laughing.
“You think this is funny?”
“A little.”
“You ruined my shirt.”
“You’re alive though. That’s good news.”
Amara blinked slowly.
Who was this man?
And why did she suddenly want to throw coffee at him again?
The stranger grabbed napkins from the counter and handed them to her.
“Here,” he said. “Peace offering.”
She snatched them dramatically.
“You’re not forgiven.”
His smile widened.
“Good,” he said softly. “That would’ve been too easy.”
