My Twins' Billionaire Boss Wants Me Back

The Call

My phone was still ringing.

I stared at the screen, frozen in the dark study.

MY SISTER.

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. The silver pendant with the moon and star was cold in my palm, and the photograph of Amara in Ethan's arms was still on the desk where I left it.

It had been three years.

Three years since everyone told me she was gone. Since the police report came from Lagos. Since we buried an empty coffin in our family compound in Accra because there was no body to bury. Since my mother stopped singing in the kitchen. Since my father stopped speaking at dinner.

Three years since her disappearance shattered our family.

And now her name was glowing on my phone in the locked study of Adrian Knight — or Ethan Knight, as he called himself in London.

I pressed answer. My hand shook so badly I almost dropped the phone on the expensive Persian rug.

"Hello?"

Silence.

Only breathing on the other side. Faint. Uneven. Like someone running.

My heart pounded so loud I was sure Adrian could hear it downstairs over the shouting.

"Hello? Who is this? Please, who is this?"

A faint breath came through the speaker. Then static. Like someone calling from far away, from a bad connection.

Then a woman's voice whispered. One word.

"Zara..."

Not my sister's nickname for me. My name. But she said it the way only my twin ever said it — soft, with that small lisp she had when she was scared.

My knees nearly gave way. I had to hold the big wooden desk to stay standing.

It was her. It was her voice. The same voice that used to whisper to me at night in our room in Lagos when we were girls. The same voice that used to steal my Ankara dresses and lie about it.

"Where are you? Amara, where are you? Are you alive? Please tell me you are alive."

Silence again. Longer this time. I could hear wind on her side.

"Please!" I whispered, tears running hot down my face, falling onto Adrian's desk. "If this is really you, tell me where you are. Tell me you're alive. Mama thinks you're dead. We buried you! We did the funeral! Papa has not spoken your name in three years!"

Her breathing became heavier. Faster. Scared. Like she was hiding in a closet.

"You shouldn't have gone to the Knight family."

The blood left my face. Cold spread from my chest to my fingers.

"I need answers. Everyone said you died in Lagos. They showed us a police report. A car accident on Lekki-Epe Expressway. They said the car burned."

"No."

Her voice trembled. She sounded like she was crying, trying not to be heard.

"You need to leave. Tonight. Leave that house. Leave Knight House now."

"Why? Why? Adrian says you stole something. He says you ran from him with something that belonged to his family. Is that true?"

"Because Adrian isn't the man you think he is."

I froze. The study felt ten degrees colder. The moonlight that was on the floor earlier was gone, covered by clouds.

"What do you mean? He... he was kind to me. His mother was kind. His sister Temi... They took my twins. They gave us jollof."

"He will tell you that he loved me."

I glanced toward the locked door. I could hear shouting far downstairs, heavy footsteps running, Mrs. Adebayo's voice raised.

"He will tell you that I betrayed him. That I stole from his family. That I am a thief."

My heart raced. My sister never stole anything in her life. Amara was the good twin. The one who returned extra change at the market.

"Did you? Amara, did you betray him? Did you steal?"

A long silence followed. So long I thought the call had died, that she had hung up.

Then she whispered, so quiet I almost didn't hear it, so broken it shattered my heart.

"I had no choice. They told me if I didn't, they would kill you. They said they would kill you and Mama. They showed me a photo of you at Peckham Market with the twins."

"What? Who? Amara, what happened to you? Who told you that? Who threatened you?"

Before she could answer, another voice came through the phone. A man's voice. Cold. American. Not Nigerian. Not British. Flat and emotionless.

"You have thirty seconds. Thirty seconds to say goodbye to your sister. Make it count."

My sister gasped. A small, terrified cry that I had never heard from her before. Amara was always the brave one.

"Amara, listen to me. Whatever Adrian tells you, don't believe him— don't trust the children. Don't—"

The call suddenly ended.

Beep. Beep. Beep. The sound was deafening in the silent study.

I stared at the phone. The screen was black now, reflecting my terrified face.

"Hello? Amara? Hello? Amara, are you there? Please!"

Nothing. Just the ticking of the old clock on the study wall, loud like a hammer.

Then I heard footsteps outside the study. Heavy. Fast. Coming toward me down the quiet hallway. The same hallway the little girl had led me through.

I quickly wiped my tears with my sleeve and stepped away from the desk. I hid the phone behind my back. I slipped the photograph of Amara and Adrian into my dress pocket. The pendant I held tight in my fist.

The door opened hard, hitting the wall.

Adrian entered.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his expensive white shirt untucked, and there was a small fresh cut across his right hand. Blood. Just a little, dripping onto the polished floor. His light-to-medium warm skin was pale, his dark wavy hair messy.

"What happened? What was that crash downstairs?" I asked. I tried to sound calm. My voice cracked.

"Nothing. Security issue. It's handled. South gate breach. Someone cut the camera power," he said quickly, but his eyes were not on me. They scanned the study, checking if anything was moved. His eyes landed on the empty space on the wall where the photograph had been.

He closed the door behind him and locked it again with the key. His eyes went straight to my phone in my hand. To my red eyes, my wet cheeks.

"Who called you? Who was on the phone? I heard ringing from the hallway."

I hesitated. My throat was dry like harmattan season.

"No one. Wrong number. Spam call. You know how London is."

He stared at me. That stare that made board members resign, that made grown men in suits look down.

"Don't lie to me, Zara."

My heart pounded against my ribs.

"Why? Why can't I lie? It's my phone. It's my private life."

"Because people who lie to me usually don't get a second chance to lie again."

The words sent a chill through my entire body. Not because he shouted. Because he said it quietly, like a fact, like he was telling me the weather.

I stepped backward until my back hit the tall bookshelf full of old African art books.

"You said my sister was alive. You said she ran. You said she stole something."

His expression changed. Only for a second. But I saw it. Fear. Real fear. In Adrian Knight's eyes. The man who owned banks, towers, and candy factories.

"You heard that? You were listening outside my door earlier?"

"I found the photograph. And the pendant. Your daughter showed me. She said I look exactly like the woman in your picture. She said Papa keeps it in the small box he doesn't let anyone touch."

He looked away toward the window. The moon was gone now, covered completely by clouds. The garden lights outside were off.

"Amara... your sister... she was... she was my wife."

The world stopped. My ears rang.

"Wife? Your wife? You were married to my sister?"

He remained silent, jaw tight, that muscle jumping.

"Who is she hiding from? Who threatened her? Who was that man on the phone with the American accent? He said thirty seconds!"

He remained silent, staring at the wall of photos where Amara's face had been.

"Who threatened her? Tell me! Is she alive?"

Still nothing.

I walked closer, angry now. Three years of grief made me angry. Three years of burying an empty coffin made me brave.

"And why are the children scared of your study? Why did your daughter say 'Papa says nobody is allowed inside'? What are you hiding in this house, Adrian? What did you do to my sister?"

He finally looked at me. His eyes were dark, tortured.

"If I tell you the truth, Zara, you will never sleep again. And you will never be able to leave this house alive."