The CEO’s Secret Baby Mama

Three Years Later

The sun over Ibadan was different from the sun in Lagos. It was slower, hotter, and smelled of red earth instead of sea salt and exhaust.

Teni sat in a small, cramped office in the heart of Dugbe. She wasn’t a cleaner anymore. True to her Computer Science roots, she had started a small "Business Center." She repaired laptops, typed documents, and helped students with their projects. It wasn't a billionaire’s empire, but it was hers.

"Mummy! See what I drew!"

A three-year-old boy with skin the color of toasted caramel and eyes that held the depth of a stormy ocean ran into the shop. This wasn't Tobi—this was Junior, the baby born from that rainy night in the Lagos penthouse.

Teni looked up from a broken motherboard, her heart swelling. Junior was the spitting image of Alexander Sterling. He had the same arrogant tilt to his head and the same way of narrowing his eyes when he was focused.

"It's beautiful, Junior. Is that a car?"

"It’s a big building," Junior said, pointing to the tall structure in his drawing. "Like the ones you told me about."

Teni’s smile faded slightly. She never told him about Alexander, but she told him stories of "The Glass Towers" like they were fairy tales.

"Teni!" her friend and business partner, Funke, rushed into the shop, holding a newspaper. Her face was pale. "You need to see this. The big news from Lagos."

Teni wiped her greasy hands on a rag. "I don't care about Lagos, Funke. You know that."

"You’ll care about this," Funke insisted, slamming the paper onto the desk.

The headline screamed: STERLING HOLDINGS COLLAPSE? Billionaire Alexander Sterling Calls Off 'Wedding of the Century'—Search for Mystery Woman Continues.

There was a photo of him. He looked older. There were dark circles under his eyes, and the "Ice King" look had been replaced by a man who looked haunted. The article said he had fired his entire security team for failing to find "someone important" and had spent the last three years pouring millions into private investigators.

Teni’s hands trembled. He was still looking.

"He’s never going to find us here," Teni whispered, more to herself than to Funke.

"Teni, he’s offering a ten-million Naira reward for any information on a woman matching your description," Funke said, her voice dropping. "People are getting greedy. Even here in Ibadan, people are talking."

Suddenly, the sound of a heavy car engine—not a noisy Danfo, but a smooth, expensive hum—stopped right in front of her small shop.

Teni froze. Junior ran to the door, curious as always.

"Mummy! A big black car is here! Like the one in my drawing!"

Teni stood up, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked at the door. A tall man in a charcoal suit stepped out. He didn't look like a local. He looked like power. He looked like him.

But it wasn't Alexander. It was a man with a tablet in his hand, looking at the sign of her shop:

TENI’S TECH HUB.

"Teniola Williams?" the man asked, his voice professional and cold. "My boss has been waiting a very long time to have a word with you."

Teni looked at Junior, then at the man. The "Soft Life" was knocking on her door again, and this time, it wasn't bringing flowers. It was bringing a reckoning.