EMMA
The morning air felt like a sheet of wet lead pressing against my lungs. I hadn’t slept. My skin felt too tight for my body, and every time the radiator in my apartment hissed, I jumped, expecting a wolf’s growl or Damien’s silk-wrapped threats.
But today was supposed to be the turning point. The "Million-Naira" contract.
It was a private gallery launch for L’Art de la Vie, a high-end Nigerian-owned collective expanding into London. It was my hail-mary. If I pulled this off, the prestige—and the massive deposit—would be enough to hire a legal team to bury Damien and his "Restricted" calls forever.
I pulled up to the venue in Mayfair, a sleek, brutalist concrete structure that usually bled sophistication. I was twenty minutes early, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the pavemen
