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AMARA'S POV: ‎ ‎My slippers were shouting.That was the first thing I was thinking as I entered Sky Lounge. Shhhh, shhh, shhh. The rubber slippers from Yaba market that I bought for 1,500 naira. In a place where the floor is shining like they use bottled water to mop it.I was not supposed to be here. ‎ ‎My tote bag, my faded tote bag that says "UK First Grade Thrift ,DM to Order" was heavy. Three big black nylons inside. My customer's gown was inside. She sent me voice note: "Amara bring am come Sky Lounge, I dey there dey chop with my boo, no waste time." ‎ ‎I wanted to waste no time. ‎ ‎Inside Sky Lounge, the AC was too cold, the food smelled like nothing. They were eating small, small steak that looks like it cannot fill a child. One steak for 45k. For what? ‎ ‎My stomach was growling. Loud. I had not eaten since morning. I was doing thrift live on i********:, packing orders, running around Yaba. ‎ ‎My plan was simple: enter, give this girl her gown, collect my 18k, run out, and go to Mama Put - Iya Mulikat's shop down the street. I want real food. Hot amala and gbegiri with plenty meat. Food that will stay in stomach. Not this fake ass food with parsley on top. ‎ ‎So I walked fast. Head down. I did not look at anybody. I didn't care about their Rolex, their designer bags, their blonde wigs. I just wanted to be invisible. Quick in, quick out. ‎ ‎I was holding my nylons tight to my chest so they wouldn't touch anybody's chair. I was sweating. My white t-shirt sticking to my back. My puff was rough. I knew I looked out of place. Very normal. Very Yaba. Very not Sky Lounge. ‎ ‎I saw my customer waving. "Amara! Here!" ‎I moved faster. ‎ ‎Then my foot hit water. Small water on the floor that cleaner did not clean. ‎ ‎My rubber slipper went "SHHH"I tilted. ‎ ‎My elbow hit something hard a tray ‎ ‎And red Chapman flew. ‎ ‎It did not fly to the floor. It flew onto a man. Onto his shoe. His leg. His black shoe shining like mirror. Italian shoe. Ice cubes scattering, orange slices falling on his foot. ‎ ‎Silence. The whole restaurant went quiet. ‎ ‎My heart stopped. ‎ ‎I looked at the shoe. Then at the man. ‎ ‎ ‎MATTEO POV: ‎ ‎I hate Sky lounge ‎Too bright. Too loud. Rich Lagos boys pretending they have money. ‎ ‎I was there for a meeting. My men at the door, gun at my waist, whiskey untouched. I was already bored, already wanting to leave. ‎ ‎Then the door opened and she walked in. ‎ ‎No. She didn't walk in like the other women. The other women walk in here to be seen. Heels clicking, perfume choking, hips swinging extra. ‎ ‎She walked in like she didn't know she was beautiful. ‎ ‎Faded tote bag. Big. You could see "UK First Grade Thrift" written with marker fading. Rubber slippers. White t-shirt that had been washed too many times, jeans that clung to her because she has nothing extra but she has shape. ‎ ‎Petite. ‎ ‎That was the first word in my head. ‎ ‎Small. Slim. Frail. The kind of frame that if I held too tight, she would break. Waist so small my two hands could probably cover it. Legs thin but with that curve at the back that only real women have. ‎ ‎And she was sweating. Slightly. Forehead shining. No makeup. No wig laid to the gods. Just her curly hair tied quickly, a few strands sticking to her neck. ‎ ‎She was not supposed to be in this kind of place. She knew it. You could see it in how she was holding her nylons three big black nylons of clothes, hugging them like they were protecting her from the stares. ‎ ‎But she didn't care about status. ‎ ‎That was what hooked me. ‎ ‎She walked past tables where men were wearing Rolex worth 10 million. She didn't look. She didn't adjust her top. She didn't try to draw attention with how she walked. She was just trying to find her customer and leave. ‎ ‎In my world, everyone wants attention. Everyone wants to be noticed by me. ‎ ‎She wanted to be invisible. ‎ ‎And I have never wanted something invisible so badly. ‎ ‎I watched her frame. How small she was compared to the chairs. How when she shifted the bag, her t-shirt lifted slightly and I saw the small of her back — smooth, sweaty. I felt my jaw tighten. ‎ ‎My body reacted before my mind. I leaned forward. ‎ ‎Then she slipped. ‎ ‎That small splash of water nobody cleaned. Her rubber slipper made that "shhh" sound. ‎ ‎The waiter was passing. Tray with Chapman. Red. ‎ ‎It tipped. Fell. Straight onto my shoe. My Berluti. 400k. ‎ ‎The whole restaurant gasped. They know who I am. They thought I would shoot. ‎ ‎Red Chapman poured over black leather. Ice cubes on my foot. Lemon slice. ‎ ‎She froze. Then her eyes big, brown, terrified found mine. ‎ ‎She dropped to her knees. Instantly. ‎ ‎"Oh my God! Sorry sir! Sorry sir!" ‎ ‎She was using her own scarf to clean my shoe. Her hands shaking so much. Her bag fell open. Thrift gowns spilling. ‎ ‎Everyone was looking at the shoe. ‎ ‎I was looking at her neck. How frail it was. How when she bent, I could see the bones in her back through her shirt. ‎ ‎She could break so easily. ‎ ‎And all I could think was no one else touches her. Not like this. Not kneeling. ‎ ‎I didn't feel anger. I felt obsession drop in my chest like a stone. ‎ ‎I should have kicked her away. In my world, you pay for mistakes. ‎ ‎Instead I said, low, so only she could hear: ‎ ‎"Look at me." ‎ ‎She looked up. Lips trembling. Very beautiful, but very normal. Not an i********: face. A real face. A face you want to wake up to. ‎ ‎"What's your name?" I asked. ‎ ‎"Am...Amara," she whispered. ‎ ‎Amara. ‎ ‎I said it again in my head. Amara. Amara who sells thrift in Yaba. Amara who doesn't know she just walked into a billionaire Mafia's life and ruined it. ‎ ‎I gave her my handkerchief. Not for my shoe. ‎ ‎"Clean your hands. Not my shoe," I said. ‎ ‎Because my shoe can be replaced. ‎ ‎But her hands? I wanted those hands to stay soft. For me. ‎ ‎She took it, confused. ‎ ‎And in that moment, Matteo Moretti, who has never chased a woman, who buys companies when he is bored, knew: ‎ ‎This normal girl just spilled a drink on my shoe. ‎‎And I will spill my whole life for her. ‎ ‎ ‎‎AMARA'S POV AGAIN: ‎ ‎I was kneeling on the floor of the most expensive restaurant in VI and I wanted the ground to open and swallow me. ‎ ‎I could feel all eyes. The women laughing small, the men looking. My customer covering her mouth. ‎ ‎And the man... God, the man I poured Chapman on was not shouting. That was the scary part. ‎ ‎He was just looking at me. Quiet. Cold. Dangerous. ‎ ‎He was huge. Tall, even while sitting. Light brown skin, Italian-Nigerian like those mixed guys on i********:, but in real life, more dangerous. Sharp jaw, black shirt, tattoos crawling up his hand, up his neck. Gold watch. Eyes that have seen things. ‎ ‎I thought .... this man will kill me. This man will tell his boys to beat me outside. I should run. I should leave my tote and run out of this restaurant now. ‎ ‎I wanted to run. My legs were already shaking to run. ‎ ‎Then he spoke. Low. Not loud. But the whole restaurant heard it because his voice is that kind of voice. ‎ ‎"Look at me." ‎ ‎I did not want to. I was scared. My stomach still growling, but now from fear, not hunger. ‎ ‎I looked up. ‎ ‎Our eyes locked. ‎ ‎His eyes were dark brown, almost black, but with something soft hidden deep inside that was looking at me like... like he had been waiting to see me. ‎ ‎My breath caught. My tears that were holding finally wanted to fall. ‎ ‎I thought ,why is he looking at me like that? I just ruined his shoe. He should be angry. ‎ ‎He was not angry. He was... something in his eyes, I couldn't place. ‎ ‎"What's your name?" he asked. His voice had Italian accent mixed with Yoruba English. Low. ‎ ‎"Am...Amara," I whispered. My voice broke. ‎ ‎"Amara," he repeated. Like he was keeping it. Like my name was now his. ‎ ‎He brought out a white handkerchief. Clean, expensive, smelling like expensive perfume. He handed it to me. ‎ ‎For a second I thought he wanted me to clean his shoe better. ‎ ‎Then he said, "Clean your hands. Not my shoe." ‎ ‎My hands. Stained with Chapman and dust from his rug. ‎ ‎He cared about my hands? In this place where nobody cared that my slippers were shouting? ‎ ‎Something shifted in my chest. ‎ ‎My fear did not disappear. But it mixed with something else. Something warm, confusing, that made my stomach that was growling for amala now growl for something else. ‎ ‎I took the handkerchief with shaking fingers. Our fingers brushed. His hand was big, tattooed, warm. Mine was small, rough from washing thrift. ‎ ‎He stood up. His shoe dripping red. He looked down at me one more time at my small frame kneeling and said so only I could hear: ‎ ‎"You are hungry." ‎ ‎I was shocked. How did he know? My stomach had growled loud enough? ‎ ‎"I can hear it," he said, almost a whisper, with a small smirk that was not mocking, but soft. "Deliver your market. Then come back. I will feed you real food. Not this fake ass food." ‎ ‎He used my own words. Fake ass food. He heard my thoughts? ‎ ‎He left his card on my tote bag. Black. Gold edge. Just a number. ‎ ‎And walked away, leaving red footprints. ‎ ‎I stayed kneeling on the floor, holding his expensive handkerchief that smelled like him, holding his card, with my thrift gowns scattered around me, my stomach growling, my heart beating like drum. ‎ ‎I wanted to run out of the restaurant. ‎ ‎But my legs would not run anymore. ‎ ‎Because for the first time, a dangerous man looked at a normal Yaba girl like me like I was the only real food in a room full of fake