The next week came with sirens.
Not the literal kind—though Amaka wouldn't have been surprised—but the kind that screamed through headlines and inboxes, boardrooms and backchannels.
Someone had leaked internal documents from Amaka's company.
The kind that suggested favoritism. Nepotism. Unprofessional blending of personal and professional lines.
At the center of it all: her name.
Her signature.
Her relationship with Tunde.
"You didn't do anything wrong," Rita said, pacing the living room in heels that clicked like a countdown.
"That won't matter," Amaka replied. "Perception is louder than facts. And someone fed the wolves."
Her voice was steady, but her chest felt like a collapsing star.
Tunde sat on the arm of the couch, brows low. "You think it was Ifeyinwa?"
"She doesn't have access anymore."
"Then who?"
Amaka's eyes sharpened.
"There's only one person who still had credentials—and a grudge."
That evening, she met him.
Her former investor, Chuka Alade. The man who once promised to champion her tech revolution, only to back out when she refused to clean up her image for investors.
They met at a rooftop bar in Ikoyi, the kind where deals are made under the hum of jazz and veiled intentions.
"You're a phoenix, Amaka," Chuka said smoothly, sipping whisky. "But even phoenixes burn before they rise."
She leaned forward. "Did you leak the docs?"
A smile, too casual. "If I did, it's because you forgot what real power looks like. You got distracted by your artist. Your little romance."
"You mean the one I didn't need your permission for?"
His face darkened. "You've forgotten who built your first runway."
Amaka stood.
"I haven't forgotten. I've just learned how to fly without asking."
She walked away before he could reply—but her heart thundered.
Because the war was real now. And clean exits didn't exist.
Back at home, she told Tunde everything.
He was silent at first, then said, "We can pull back. From the joint campaign. If it's putting you at risk—"
"No," Amaka said quickly. "That's what they want. They want to rattle us into retreat."
He nodded, but there was a question in his eyes.
"What?"
She met his gaze.
"What if I asked you to pull back?" she said. "Would you?"
Tunde hesitated.
Then shook his head. "Not unless you meant it. And even then—I'd ask why first."
She smiled, broken and fierce. "Good. Because I need you right here. Not behind me. Not above me. Beside me."
He pulled her close. "Then that's where I'll stay."
But the next morning, the fire spread.
The campaign sponsors pulled out. Social media boiled with speculation. Anonymous accounts dropped edited clips of Tunde and Amaka, twisting their words into headlines.
And Amaka's inbox filled with subject lines that all sounded like war drums:
"Urgent: Board Review Meeting"
"Investor Confidence Fragile"
"Statement Needed Now"
Outside, the sky boiled. Lagos thunder threatened rain.
Inside, she looked at Tunde and whispered:
"This is the storm."
He took her hand.
"Then let's stand in it."