The morning didn't break—it slouched into the sky like a man too tired to stand. Grey clouds clung to the Lagos skyline, drizzling occasional bursts of rain that left the roads slick with memory. Inside a rusted danfo bus, wedged between a trader smelling of smoked fish and an older man mumbling into a greasy handkerchief, Majekodunmi Adebayo—Majek, as his friends used to call him—clutched his nylon file like it was a lifeline.
Inside it were four things:
His First-Class degree in Business Administration from the University of Ibadan,
a photocopy of his NYSC discharge certificate,
a printed résumé full of unpaid internships,
and a folded prayer point his mother wrote with shaking hands the night before.
He hadn't eaten.
He hadn't slept.
But his spirit wouldn't let him quit.
"God, just this one," he muttered under his breath, eyes shut tight. "I don't even want to be rich. Just this one job."
The danfo screeched to a halt at Victoria Island. The conductor yelled something about last bus stop, but Majek had already jumped off before the tires fully stopped. He landed on the sidewalk like a soldier storming a battlefield, straightening his borrowed tie in the reflection of a tinted glass window.
The SMG Conglomerate headquarters towered over him like a silent verdict.
He'd seen it on LinkedIn. On Nairaland. In dreams he dared not speak aloud. The white and steel building loomed with clean, merciless lines—corporate elegance at its finest. And inside, somewhere high above, sat Mr. Smith Lewis, the legendary CEO.
Majek had heard the rumors: Smith Lewis was a ghost in boardrooms and a lion in silence. The kind of man who knew your GPA and your moral compass by the way you shook his hand.
Majek breathed out slowly and stepped through the rotating glass doors.
Inside, the lobby smelled like new money and imported sanitizer. Polished floors reflected the chandelier light above. Everyone moved with quiet urgency, dressed in suits that cost more than his father's monthly pension.
The receptionist didn't look up. "Name?"
"Majekodunmi Adebayo."
She typed rapidly.
"You're late," she said.
Majek's heart dropped.
"But—madam—the invite said ten. It's just 9:47 a.m."
She didn't look impressed. "You're the third Majekodunmi today. Elevator to your left. Eleventh floor. Conference Room 3B. Don't stammer."
He nodded, whispered a quick thank-you, and hurried toward the elevator. His palms were sweaty.
As the silver doors slid shut behind him, he caught a glimpse of his reflection: clean-cut, nerves hiding behind hopeful eyes, and a suit one size too big. The floor numbers glowed above him like judgment.
By the time he stepped into Conference Room 3B, it was nearly full. Ten other candidates sat around a long table. Men in crisp agbadas and women in fitted blazers. One of them, a guy with a pocket square and a Rolex, looked up and smirked.
"Nice of you to join us," he said.
Majek offered a polite nod and sat in the only empty chair. His throat was dry.
A tall woman walked in moments later with a clipboard and a cold face. "You will be split into pairs. There are six roles open. Only the top six will proceed to the next phase. Impress me, or don't waste our time."
Majek didn't breathe for the first twenty minutes of the group assessment. Logic puzzles. Market analysis. Conflict simulations. They threw it all at him. And for the first time in weeks, his brain remembered what it was built for.
He spoke clearly. Calculated. He challenged politely. He solved the profit puzzle faster than anyone else. When asked what leadership meant to him, he replied, "Doing the right thing even when it's easier to stay quiet."
The cold woman's pen paused. Her eyes met his for one brief second.
The hour passed like lightning. When she finally called his name as one of the six to proceed to personal interviews, he felt a tear threaten his left eye.
He didn't let it fall.
An hour later, he was sitting alone in the private interview room, waiting.
That was when he saw her.
Not in full—but a blur of beauty in motion.
She passed the open door like a breeze scented with jasmine and steel. Majek only caught the hem of her cream skirt and the slight bounce of curly, auburn-dyed hair.
Then, a voice from the corridor snapped him back to earth.
"Agnes, wait—don't forget the board files."
Agnes.
His chest stiffened.
Was that the CEO's daughter?
Rumors said she was brilliant. Groomed for leadership. Untouchable. And promised to a mystery heir no one had seen.
He was still processing the vision when the door opened.
"Mr. Adebayo," said the woman who entered. Not the one from before. This one was taller, in her forties, with a sleek twist bun and thin-rimmed glasses.
Behind her entered a man who moved like air with mass—tall, silver-haired, and iron-eyed.
Majek stood, his throat a desert.
"Mr. Smith Lewis," said the woman, gesturing to the elder beside her.
Majek's knees almost gave way.
The CEO nodded once. "Sit."
Majek sat.
The next forty minutes felt like a courtroom.
They asked him about his past, his future, and everything in between.
"What do you fear?" Mr. Smith asked quietly.
Majek blinked. "Not fulfilling my potential."
"Why did you intern three times for free?"
"Because I believed value doesn't always pay in cash."
"Would you challenge your superior if you believed they were wrong?"
"I'd ask questions. Loud ones if necessary."
There was a pause. Mr. Smith leaned back.
"Good," he said finally. "Because my daughter doesn't need cowards around her."
Majek flinched. What?
But the interview was over.
"Expect a call within 48 hours," the assistant said.
Majek stepped out of the room dizzy. He barely registered the city noise as he walked out of SMG and back into the chaos of Victoria Island.
The sun had finally come out.
Two days later, the email came:
Subject: Conditional Offer – SMG Conglomerate
Dear Mr. Adebayo,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for a three-month probationary role as Junior Analyst under the direct supervision of the CEO's Office...
Majek screamed so loud his neighbor thought there was a robbery.
Three Weeks Later…
Majek sat at a polished desk on the tenth floor with a company ID clipped to his pocket and a task list longer than his entire final year thesis.
He was surviving.
Barely.
Mr. Smith didn't smile. Ever.
The job was demanding. Reports by 6 a.m., meetings at 9, corrections by 12, reviews by 3.
But every now and then, between photocopying proposals and dashing to legal for document stamps, he saw her.
Agnes.
She was everything the blogs didn't say. She wasn't just beautiful. She was brilliant. Calculated. Kind in quiet ways.
One day, he caught her picking up a dropped file for a struggling intern. Another day, he saw her send coffee to a security guard who looked half-dead from night shift.
She didn't know his name.
But Majek knew hers had already become a prayer he whispered without permission.
He told himself to forget it.
He was just a temp.
She was legacy.
But then came the board meeting.
The day it all began to unravel.
Majek had been asked to bring in projection slides for the quarterly meeting. He wasn't supposed to speak. Just click the remote and keep quiet.
But the moment Agnes walked into the room, flanked by her father and two foreign investors, he forgot how to breathe.
She wore a navy blue blazer that screamed grace and war in equal measure.
Majek stood behind the presentation screen, nerves tight.
Then came the moment.
Mr. Smith was showing a decline in sales across their logistics arm.
"...we believe it's temporary. Caused by port delays," one exec said.
Majek's fingers twitched.
He'd seen the numbers. He knew it wasn't just port delays.
He shouldn't speak.
But he remembered his own answer:
"Doing the right thing, even when it's easier to stay quiet."
He cleared his throat.
"Permission to clarify, sir?" he asked.
The room stilled.
Mr. Smith's eyes sliced through him. "Speak."
Majek stepped forward, voice even.
"I analyzed trends over the past six quarters. The real decline began before the port crisis. There's a mismatch in fleet servicing and delivery density. We're paying more per route than we're earning in cargo returns."
A long silence.
Then Agnes looked up—really looked at him.
Something shifted in her face.
A spark. A smile—barely there, but enough.
And Mr. Smith?
He nodded slowly.
"Fix it."
That night, Majek stood by the elevator waiting for a ride down when she joined him.
Agnes.
She didn't speak at first. Just pressed the button.
Then, softly:
"You were right. About the fleet analysis."
Majek swallowed. "Just doing my job."
She looked at him again. This time, longer.
"You always that brave?"
He chuckled nervously. "No. I usually rehearse courage."
The elevator arrived. They both stepped in.
As the doors slid shut, she said something he would never forget:
"Rehearsed or not… courage is courage."
And just like that,
The man who had been too afraid to speak his dreams
Began to wonder
What would happen if he dared to love the boss's daughter.