The smell of antiseptic was sharp in the air as Amara burst through the hospital corridor, her footsteps echoing against the cold tiles. Her hands trembled as she clutched her worn-out purse, heart hammering inside her chest.
"Please, Doctor… tell me there's something you can do," she pleaded.
Dr. Nwoko gave her a tired, solemn look. "Your mother's condition is critical. We need to perform the surgery tonight. If we delay it any further…"
His words hung like a noose.
Amara swallowed. "How much?"
"₦3.5 million."
Her vision blurred. "I… I don't have that kind of money."
"I'm sorry," he said gently, before turning away. "We'll do what we can to keep her stable until tomorrow. But you need to act fast."
She slumped into the nearest bench, face buried in her hands. She had no one left. Her father was gone. Her relatives turned their backs years ago. She worked two jobs, but nothing close to what the hospital was asking for.
As her tears hit the floor, a deep voice interrupted.
"You need money?"
She looked up, startled.
A tall man in a tailored black suit stood before her. His jawline was sharp, his features unreadable. But his eyes—ice-cold and calculating—watched her with unsettling calm.
"I overheard your conversation," he said. "₦3.5 million is nothing to me."
Her heart skipped. "You're offering to… help me?"
"Yes," he said, sliding a business card into her hand. "But I don't give handouts."
Amara stared at the card. No name. Just a number and a hotel address.
"What's the condition?" she whispered.
"One night," he said coolly. "Tonight. With me. No strings. No questions. After that, you walk away with the money. Do we have a deal?"
Her throat tightened. This wasn't her. This wasn't who she was.
But this was for her mother.
"Why me?" she asked.
He gave a ghost of a smile. "Because you have something they don't—innocence."
Her palms were sweating. Her legs shook.
He extended a document—a contract. "Sign. And come to the Rosewood Hotel, Room 1107. 10 PM sharp."
She stared at the paper.
"I'll wire the money to the hospital by midnight," he added, his voice like velvet but laced with steel.
Silence.
Then… she signed.
---
At 9:55 PM, Amara stood before the hotel room, heart pounding so loudly it echoed in her ears.
She raised her hand to knock… but the door opened before she could.
He stood there, in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, a glass of whiskey in hand.
"I was starting to think you wouldn't show," he said.
She swallowed.
And stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her fate in silence. The room was dimly lit, with golden sconces casting soft shadows across the walls. Everything smelled like polished wood and money — crisp, clean, expensive.
Amara's fingers tightened around the strap of her handbag. Every nerve in her body screamed to run. But her feet stayed rooted to the plush carpet.
He didn't move closer. He just watched her — quietly, intensely — as if waiting to see whether she'd shatter or survive.
"Take a seat," he said, gesturing toward the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window.
She obeyed, legs stiff, pulse wild. Her eyes drifted toward the night skyline of Lagos, glittering in the distance. The city buzzed with life outside, but in this room, time felt frozen.
"Would you like a drink?" he asked.
"No," she replied, her voice low.
He nodded, taking a slow sip of his whiskey before sitting opposite her.
"I assume this isn't something you've done before."
She looked up sharply. "Is that supposed to comfort me?"
He let out the faintest hint of a chuckle, not unkind, but not soft either. "No. But I prefer honesty."
There was silence. Then she asked, "Why do this? Why help me?"
His gaze flickered. "Maybe I like the idea of saving someone who doesn't already belong to this world."
Amara felt her chest tighten. "This doesn't feel like saving."
"You had a choice. You still do."
"No, I don't," she whispered.
Another beat of silence passed before he stood, walked over to a small safe near the wall, and punched in a code. A drawer slid open. He pulled out a folded set of clothes — a soft silk robe — and handed it to her.
"You can change in the bathroom," he said, nodding toward the door at the far end of the suite. "You have five minutes."
She rose slowly, heart hammering, and took the robe with trembling fingers.
Inside the bathroom, she locked the door behind her and leaned against it, gasping for air. Her reflection stared back from the mirror: scared, shaken, but determined. She could hear her mother's voice — fading, fragile — telling her to be strong.
Amara wiped away a tear.
Five minutes.
She undressed slowly, folded her clothes neatly, and put on the robe. It was soft, far too luxurious for the girl who once shared a room with cracked walls and a leaking ceiling.
When she stepped out, he was no longer on the armchair. He stood by the bed now, watching her with the same unreadable expression.
Her throat went dry.
Then, softly, he said, "You can still walk away."
Amara met his gaze, her voice barely a whisper. "No. I already signed."
He nodded once, solemnly, and walked toward her. Each step felt like a countdown. When he reached her, he didn't touch her immediately. Instead, he reached out slowly, as if waiting for her to flinch.
She didn't.
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle.
"What's your name?" she asked, voice shaking.
He hesitated.
"Liam."