Chapter Seven: More Than a Flame.

Amaka hadn't slept.

The images kept returning — the destroyed shelves in her shop, the sickening crunch of glass under her heels, the eerie silence that followed the chaos. She could still smell wax and smoke in her hair.

Now, she stood in the guest bedroom of Obinna's private penthouse, wrapped in his silk robe, staring out at the sleeping city. The lights of Lagos shimmered like stars had crashed into the land and refused to leave. Even at this hour, the city hummed with distant traffic and a restless energy.

Behind her, Obinna stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her in the dim lamplight.

"You haven't said much since we got back," he murmured.

"I'm still trying to believe it," she replied softly. "That someone would destroy what I built just to send a message."

"They didn't just send it," he said. "They signed it with fire."

Amaka turned to face him. "Then let's send one back."

A small, amused flicker crossed his lips. "You're serious?"

Her jaw set. "I'm tired of reacting. Tired of hiding. They want me quiet. I say we make noise."

Obinna stepped into the room, his expression unreadable. "Making noise comes with risks. They'll aim harder."

"They already are," she said, voice hardening. "I want to fight."

Something in her tone — fierce, unshaken — ignited something in him. Not just desire, but pride. Admiration.

He moved closer, stopping just inches away. "You don't scare easily."

"Not anymore."

They stood in the silence for a breath, and then another, until the tension became a living thing between them. The air thickened with the weight of everything unsaid.

Obinna lifted his hand, slowly brushing a curl from her cheek. "I thought I was protecting you by keeping distance."

"You weren't," she whispered. "You were protecting yourself."

Their eyes locked.

"From what?" he asked, voice barely above a breath.

"From this," she answered. "From me."

He leaned in slowly, giving her space to pull away. She didn't.

Their lips met — gently at first, then deeper, urgent, hungry.

It wasn't a kiss of impulse. It was a kiss written in war, shaped by late nights and stolen glances and near-death truths.

It was everything they'd been too careful to admit.

When they finally broke apart, Amaka pressed her forehead against his chest. "This changes everything."

"No," he said. "It changes nothing. I still want to protect you. I still want you safe. I just… can't lie to myself anymore."

She looked up at him. "What do we do next?"

"We stop playing defense."

The next morning, Lagos woke to headlines of yet another scandal brewing — only this time, it was different.

"Echelon Holdings to Host Women-Led Investment Conference: CEO's Assistant to Headline Innovation Panel"

Blogs erupted. Analysts were confused. Feminist groups cheered. Critics scoffed.

But the real firestorm came from behind the scenes.

Inside the company, Ngozi's office buzzed with tension. Her assistant stood frozen, holding a printed copy of the announcement.

"She's what?" Ngozi snapped.

"Hosting a panel," the assistant replied. "She's… being positioned as a brand face."

Ngozi's smile was pure venom. "He's turning her into an icon. He's rewriting the narrative."

She tossed the document aside and dialed a secure line.

"She's becoming more visible," she said coldly. "Are you ready for Phase Three?"

The voice on the other end: smooth, calculated. Kenan.

"Already moving. But now, we add a new play."

"What?"

"We don't destroy her business this time."

Ngozi raised an eyebrow. "Then what?"

Kenan replied, "We buy it."

Back at Obinna's penthouse, Amaka sipped her tea while Kunle presented a detailed plan on the terrace screen.

"We've installed triple encryption on her phone, tracked the signal from the van that was watching her house, and identified two anonymous shell companies that bid to buy her storefront from the landlord."

"Let me guess," Obinna said dryly. "They trace back to Kenan."

"Not directly," Kunle replied. "But the money trail leads to tech investors based in Ghana. One of them was a silent partner in Danjuma's former NGO."

Obinna turned to Amaka. "They want to own you now. Not destroy you — just buy your silence."

"Let them try," she said coolly. "I'm not for sale."

He smiled — just barely. "We'll make it public. Tell the story before they spin it."

Amaka nodded. "And the investment panel?"

Obinna stood. "You're still leading it."

She blinked. "Obinna, that puts me in the spotlight—"

"Exactly," he said. "Let them come. Let them see who they're dealing with."

A strange calm settled over her. Not fear. Readiness.

"Alright," she said. "Then let's make this fire visible."

That night, Amaka sat alone on the edge of Obinna's bed, scrolling through her business's social feed.

One new comment stood out, freshly posted, already gaining likes:

"Powerful. Bold. Dangerous. But even queens bleed."

Her heart skipped.

It was posted by a user named: SovereignZero — an old code-name used by Kenan during his activist-hacker days.

She stared at the message, rereading the final line: Even queens bleed.

A chill ran down her spine.

Across town, Kenan smiled from his hidden location.

The trap was working.

He knew something Obinna hadn't told her yet.

Something buried in the files.

A secret she didn't even know belonged to her.