Chapter Nine: When The Truth Bleeds.

Rain fell hard over Lagos that night.

Fat, angry drops slapped rooftops and streetlights, as though the skies were trying to scrub away the sins of the city. But inside a quiet bungalow in Okota, one truth refused to wash clean.

Amaka stood motionless in her mother's living room.

A printed copy of the blog post lay on the table between them. A glass of untouched zobo sat beside it, condensation trailing down the sides like sweat.

Across from her, Ifeoma Obi sat rigid, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

"I asked you once," Amaka said, voice flat. "Did you know him before? And you said no."

Ifeoma's voice came out soft. "Because I knew this day would come."

"Then why lie?"

Her mother looked up — and for the first time in years, Amaka saw fear in her eyes. Not of punishment. Not of shame.

Of loss.

"You were just ten," Ifeoma said. "Your father had just passed. And I… I was struggling to pay your school fees. Obinna and Kenan were two stubborn boys with brilliant ideas but no money. I gave them what little I had from your father's life insurance to fund Zenetek."

Amaka's throat tightened. "So you did fund it."

"Yes. And I believed in them. In Obinna especially. He had this fire… this conviction. We never dated, Amaka. It wasn't like that. We were—close. But then Zenetek collapsed. And when Kenan blamed Obinna for it, everything fell apart."

"So why did he promise to look after me?"

Ifeoma smiled sadly. "Because I begged him to. When I found out Kenan had been arrested for digital theft and Obinna was about to go solo… I asked him to protect you from the mess our choices might cause. That was the last time I saw him—until I saw his face on a magazine five years later."

Amaka sat down heavily, her legs numb.

"And when I got the job at Echelon…"

"I didn't know," her mother whispered. "Not until you mentioned his name in passing. By then, I thought… maybe God was rewriting the story."

Amaka stared at the zobo, the red swirling like blood.

"So my whole life… my whole career was born out of a promise between two broken people?"

"No," her mother said gently. "It was born out of your grit. Your strength. Your brilliance. Obinna gave you nothing you didn't earn."

Amaka's eyes welled.

"I don't know what's real anymore," she whispered. "I don't know if I love a man or a ghost of your past."

Ifeoma reached across the table and held her hand. "Then ask your heart. It knows the difference."

Back at Echelon's penthouse, Obinna stood at the window, drenched in silence. Rain pounded the glass behind him, mirroring the storm in his chest.

He hadn't heard from Amaka in hours.

Kunle entered the room quietly. "I don't like this, sir."

"I know."

"She's out there, and Kenan knows it. We've confirmed that the man who recorded her at the panel was a hired freelance surveillance agent. Guess who paid him?"

Obinna turned. "Kenan."

"Exactly."

Obinna's fists clenched. "Then tonight, we end it."

He reached for his jacket.

Kunle blocked him. "Sir. If you go out there hot, you'll be playing into his hands."

"I'm done waiting for him to strike. He's crossed too many lines."

"What if he goes after her again?"

Obinna's eyes burned. "Then God help him."

The cab dropped Amaka off near her cousin Ada's apartment in Yaba. She needed air. Needed to breathe without pressure, wealth, or expectations closing in.

Ada greeted her with a towel and a hug. "You're soaked. What are you doing walking around in this weather?"

"I needed to hear my own thoughts," Amaka replied. "Without security cameras watching."

They talked for an hour. Laughed a little. Ate jollof. Amaka finally smiled again.

Then, just as she reached for her bag to leave, Ada frowned. "Hey. Did you leave this envelope on the kitchen counter?"

Amaka looked over.

A plain white envelope. Unmarked. Unsealed.

"No," she said.

Ada's face paled. "It wasn't there earlier."

Amaka stepped forward cautiously and opened it.

Inside was a printed photo — grainy and dark — of her, taken from across the street.

She recognized the shot.

She was in front of her mother's house… just three hours ago.

On the back was a message, scribbled in red ink.

"You can run, but I was there first. — K"

Simultaneously, Kenan watched through a tablet in his compound, tracking Amaka's panic through the lens of a hidden camera sewn into the envelope flap.

"She knows now," he said into his earpiece.

A female voice responded: "And the Chief?"

Kenan smiled. "He'll burn trying to protect her."

Then he turned to another screen.

Video footage from the gala weeks ago—Obinna and Amaka's first dance.

Zoomed in. Enhanced. Paused.

Kenan stared at it.

"There's a storm coming," he whispered. "And their love will be the first to drown."