Nobela ni Nkechi Onyearugbulem

Saturday mornings were supposed to be sacred. At least for Rachael. They were her one-day truce from the chaos of her weekly grind, a chance to wake up late, scroll aimlessly through social media, and pretend she was an heiress whose only responsibility was deciding whether brunch would be pancakes or waffles.But that morning, her peace was ruined by the shrill ringtone of her phone. She groaned, yanked the blanket over her head, and prayed it was a wrong number. Unfortunately, the name flashing across the screen made her sit up immediately: Mom.Rachael squinted at the clock. 11:43 a.m. Too early for drama, too late to ignore. She cleared her throat, trying to sound more awake than she was.“Hello, Mom.”“Rachael!” Her mother’s voice carried the kind of urgency usually reserved for emergencies—like floods, fires, or 50% discount sales.Rachael frowned. “Is everything okay? You sound… urgent.”“Yes, everything is fine,” her mom replied, but there was a peculiar lilt in her tone, almo

The apartment still smelled faintly of croissants from that morning, though Rachael hadn’t touched hers. She lounged on the couch in a loose shirt and shorts, flipping through a magazine she wasn’t actually reading. Across from her, Marianne perched on the armrest, nursing a glass of wine and studying her best friend with open suspicion.Rachael tried to stay casual, but the way her fingers tapped against the magazine gave her away.“Out with it,” Marianne said, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve been twitchy since last night. And don’t give me that ‘I’m fine’ nonsense. I know the signs.”“I am fine,” Rachael muttered.Marianne leaned closer. “You’re lying. Spill it.”Rachael hesitated. “If I tell you, you promise not to scream?”“Absolutely not,” Marianne said cheerfully. “Now talk.”With a groan, Rachael tossed the magazine aside. “Fine. I… I ran into him again. Adrien Moreau.”Marianne nearly dropped her glass. “What?!”“See? I told you not to scream!”“That wasn’t a scream. That was—okay

The morning light spilling into Rachael’s apartment was far too cheerful for her mood. She sat at the little kitchen table, chin propped in her hand, glaring into the depths of her coffee like it had personally betrayed her. The aroma was strong, rich, and slightly burnt—the way she liked it—but even caffeine couldn’t cut through the knot of irritation sitting heavy in her chest.Across from her, Marianne cheerfully demolished a croissant, far too awake for someone who’d been out late at work. She tore off flaky pieces, butter smudging her fingers, and hummed with the kind of exaggerated satisfaction that only made Rachael’s sulk deepen.“Are you still sulking?” Marianne asked at last, brushing crumbs from her shirt with infuriating nonchalance. “Because from what you told me, it looked like Monsieur Moreau was one smirk away from undressing you with his eyes.”Rachael groaned, thunking her forehead against the table hard enough to rattle her spoon. “Don’t. Just don’t.”Marianne’s gri

The gallery breathed with quiet reverence that evening the following day. Soft light fell from discreet spot lamps onto canvases and sculptures, while the hum of cultured voices drifted through the air like background music. Rachael moved briskly between guests, clipboard in hand, her curls escaping their pinned bun in the way they always did when she was trying to look professional. The faint smell of champagne mingled with the oil-and-wood scent of the gallery. She moved from piece to piece, checking lighting, straightening labels, chatting with guests. Her laughter carried across the room, bright and unrestrained, catching the attention of several patrons. Her colleagues sometimes teased her for being too loud, too informal for the refined art scene, but Rachael never cared. She believed art was for everyone, not just for the silent elite sipping champagne in hushed tones.It was the kind of evening Rachael loved and hated in equal measure: loved for the art, hated for the pretens

The Moreau headquarters was alive with activity. The skyscraper, the tallest in La Joilette, Marseille, stood as a gleaming symbol of power. Entrance into the building was reserved strictly for VIPs. Just a few kilometers away, the oil and gas refinery roared with industry — both owned by Adrien Moreau.Adrien Moreau was not just a billionaire; he was a man whose presence commanded silence. At thirty-four, he had mastered the ruthless art of survival and domination. Orphaned at eighteen, with no siblings to share his burden, Adrien had rebuilt his family’s legacy with sweat, blood, and unrelenting vengeance.He was tall, broad-chested, and rarely smiled — except for carefully curated photographs with deal partners. His eyes, usually hidden behind black shades, missed nothing. Adrien was not like other billionaires. His empire was not merely a business; it was a weapon. Every steel hull bearing the Moreau name was a monument to survival, to the promise he had made at eighteen beside hi