CHAPTER 1: THE BOARDROOM ATTACK

The glass didn’t just break.

It exploded.

One second Zara Bello was typing away at her laptop, the next the whole damn boardroom erupted in screams. The air turned thick with that sharp, metallic smell of fear and gunpowder.

She dropped. Knee slammed into the cold tile first. Pain ripped up her leg like fire. She bit down hard on her lip and tasted blood.

Not today. Please God, not today.

Her laptop skidded across the long table. That stupid Q3 report she’d killed herself over for two months. If it got ruined, Damian Cole would probably march her out himself with a cardboard box and a fake smile.

Idiot. Worrying about a spreadsheet while people are shooting.

“Get down!” somebody yelled.

But Zara didn’t listen. She crawled under the table because her favorite pen had rolled away and she couldn’t just leave it there. She was that kind of mess.

A strong hand suddenly grabbed the back of her blazer and yanked. She landed flat on her back on top of someone warm and solid. He smelled like gun oil mixed with that cheap cedar soap they sold at Oshodi market for five hundred naira.

“Don’t move,” the voice growled right against her ear. Rough. Low. “Head down. Eyes closed.”

Zara’s heart stuttered. Marcus Okafor. The new head of security. The quiet guy who stood by the elevator every morning with his arms folded and that nasty scar cutting through his left eyebrow.

And just three feet away, standing like none of this was happening?

Damian Cole.

The CEO. The billionaire whose face was plastered on every damn billboard in Lagos. No tie today. Sleeves rolled up. Looking bored, almost.

“Damian,” Marcus barked. “Get the hell down.”

Damian just adjusted his cufflinks. “They want me. Not the secretary.”

Another shot cracked through the room. Closer this time. Zara felt the air shift near her ear.

Shit. I’m gonna die in these cheap Zara heels and a blouse I bought in Yaba market.

She glanced at her nails. Painted red on Sunday. Already chipped on the thumb from typing like a maniac. Mom would’ve called it a bad omen.

Marcus shifted his weight over her, heavy and protective. His gun was out now. She could feel his hands trembling against her side. Not fear. Something hotter. Anger.

“Stay with me,” he muttered under his breath. Like he was talking to himself.

Zara wanted to say something. Anything. But her throat felt like sandpaper.

Three more shots. Then two. Bodies hitting the floor with sickening thuds.

Then silence. Just this awful ringing in her ears.

Marcus rolled off her in one smooth motion and sprang up. “You hit?”

Zara shook her head fast. “No. I don’t… I think I’m okay—”

“Good.” He was already scanning the room, jaw tight. “Stay right there.”

Damian started walking. Stepping over bodies in his stupidly expensive shoes. There was blood on the toe of one. He didn’t even flinch.

He stopped in front of them. Looked at Marcus first, then down at Zara still on the floor.

“You moved,” Damian said, voice flat. “I sent an email. During active shooter situations, staff are supposed to remain seated.”

Zara let out a shaky laugh. Couldn’t help it. “Yeah, well, that wasn’t in the damn email.”

Damian’s jaw flexed. His eyes weren’t cold like everyone always said. They burned. Dark and pissed, like he wanted to tear the whole building apart with his bare hands.

Marcus stepped between them. “She’s fine. Back off, Cole.”

Not Mr. Cole. Just Cole.

Damian’s gaze dropped to where Marcus’s hand rested on Zara’s arm. The air between the two men got thick enough to choke on.

Sirens finally wailed outside. Police boots thundered in. Shouts everywhere.

Zara pushed herself up. The room tilted. She reached out to steady herself and her palm landed in something warm and wet.

Not water.

She snatched her hand back. Blood. Not hers. She wiped it on her skirt without thinking, leaving an ugly smear across the gray fabric.

Great. HR’s gonna have a field day with this.

A young paramedic dropped down in front of her, sweating bullets. “Ma’am? Your name?”

“Zara. Zara Bello.” Her voice sounded all wrong. Too high. Too thin.

“You hurt anywhere?”

“I’m fine, just—”

The cramp hit her low in the belly. Deep. Pulling. She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth.

The paramedic noticed. “Cramping?”

“It’s nothing,” Zara said quickly. “Just stress.”

Her period was fourteen days late. She’d blamed the new job. The crazy 6 a.m. buses. Surviving on bread and tea. But this felt… different.

Damian crouched beside her. Too close. His cologne wrapped around her — expensive, clean, annoying.

“Hospital,” he said. Not asking.

“No. I need to get home. My sister’s probably—”

“Hospital,” Marcus said at the exact same time.

The two men glared at each other over her head.

“Like hell,” Marcus growled.

“Excuse me?” Damian replied, soft and dangerous.

“You heard me.”

Zara tried to stand. Her legs gave out immediately. Both men grabbed her at once — Marcus on her left arm, Damian on her right. For one weird second the three of them were tangled together.

She pulled away hard. “I said I’m fine.”

She wasn’t. Another cramp twisted through her. And that wet feeling again.

Please not now. Please don’t let me be pregnant. Please.

The test was still sitting in her bathroom. Unopened. She’d bought it three days ago and lost her nerve every single time she looked at it.

Damian watched her too closely. “You’re pale as hell.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying,” he said quietly.

Marcus cut in. “Give her some space, man.”

“I’m her boss,” Damian reminded him.

“And I’m the one who just took a bullet for her,” Marcus shot back.

Zara blinked. “Wait, what?”

Marcus glanced down. There was a dark gash along his side, blood soaking through his black shirt.

“You’re hurt,” she whispered.

“It’s nothing.” But his face was tight, pain lines around his mouth.

Damian spotted it too. “Medic! Over here.”

Two paramedics rushed over. One took Marcus. One stayed with her. They checked her blood pressure — 150 over 90. Way too high.

“Panic attack,” the guy said. “You need to sit down.”

“I need to leave,” Zara muttered.

The police were dragging the shooters out in body bags. One was still alive, coughing blood onto the fancy marble floor. Zara looked away fast.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Sister: You alive? It’s all over the news.

Zara typed back with shaky fingers: I’m fine. Heading home soon.

Another cramp slammed into her. She doubled over, biting back a groan.

“That’s it,” Marcus said. He scooped her up like she weighed nothing. One arm under her knees, the other around her back.

“Put me down—” Zara started, but she didn’t really fight. She couldn’t.

Damian stepped right in front of them, blocking the door. “Put her down. I’ll call my driver.”

“Your driver?” Marcus scoffed. “I’ve got her.”

“You’re bleeding,” Damian said.

“So are a lot of people today,” Marcus replied.

Zara squeezed her eyes shut. Just stop. Both of you. Please.

Then the intercom crackled to life.

Static. Then a wet, old laugh.

“Mr. Cole,” Chief Obasi’s voice filled the room. “Congratulations. You survived.”

Damian went completely still.

“Pity about the heir though,” Obasi continued. “Family business and all that. We really should run a DNA test. Just to be sure who the real Cole is.”

Dead silence.

Even the police froze.

Damian’s face drained of color. Marcus’s grip on Zara tightened until it almost hurt.

“What the hell did he mean?” Zara whispered.

No one answered.

Obasi laughed again, low and ugly. “See you soon, children.”

Click.

The elevator dinged.

Marcus carried Zara inside. Damian followed right behind.

Three people. One tiny metal box. The doors slid shut.

Zara stared at her hands. Blood still under her nails. Her stomach kept twisting.

Baby? Is there even a baby?

She looked up. Marcus was watching her, eyes dark with worry. Damian stared too, face blank but his hands clenched into fists so tight the knuckles were white.

The elevator started its slow descent.

Twenty-seven floors.

Twenty-seven floors to figure out how her entire life had just gone to shit.

Zara pressed a hand to her stomach.

Please be okay.

She didn’t even know who she was praying for anymore.

When the doors finally opened, chaos waited. Reporters everywhere. Flashing lights blinding her.

And somewhere in the crowd, a man with a scar and a nasty smile lifted his phone.

He took a picture.

Of her. Stuck right between them.

Shit.