CHAPTER 5: THE WARNING

Zara hated the penthouse by day three.

Too quiet. Too big. Too many people calling her ma’am.

“Ma’am, breakfast.”

“Ma’am, your schedule.”

“Ma’am, Damian said—”

She wasn’t ma’am. She was twenty-four, broke, and pregnant.

“Can you all stop calling me that?” Zara said at breakfast.

The housekeeper blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”

God.

Damian had already left for a 5am meeting. Marcus sat at the kitchen island with coffee and his gun right next to it. Like that was normal.

“Morning,” Marcus said.

“Morning,” Zara replied, grabbing a piece of toast. “I need to go out.”

“No,” Marcus said.

“I need groceries,” Zara lied. “For Tolu. She’s out of meds.”

Marcus sipped his coffee. “I’ll send someone.”

“I’ll go,” Zara insisted. “You can come if you’re that worried.”

Marcus stared at her. “You’re serious.”

“I’m serious,” she said. “I’m not a prisoner.”

Marcus sighed. “Fine. Thirty minutes. And you wear this.”

He tossed her a heavy bulletproof jacket.

Zara put it on. “I look like a tank.”

“You look safe,” Marcus said.

Oshodi Market. 10am.

Loud. Hot. Smelled like pepper, sweat, and bus exhaust.

Exactly what Zara needed.

People. Noise. Normal life.

Marcus walked two steps behind her. Sunglasses on. Earpiece in. Hand near his gun. He looked so out of place it hurt.

“You can relax,” Zara said, picking up tomatoes. “No one’s shooting me over plantain.”

Marcus didn’t answer. Just kept scanning the crowd.

Her phone buzzed.

Tolu: Did you get the meds?

Zara: Yes. On my way.

She grabbed the pharmacy bag. Paracetamol. Iron tablets. Folic acid. For her.

Baby. I’m trying.

“Can we go?” Marcus asked.

“One more stop,” Zara said. “Fabric.”

“Fabric?”

“My sister’s birthday,” she explained. “I want to make her a dress.”

Marcus didn’t argue.

The fabric stall was packed. Women shouting prices. Kids running between legs. Zara was touching a bright Ankara print when she felt it.

A hand on her bag.

She turned fast. A teenage boy, maybe fifteen. Scared eyes.

“Sorry,” the boy mumbled. “Wrong bag.”

He ran.

Marcus moved instantly. “Stay here.”

He took off after the kid.

Zara waited. Ten seconds. Twenty.

This feels wrong.

A man bumped into her. Hard.

“Watch it,” Zara said.

He didn’t. Just grabbed her arm.

“Let go,” she snapped.

Two more men appeared. Black shirts. Faces she didn’t know.

Obasi.

“Come with us,” one said.

Zara yanked hard. “No.”

The first punch came fast. To her stomach. Not full force. A warning.

Zara doubled over.

Baby. Baby baby baby.

“Get off her!”

Marcus.

He was back. Gun out. Fired once in the air.

People screamed and ran.

The men scattered. But one stayed. Knife out.

He lunged at Zara.

Marcus stepped in front.

The blade sank into his side. Right where the old stitches were.

“Marcus!” Zara screamed.

Marcus didn’t make a sound. Just grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted. The knife clattered to the ground.

Market security came running. Whistles blowing.

The attackers ran.

Marcus turned to her, pale. “You hit?”

Zara shook her head, tears already falling. “You’re bleeding. Again.”

“It’s fine,” Marcus said. “Come on.”

He pulled her toward the G-Wagon, one hand pressed to his side. His grip was warm. Sticky.

Blood.

“Shit,” Zara kept saying. “Shit shit shit.”

Marcus drove with one hand. The other stayed on his wound. “Call an ambulance? No time. Hospital’s five minutes away.”

“Don’t die,” Zara whispered. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

Marcus glanced over. Small smile. “Bossy.”

They made it.

ER. Nurses shouting. Lights everywhere.

Zara held his hand the whole time. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Marcus squeezed back, weak. “The baby?”

“Fine,” Zara lied. “I’m fine. You saved me.”

Marcus closed his eyes. “Good.”

Three hours later.

Zara sat by his hospital bed. Bandages. IV drip. He looked smaller like this.

Damian walked in. Suit. No tie. Face like stone.

He stopped at the door. Saw Marcus. Saw Zara still holding his hand.

“What happened,” Damian said. Quiet.

“Obasi’s men,” Zara answered. “In the market. Marcus took a knife for me.”

Damian looked at the monitors, then at her. “You went out.”

“I needed to,” Zara said.

“You were told not to,” Damian replied. Louder now.

“I’m not your dog,” Zara snapped.

Damian flinched. “You’re pregnant.”

“I know that,” she said, tears coming again. “That’s why I went. For vitamins. For my sister.”

Damian ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t do that again.”

Marcus opened his eyes. “Don’t yell at her.”

Damian looked at him. “You’re awake.”

“Barely,” Marcus muttered. “Go home, Cole.”

“I live here,” Damian said.

Zara stood between them. “Stop. Both of you.”

She turned to Damian. “Thank you for coming.”

She turned to Marcus. “Thank you for saving me.”

Then she sat down and cried. Properly. Ugly sobs. Shoulders shaking.

Marcus reached out and touched her hair gently. Damian handed her a tissue.

Neither of them let go.

11pm. Penthouse.

Zara couldn’t sleep. The baby was moving. Or maybe it was just gas. She didn’t know yet.

A soft knock.

Damian. With tea.

“I don’t like tea,” Zara said.

“I know,” Damian replied. “But you need to eat something.”

He set down toast, fruit, and water.

“Sit,” he said.

Zara sat. “How’s Marcus?”

“Stable,” Damian told her. “More stitches. He’ll be out tomorrow.”

Zara nodded. “Good.”

Damian sat across from her. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making you feel like you can’t leave,” he said. “You can. Anytime.”

Zara looked at him. “I don’t want to leave.”

Damian’s jaw flexed. “Why?”

“Because here I feel… safe,” Zara said. “Even when it’s not.”

Damian nodded once.

He stood. “Get some sleep, Zara.”

He used her first name. Not Ms. Bello.

“Damian?” she called as he reached the door.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For the tea.”

Damian smiled. Small. Real. “You’re welcome.”

He left.

Zara ate the toast. It tasted like safety.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number. A picture of her in the market. Blood on her shirt.

Text: Next time I won’t miss. - O

Zara deleted it fast. Threw the phone across the room.

She put both hands on her stomach.

We’re okay. We’re okay.

Outside her door, Marcus coughed. Damian’s footsteps paced the hall.

She wasn’t alone.

Even if that scared her more than Obasi ever could.