1

Chapter One

The phone buzzes against my ear, and I already know what's coming. Sally's voice cuts through the morning air like a knife through butter.

"Dabe, are you sure you packed everything?" Her tone is sharp, worried. "Your passport? Ticket? Phone charger? You can be very forgetful sometimes. Check everything before you leave the house."

I roll my suitcase across the hardwood floor, the wheels making that familiar grinding sound. "I have everything, Mom," I say, letting the sarcasm drip from my words like honey.

"Check again."

I roll my eyes so hard it actually hurts. Thank God she can't see me through the phone. The morning sun streams through the living room window, casting long shadows across the floor. I should be excited about this trip. I should be happy for Sally. Instead, all I feel is tired.

"I gave the driver some clothes for you," Sally continues, her voice getting that bossy edge it always gets when she's planning something. "Make sure you change out of whatever horrible thing you're wearing before you leave the airport. I don't want my in-laws to think we don't know how to take care of our family."

I stop rolling my suitcase. "How do you even know what I'm wearing?"

"Because I know you, Dabe. You have no sense of fashion."

There it is. The reminder that I'm the charity case. Sally grew up here in the U.S., born and raised in suburban comfort. I came here from Nigeria when I was eleven, scared and alone, carrying nothing but a backpack and hope. Sally's family took me in, and I've lived with them ever since. Eighteen years later, and Sally still treats me like I'm that frightened little girl who stepped off the plane.

She's only a year older than me, but she acts like she's my mother. At thirty years old, I should be able to dress myself. I should be able to make my own choices. But Sally will never see me as anything other than her helpless little cousin.

"You wore purple and blue to my graduation party," she says, and I can practically hear her shuddering through the phone. "Purple and blue, Dabe. Together. You almost gave me a heart attack. Never again. I'm in charge of your wardrobe for the entire wedding."

The wedding. Her wedding. The reason I'm dragging myself halfway across the world when all I want to do is stay home and pretend this isn't happening.

"Yeah, whatever," I mutter.

"Anyway, what time do you leave for the airport?"

I glance at my watch. The numbers blur together for a moment before I focus. "We're leaving now."

"Good, good. Bon voyage, darling. Text me when you land, okay? Love you. Kisses, bye."

The line goes dead, and I let out the deepest breath I've been holding. The silence feels like freedom, even though I know it won't last long.

I grab my suitcase handle and head toward the door. My reflection catches in the hallway mirror, and I stop. Sally's right about one thing – I do look terrible. My hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and I'm wearing an old college t-shirt and jeans. But I don't care. I'm not trying to impress anyone.

The car is waiting outside, a black sedan that looks too expensive for a simple airport run. Frank, the family driver, gets out and takes my suitcase with his usual gentle smile.

"Good morning, Miss Dabe," he says in his thick accent. He's been with Sally's family for fifteen years, and he still calls me Miss even though I've told him a hundred times just to use my name.

"Morning, Frank."

He loads my bag into the trunk while I slide into the back seat. The leather is soft and cool against my skin, and for a moment, I let myself relax. The car smells like vanilla air freshener and Frank's coffee.

We pull away from the house, and I watch the familiar neighborhood disappear behind us. Tree-lined streets give way to busy roads, and I know there's no turning back now.

"So our little Sally is getting married," Frank says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes are kind, crinkled at the corners from years of smiling. "I still can't believe it. Just yesterday she was running around in diapers. How time flies."

I force a smile and nod. Frank has been like a grandfather to both of us. He deserves better than my attitude.

"I'm sure very soon, you too will get married and leave us," he continues, laughing softly. "This life, eh? Everything changes so fast."

My smile falters. Here we go again. Everyone thinks I need to get married. Everyone thinks I'm incomplete without a man. If they only knew the truth – that I don't want to get married. That the very idea makes my skin crawl.

Try explaining that to a Nigerian family, though. They'd rather I tell them I'm planning to rob a bank.

I give Frank a thin smile and say nothing. Let him think what he wants. It's easier that way.

The airport comes into view, all glass and steel reaching toward the sky. My stomach clenches. This is really happening. I'm really going back.

Frank helps me with my bags at the curb, and I try to prepare myself for twelve hours on a plane. Twelve hours to think about everything I'm trying to avoid.

"Ms. Dabe Peters?"

I turn to see a woman in an airline uniform approaching me. She looks professional, polished, everything I'm not right now.

"Yes, that's me." Please don't let my flight be canceled. I just want to get this over with.

"There's been a change in your flight details."

My heart sinks. "What kind of change?"

She smiles, and it seems genuine. "It's an upgrade. You've been moved to first class. This way, please."

I stare at her for a moment, processing her words. An upgrade? I didn't request an upgrade. I can't afford an upgrade.

But I know who can.

I follow her through the airport, my mind racing. The first-class lounge is nothing like the regular waiting area. Everything is clean and quiet, with soft lighting and comfortable chairs. People speak in hushed tones, sipping wine and reading newspapers.

The flight attendant leads me to my seat, and I sink into leather that's softer than my bed at home. The seat is huge, more like a small room than airplane seating. There's space to stretch out, a personal TV screen, and enough legroom for someone twice my height.

Before I can fully process what's happening, another flight attendant appears beside me with a tray.

"Champagne, ma'am?"

The crystal glass catches the light, and the champagne inside fizzes like tiny stars. I should say no. I should be responsible. Instead, I nod.

"I leave the bottle.”

The attendant's eyes widen slightly. I can see her thinking – who drinks an entire bottle of champagne at ten in the morning? But she recovers quickly, professional to the core.

"Of course, ma'am." Her smile is strained, she hands me the bottle anyway.

I lean back in my seat and take a sip. The champagne is cold and perfect, sliding down my throat like liquid confidence. For the first time today, I feel like I can breathe.

The plane fills up around me, but the first-class cabin stays quiet and peaceful. I watch the other passengers settle in – businessmen in expensive suits, women with designer handbags, people who belong in places like this.

I don't belong here, but I'm going to enjoy it anyway.

The flight attendants go through their safety routine, and I half-listen while finishing my second glass of champagne. The plane starts to move, taxiing toward the runway, and my stomach does a little flip.

This is it. I'm really going back to Nigeria. Back to family and questions and expectations I can't meet. Back to everything I left behind.

The plane lifts off, and I close my eyes as we climb higher. The champagne makes everything feel soft and distant, like I'm watching someone else's life unfold.

Hours pass in a haze. I drift in and out of sleep, waking occasionally to sip more champagne or pick at the gourmet meal they bring me. The cabin stays dim and quiet, and for a while, I can pretend I'm anywhere else.

When I finally wake up properly, the sun is setting outside my window. The flight attendant tells me we're beginning our descent into Abuja, and my heart starts racing again.

I press my face to the window and watch the city spread out below us. Even from this height, I can see the familiar patterns – the wide roads, the sprawling markets, the mix of modern buildings and traditional architecture. It's beautiful, but it also makes my chest tight with memories.

The plane touches down with barely a bump, and I grip my armrest as we taxi to the gate. Too soon, we're stopped, and people are standing up, gathering their things.

"Are you all right, ma'am?"

I look up to see a flight attendant watching me with concern. I realize I'm still gripping my armrest, my knuckles white.

"I'm fine," I lie, forcing myself to let go.

I gather my carry-on bag and follow the other passengers off the plane. The jetway smells like fuel and recycled air, and my legs feel shaky after sitting for so long.

But when I step into the airport, everything stops.

There's a man waiting for me. Not just any man – Luke, in his perfectly pressed suit, looking exactly the same as he did six months ago. Behind him, I can see a black Range Rover parked right outside the terminal doors.

My blood turns to ice.

"Luke?" I say, hoping I'm wrong. Hoping this is some kind of mistake.

"Ms. Peters. Welcome home."

His voice is exactly as I remember – smooth, professional, giving nothing away. But I can see something in his eyes that makes my stomach drop.

"What is this?"

"I’ve been asked to escort you to the hotel."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I should have known. I should have realized the first-class upgrade wasn't just luck.

"You tell him I'm not staying at any hotel," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm going home to see my family. Now get out of my way."

I try to push past him, but Luke is bigger than me, stronger than me. He doesn't hurt me, but he doesn't let me pass either. Instead, he pulls out a phone and holds it toward me.

I stare at it for a moment, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. Then I snatch the phone from his hand.

"What do you think you're doing?" I shout into it.

The voice that answers is the one I've been trying to forget for six months. Deep, familiar, with that slight accent that used to make me melt.

"I want to see you."

Andrew. Of course it's Andrew.

"You can't just summon me whenever you want," I hiss, trying to keep my voice down. People are starting to stare. "And I don't want to see you. I thought I made that clear the last time."

"Luke is going to bring you to me."

"Are you not hearing me? Am I not speaking English?"

There's a pause, and I can hear him breathing on the other end. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more desperate.

"Don't make this harder than it already is, Dabe. It's been six months, and I'm going crazy. I need to see you."

Those words hit me right in the chest. Six months since I walked away from him. Six months since I decided I couldn't keep living in his shadow. Six months since I chose myself over him for the first time in my life.

"I-I..." The words stick in my throat. I hate how he can still do this to me. I hate how my resolve crumbles the moment I hear his voice.

"Please."

That one word breaks me. Andrew doesn't say please. Andrew doesn't beg. But there's something in his voice that sounds almost broken, and despite everything, I can't ignore it.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I open them, Luke is still watching me, waiting.

"I need to get my bags," I whisper into the phone.

"Luke will take care of everything. Just come to me."

This man has always been able to turn my rational mind into chaos. He makes me forget who I am, forget what I want, forget every promise I've made to myself.

I hand the phone back to Luke without another word and follow him toward the Range Rover. My legs feel like they're made of water, but I keep walking.

I'm such an idiot.

The drive through Abuja is a blur of familiar sights and sounds. Street vendors, crowded markets, the smell of burning charcoal and spicy food drifting through the car windows. Luke doesn't try to make conversation, and I'm grateful for the silence.

The hotel, when we finally arrive, takes my breath away. It's not just expensive – it's obscene. Marble everywhere, crystal chandeliers, staff in uniforms that probably cost more than most people make in a month.

My room – no, suite – is on the top floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the entire city. The furniture looks like it belongs in a museum, and there's a bottle of champagne waiting on ice.

Of course there is.

I'm standing at the window, trying to process everything, when I feel familiar arms wrap around my waist. He turns me around gently, and suddenly I'm looking into the face I've been trying to forget.

"Hey," he says softly.

Andrew looks exactly the same. Dark hair, strong jaw, eyes that seem to see right through me. He's wearing a simple white shirt and dark pants, but even casual clothes look expensive on him.

"You have ten minutes," I manage to say.

He leans down to kiss me, and I turn my head away automatically. But he uses one finger under my chin to turn my face back to his, and then his lips are on mine.

The kiss is everything I remember and everything I've been trying to forget. His tongue slides against mine, stealing my breath, making my knees weak. For a moment, I let myself get lost in it.

Then reality crashes back.

"We shouldn't be doing this," I mumble against his lips, pushing him away. "We agreed we would stop deceiving ourselves."

I put distance between us, but he's still looking at me like I'm something precious he thought he'd lost forever.

"Andrew, when are you going to let me go?"

His expression changes, becomes harder, more dangerous. "Why don't you twist a knife in my chest and find out?"

The threat in his voice makes me shiver, but I force myself to glare back at him. "Stop being childish. I'm serious."

"So am I."

He walks over to the bar and pours champagne into two glasses. His movements are controlled, precise, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.

"Have a drink with me?" he says, holding out a glass.

"I had a whole bottle on the plane. Thanks for that, by the way." But I take the glass anyway. "If you insist..."

He smiles then, the first real smile I've seen from him, and leads me toward the bedroom. The bed is enormous, with silk sheets and more pillows than any reasonable person needs. There's a fireplace crackling in the corner, making everything feel warm and intimate.

"You're tired," he says. "You should stay here and rest."

"Don't play games with me, Andrew. We both know what you're really asking. It's bad enough that I'm here at all."

Instead of answering, he reaches up and starts massaging the back of my neck. His fingers are strong and knowing, finding all the knots of tension I've been carrying.

I can't help the groan that escapes me. "God, that feels good."

"We could run, start over somewhere far, just you and me" he murmurs, his fingers working magic on my shoulders. "Just say yes."

The idea makes my whole body tighten with longing. Run away with Andrew. Leave everything behind and just... disappear. It sounds like heaven and hell all at once.

"You can't say ridiculous things like that and expect me to give you an answer," I say, trying to pull away from his touch.

But he catches my waist and pulls me back against him. I can feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne, and for a moment I want to give in completely.

"Can't I even dream?" he says with a small smile. "Am I not allowed that much?"

Despite everything, I smile back. This is the Andrew I fell in love with – the one who could make me laugh even when my world was falling apart.

He leans forward and kisses me again, softer this time, and I let him. Just for a moment, I let myself pretend that this could work. That we could find a way to be together without destroying each other.

But I know better. We've tried this before, and it always ends the same way.

“I love you.”

“I know.” I whispered back.