Part 1
Ogechi Nwosu sent her eviction plea to a stranger, and by sunset, that mistake had dragged her into the most dangerous offer of her life.
Her landlord had screamed so loudly on the phone that the neighbors in the face-me-I-face-you compound in Surulere heard every word.
— Ogechi, this is not a charity house! If I don’t see my rent this week, carry your bag and leave!
She stood in her one-room apartment with an empty pot in her hand, barefoot on cracked tiles, her stomach twisting from hunger. Her cat, Pepper, sat near the door, watching her like even animals were tired of her suffering.
— Don’t look at me like that. If I had fish, would I not give you?
The cupboard was empty. The rice was gone. Garri was gone. Even salt looked like it had packed out of the house in anger. Ogechi was a graduate with a certificate hidden inside a nylon folder, 47 rejected job applications on her phone, and 0 naira in her account.
Tears dropped into the empty pot.
— See? Even this pot is collecting evidence against poverty.
Shaking, she typed a message to her landlord.
Good evening, sir. Please, I am begging you. I have not found work yet, but I will pay. Please don’t throw me out. I have nowhere to go. God will bless you.
She pressed send.
Then she looked at the number.
Her heart stopped.
It was not her landlord.
It was an unknown number.
— Ah! Ogechi, so hunger has now blinded your fingers?
She tried to delete it, block the number, throw the phone under the bed, and pretend her shame had never happened. But the reply came before she could decide which drama to choose.
In a glass mansion in Ikoyi, Damilola Adeniran, billionaire owner of Adeniran Holdings, had just stepped out of his private gym when the message appeared. He almost ignored it. For 3 weeks, he had trusted nobody. His former personal assistant had sold company documents to a rival. His family wanted him to marry a senator’s daughter to protect their social circle. And in 10 days, he had to attend a Dubai investors’ summit where every deal depended on image, confidence, and loyalty.
He read Ogechi’s message twice.
Then he smiled for the first time that day.
— Wrong number, but honest pain.
He called her.
Ogechi nearly swallowed her tongue when a deep male voice came through.
— Are you the lady begging not to be thrown out?
— Sir, please forgive me. Hunger and fear joined hands and attacked my phone.
— What is your name?
— Ogechi Nwosu. Graduate. Unemployed. Professional sufferer by circumstance, not by choice.
Damilola laughed softly.
— I need a temporary personal assistant. 10 days in Lagos, 5 days in Dubai. Public appearances included. You will be paid well.
— Sir, how well? Because my rent has insulted my bloodline.
— $7 million contract package if you sign and complete the assignment.
Ogechi fell silent.
Pepper meowed.
— Sir, even my cat knows that amount sounds like a trap.
— It is not a trap. But there is one condition. In Dubai, you will appear publicly as my fiancée.
The phone almost fell from her hand.
— Sir, I sent rent message, not marriage application.
— Fake fiancée. Strictly business.
That night, Ogechi did not sleep. By morning, she wore her only decent dress, washed her face like someone preparing to meet destiny, and entered Adeniran Towers with trembling knees.
At reception, polished marble reflected her old shoes. Security looked at her twice before a staff member escorted her upstairs.
Damilola stood behind his desk in a dark suit, calm, powerful, and too handsome for somebody discussing contracts.
— You must be the landlord message.
— Sir, please don’t call me that in public.
He explained the job. Meetings. Schedules. Travel. Privacy clause. Fake engagement. Full payment after completion, with advance money for her rent.
Ogechi read every line carefully before signing.
— Goodbye, suffering.
— Did you say something?
— I was greeting my past, sir.
But outside his office, Vanessa Cole, the elegant senior assistant who had expected to replace the traitor, blocked her path.
— Listen carefully. Men like Damilola don’t pick girls like you unless they are bored. Don’t mistake costume for class.
Ogechi smiled, but her fingers tightened around the contract.
— Madam, I came here to work, not to compete. Competition requires energy, and hunger has used most of mine.
Vanessa’s smile turned sharp.
— You won’t last here.
Behind the glass wall, Damilola watched them.
That evening, just as Ogechi stepped into the elevator, her phone buzzed with an anonymous message.
Withdraw from this job before Dubai, or everybody will know why Damilola really chose you.
Ogechi’s breath caught.
Because attached to the message was a photo of her signed contract, taken from inside Damilola’s private office.
Part 2
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