Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Oluwanimilo Armani Arowosaye had three problems. The first on her table was the fabric, already cut and ready to sew, with the full payment settled. If she failed to deliver on time, all that money could quickly turn into a loss.
The second was on her phone. She stared at the message without blinking. “We are backing out of the contract.” There was no apology or explanation, just the termination of the agreement, and her grip tightened around the phone. She wasn’t shaking or panicking, just holding on as though pressure alone could somehow rewrite reality. A crack appeared in her already fragile heart.
The room around her felt smaller than usual, though nothing had changed. Fabric rolls leaned against the wall like silent witnesses. Sketches were pinned neatly across the space, each one a promise she had already begun fulfilling. A sewing machine sat in the corner. On the wall adjacent to the sewing area stood a shelf lined with bottles of exotic perfumes. Some were already boxed up, labelled, and ready to go, while the rest sat on the table, waiting to be packed.
She let out a slow sigh, looking at the mess around her. Then she muttered sharply, “There’s no way I’m letting this deal go. This is the turning point for my line. I’m going to make this work, no matter what.”
But there was another problem. The groom was coming for final review, and everything she had built into this job—her reputation, her consistency, her fragile balance between survival and ambition—was about to collapse under one missing requirement, a male model for a fitting video which she had none. She had tried calls, messages, contacts she had not spoken to in months. Nothing worked.
Everyone suddenly became unavailable at the exact moment she needed them most. It always happened like that. She checked the time again. It was already too late to fix everything normally, but not too late to lose everything. So she grabbed her things and moved.
The apartment she shared with her sisters was located close to their university, tucked inside a busy student area filled with food vendors, tailoring shops, small hostels, printing centres, and nightlife that never completely died. It was one of the reasons she managed to survive her impossible schedule in the first place. School, stewed ponmo business, nightclub shifts, perfume deliveries. Everything existed within reach. Still exhausting. But reachable.
She was about to grab her keys when the door opened from outside. Myra walked in first, carrying hair products and makeup brushes inside a transparent bag, while Ayra followed behind slowly with a nylon bag filled with groceries. “You’re home?” Myra asked. Oluwanimilo just gave her a look. Ayra laughed softly, dropping the groceries by the kitchen corner.
“You haven’t eaten, have you?” “I’ll eat later,” Oluwanimilo replied. “You said that earlier.” Myra, please, I have too much to do right now. She placed her bag down before walking toward the sewing area, her eyes scanning the unfinished outfit instantly. “You look stressed.” I am stressed. What happened? The model cancelled. Silence. Ayra blinked. The groom-model? Yes. The one coming for the final fitting? Yes. And the groom is still coming? Yes. Another silence. Ayra slowly turned to look at Myra. …Ah. Exactly. Oluwanimilo grabbed her bag. I’ll fix it. At this time? Myra frowned. I can’t just sit here and wait for doomsday. Before either of them could even try to stop her, she was already out the door, heading to Skylux for her regular shift as a club waitress.
⸻
The nightclub was loud in a way that felt aggressive rather than festive. The music was blasting, lights flickered endlessly, and people talked,
laughed, and drank over the noise.
Oluwanimilo stood at the edge of it all, expression unreadable as she scanned the crowd between taking orders and moving around the club. She wasn’t there for enjoyment; she was there to work, but she also needed a solution to the problem waiting for her at home. Her gaze moved across the crowd once, then again, before locking onto him, and for the first time that night, she felt relieved. He was exactly what she needed in a model. He wasn’t loud because he didn’t need to be; he occupied space like it had agreed to him in advance, tall, controlled, and calm in a way that didn’t invite attention but demanded distance. People noticed him without approaching him, and that detail mattered. Between serving customers and keeping an eye on him, Oluwanimilo finally made her decision and walked straight toward him. No hesitation, no internal debate, only urgency shaped into action. His assistant noticed her first and immediately stiffened because people did not approach him like that, not here, not anywhere.
The assistant shifted slightly, posture tightening, already calculating risk. Something about the approaching woman didn’t fit the environment. It wasn’t desperation, it wasn’t nervousness, it was certainty, and certainty was unpredictable. Oluwanimilo stopped directly in front of him. “Excuse me.” He turned slowly, not rushed, not irritated, just measured. “Yes?” She looked him over briefly before speaking. “I need you to do me a favour.” His brows lifted slightly. “A favour?” “I need a model, and you look like exactly what I need.” The assistant moved immediately, taking one protective step forward, instinctive, but stopped when the man raised his hand slightly without looking away from her. The silence that followed felt heavier than interruption. Oluwanimilo reached for his wrist, firm and certain. “I’ll pay you.” His gaze dropped briefly to her hand before returning to her face. “You don’t even know who I am.” “I don’t have time to know who you are.” Another pause. Then she pulled him gently. “Let’s go.” And surprisingly, he followed.
⸻
The nightclub was only a few streets away from where Oluwanimilo and her sisters lived, close enough to walk safely and familiar enough that she didn’t have to think twice about the route. That part of Lagos never truly slept anyway, with students, roadside food sellers, late-night printing shops, and food vendors keeping the area alive long after midnight. Oluwanimilo walked quickly while holding his wrist firmly, and the man followed beside her quietly, not resisting or questioning her. That silence unsettled her more than anger would have. Most men demanded explanations, but this one simply observed. Streetlights stretched unevenly across the road while distant club music slowly faded behind them, and the night air carried traces of fuel, perfume, roasted corn, and late-night food stalls still serving customers. Neither of them spoke, and somehow, the silence did not feel awkward, just strange. When they finally stopped in front of a modest apartment building near the university area, Oluwanimilo released his wrist immediately. “Come in.”
CHAPTER ONE — PART THREE
Her apartment was small, functional, and overloaded with evidence of a life lived at full capacity. Half-finished designs, perfume bottles arranged carefully on shelves, fabric scraps sorted into improvised categories, and academic textbooks stacked beside notebooks filled with assignment drafts filled the space. The assistant’s eyes swept across the room slowly, processing, trying to understand how one person lived several lives inside one space. “I need you to change into this,” Oluwanimilo said simply. The man didn’t move immediately. Instead, he looked around again, then at her, then the room once more. “…Do you always do things like this?” he finally asked. “Only when there’s no other option.” Silence. The assistant remained near the door, still tense, still alert, and still waiting for chaos to happen. Because this man did not comply with people. But somehow—now he was holding the outfit quietly. “Bathroom’s that way,” Nimilo said, pointing down the hallway. He followed the direction, disappearing from view.
Ayra suddenly emerged from her room and froze. A man was walking down the hallway toward the bathroom. In their home. That alone was enough to make her stop. It was an unspoken rule between the sisters—not that they had ever sat down to establish one, but somehow, men simply did not enter their personal space. Their apartment was their private corner of the world, and none of them brought relationships into it. Nimilo and Myra were far too occupied with work and survival to make room for much else, while Ayra, the sickly one, mostly stayed home, helping with household maintenance when she could. Photography was her hobby, not another job to add to the chaos. So seeing an unfamiliar man walking through their hallway was enough to make her stare. “…Eh?” Myra appeared behind her and froze too.
Both sisters looked from the strange man to Nimilo, then back again. “Nimilo,” Ayra whispered carefully, “who is this?” “A solution.” “That is not a human answer.” “No time. Help me set up.” Myra narrowed her eyes suspiciously but wisely chose not to ask further questions after seeing the stress on her sister’s face. Moments later, the man stepped out wearing the outfit, and the room seemed to change—not physically, but emotionally. The outfit fit too perfectly, like it had been designed specifically for him. The structure, measurements, and finishing suddenly looked expensive in a way that elevated everything instantly. Even Myra blinked twice. “…Wow.” Ayra looked openly stunned.
“Nimilo… this is fantastic. Better than the previous model who cancelled, don’t you think?”
“Focus,” Nimilo warned, though even she paused for a second longer than she should have before looking at him again. She nodded once.
“Perfect.”
There was no need for excitement or unnecessary praise. The outfit had worked, and that was all that mattered. A knock came moments later. The groom had arrived earlier than planned, but somehow, at exactly the right time. Tension filled the room for a moment, but it disappeared almost as quickly when he saw the result. His eyes widened.
“This is perfect,” he breathed.
Relief swept across his face. “I’m not cancelling anything.”
It wasn’t a celebration or some great victory. Nimilo had simply managed to keep the problem from becoming a disaster, and for now, that was enough. She quietly exhaled, feeling like she was finally breathing properly for the first time that night. Behind her, the man stood still, watching her rather than the situation itself, as though he was trying to understand how someone could remain this composed while carrying so much pressure. But Oluwanimilo barely looked at him anymore. In her mind, the crisis was over. He had already become temporary, useful, and nothing more. The man leaned slightly toward his assistant. “…Does she know who I am?” The assistant hesitated. Because that was the real question. “No.” She didn’t. And somehow, that made her even more dangerous.
