Chapter 1
Amaka emerges from the car as a swirling cloud of dust fills the air.The moving car disappears into the distance. She is covered from head to toe with different pieces of fabric sewn awkwardly together to form a head-tie and a large buba.
She walked slowly, as though in pain, towards a cracked pathway. The once-majestic house loomed ahead, past a rusted iron gate that creaked in the wind.The gate, once beautiful in all its glory with inscriptions polished until they shone, were now lost in rust.
The deserted house was overwhelmed with weeds and overgrown bushes. She slowly walked through the pathway and looked towards the water fountain mounted at specific points where vibrant water once gushed, she remembered it all.They were all encompassed with thick cobwebs, moss, and dust, changing the beautiful off-white cement casting to a dirty brown colour.
The mansion looms in eerie silence, its once-grand facade now a crumbling relic of a bygone era.The roof sags after years of neglect, with tiles threatening to fall at the slightest provocation. Pain filled her heart as she clutched her chest in a bid to chase away the thoughts ''where had she gone wrong?" she thought to herself as the shattered windows gaped at her with hollow eyes, as though judging.
She spanned the remaining expanse of land.Her thoughts ran back to the times when birds chirped melodiously from the guava tree beside her window, when butterflies moved graciously in the manicured gardens. Such beautiful times. She remembered the soulful garden parties her father threw from time to time, the pool parties, inviting all and sundry. Oh, were they not the talk of the town?
The compound had been alive then, a haven of wealth. She closed her eyes. She could still hear the sounds of laughter, the clinking of wine glasses, and the soft strains of music drifting from the courtyard. The echoes of garden parties played in her mind - the chatter of overly dressed guests swaying to the sound of bongo instruments, the smell of hot party jollof rice with pepperred gizzard and snails, the high scream of mothers putting disoriented children at bay. Her father hosted these parties, his voice booming with pride as he welcomed friends and business partners.
She could still feel the warmth, the sense of belonging, of her mother's soft touch. Her fingers caressing her thick curly hair to keep it straight from the wind. She remembered the pride in her father's voice as he called her his "beautiful Adaoma."
Now, the laughter was gone. Her parents were both dead, leaving her all alone in this ruthless world. The wealth which they once had, passed down from generations, finished abruptly.
She wasn't here to merely visit the past; she was here to reclaim it. The company her father had built from her grand father. The empire was hers by right. The wealth, the prestige - were all forcefully taken from her, but no longer.
The Obudu family was known for their wealth and grandeur. But now, it was all gone. Her parents were dead. The empire—built by her grandfather, Elder Obudu, and expanded by her father—had been wrested from her. The company, once the pride of Nigeria’s food industry, was hers by right. And yet, everything had slipped through her fingers.
It had started with tradition. Elder Obudu, rooted in Igbo customs, left the company to his only son, bypassing his daughter, Chika. Angry and overlooked, Chika built her own company—C.H.I Enterprise—mirroring the very empire she was denied. What began as ambition turned to rivalry. She became Allen’s greatest competitor, and over time, their sibling bond rotted into enmity. Amaka, Allen’s daughter, was swept into the storm.
Was it not part of what led to my downfall?" Amaka lamented softly. She walked through the pathway quietly, barely hearing the crunch of gravel beneath her shoes.She approached the front door, its paint peeling away like old skin. Her fingers brushed against the dusty surface, with spiders moving slightly as though disturbed by the intrusion. She needed to get inside, to retrieve the documents she had hidden years ago - the documents that would prove her rightful claim to everything she had lost. Dropping her worn-out designer bag on the uneven floor, she rummaged through its depths, her fingers brushing crumpled pieces of paper, a toothbrush, and half-empty bottled water before finding the key to the front door.
The cold breeze hit her face as she slowly rose to her feet. Shivering slightly, she brought the key to the lock. She jiggled the key, turning it one way and then the other. A wave of realization hit her as a frown etched across her face. ''The lock has been changed'', she muttered under her breath, swearing softly.
Who had done this? And why? She stared at the door, the key still in her hand, as though willing it to explain.
Then—
“Who are you?” The voice behind her was deep. Commanding. Velvet laced with steel.
A sharp scream tore from her throat, piercing the stillness of the night. Her heart pounded violently against her ribcage as she spun around, desperate to locate the voice.
"Who are you?" the voice repeated, low and calm, with an edge that sent a chill down her spine.
She spun around, breath caught in her throat. The night had deepened, the moon hanging low and full, casting silver beams across the withered garden. And there he stood—part shadow, part man—his frame leaning casually against the dusty pillar as though he had been watching her for some time.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a sparkling white shirt. The top buttons undone, revealing a glistening expanse of dark, sculpted chest. The moonlight glided over him like water, highlighting his sharp jawline, the smooth curve of his cheekbone. His eyes, dark and piercing, held hers with a mixture of curiosity and veiled danger.
Amaka’s breath stuttered. She instinctively stepped back, her heel catching on a crack in the pathway. Her body tensed, but his eyes tracked her like a predator with no intention of letting her go. “I asked you a question,” he said, stepping forward. His voice was low—smooth and dangerous—like warm honey drizzled over a blade. “Who are you, and what the hell are you doing on private property?”
Amaka opened her mouth, but nothing came. Her voice had dried up, sealed by fear and something deeper—something she couldn’t name. The air crackled between them. His presence was disarming. Magnetic. There was power in the way he moved, in the slow, deliberate grace of a man who had seen much and feared little.
“I-I’m not here to cause trouble,” she managed finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “This was my home…” “Was,” he cut in coldly, stepping closer now, boots crunching over gravel. “Doesn’t mean it is. Trespassing is still a crime, sweetheart.”
She flinched at the word, unsure whether it was meant to mock or seduce. Her chest rose and fell in quick bursts. She looked into his face—expecting hardness, but finding something else flickering in his gaze. Recognition, maybe. Or suspicion laced with reluctant interest.
“Look,” he said, pulling a phone from his pocket and holding it up. “I can call the police. Right now. You’ve got five seconds to tell me who you are, or I’m pressing this button.” The cold wind blew through her buba, sending a shiver racing up her spine. Her throat tightened.
She could see the faint blue light from his phone illuminating his fingers—long, deft, sensual in the most maddening way. Everything about him exuded quiet control, raw masculinity. She wasn’t sure whether to run.
“I’m Amaka Obudu,” she said, voice breaking. “This was my father's house. My grandfather’s before him. I’m not trespassing. I’m… reclaiming what’s mine.” He stilled.
Just for a moment. The name seemed to echo between them. His eyes narrowed slightly, scanning her again—not just her face this time, but something deeper. Something haunted.
“I’ve heard that name,” he murmured, almost to himself. She didn’t dare move.
