I swallow past the lump in my throat. "Is this supposed to scare me?" My voice is softer than I want—too shaky to be convincing.
Ayo chuckles—actually chuckles, like this is some sick joke. "Scare you? No." He leans down, brushing his lips along the woman's throat. She shudders beneath him. "But it looks like it's bothering you."
My fists clench. "It's not."
He watches me, considering, then slides his hand between her legs. Her body arches, a sharp cry spilling from her lips.
I feel it like a slap.
I tell myself it doesn't matter who he touches, who he brings to his bed. I left this behind five years ago. But the ache curling in my stomach says otherwise.
"Why are you here, Zara?" His voice is silk and steel. "Or did you just miss me?"
I should leave. Tell him to go to hell. But I don't.
Instead, I lift my chin. "You're suing The Daily Report. I'm here to settle it."
His lips curve. "And you thought interrupting me was the best way to do that?"
"You let me in," I fire back. "Don't act like this is an accident."
The woman whimpers again. Ayo watches me react to it. He's trying to break me. I won't give him the satisfaction.
"When you're done playing, call me," I say. "We both know this lawsuit is just an excuse to get my attention."
I turn to leave.
"Walk through that door, and you lose your job."
My stomach twists, but I keep my voice steady. "Call off the lawsuit."
He smiles—slow, deliberate. "And why would I do that?"
Because you still care.
The words hover on my tongue, but I bite them back. He doesn't care. Not anymore.
I lift my chin. "Because dragging The Daily Report into a public fight won't end well for either of us."
For a long, tense moment, the only sound is the distant hum of the city and the woman's uneven breathing. Then—
"Leave us," Ayo says.
She doesn't protest. Just grabs her bag and walks out, heels clicking against the polished floor.
And just like that, we're alone.
"I should've known you'd come crawling back," he says, arms folding across his bare chest.
"I'm not crawling," I snap. "I'm here because my job depends on it."
His jaw tightens. "Your job." He laughs softly. "Is that all this is to you?"
I say nothing. Because if I let one truth slip, I won't be able to stop.
Ayo steps closer, heat radiating off him. My pulse skitters.
"You want me to call off the lawsuit?" His voice is low, dangerous. "Give me a reason."
"I'm not here to beg."
His smile is slow—savage. "Dinner. Tomorrow night."
I blink. "Dinner?"
"You want the lawsuit gone? Meet me at seven."
"And if I refuse?"
"You walk out without accepting my offer, and the lawsuit stands." His voice is velvet over steel. "No negotiations. No second chances."
I swallow my protest. This is a trap. But if I walk away, I might as well hand in my resignation.
"I'll be ready at seven," I say. The words taste like surrender.
Ayo's smile deepens. "Good girl."
The words scrape against something raw inside me. I want to tell him to go to hell. Instead, I spin on my heel, heels clicking against the floor as I head for the door.
"You've always known how to keep things interesting," he calls after me. "My driver will pick you up by seven, don't keep him waiting."
I don't stop. Not until I'm safely in the elevator. Only then do I let out a breath—shaky, uneven.
What the hell have I just agreed to?
__________
By the time I push through The Daily Report's doors, my nerves are frayed. The newsroom hums around me—phones ringing, reporters arguing, but I barely hear any of it as I make my way to Obiora's office.
He's waiting, dark eyes sharp. "Well?"
"I bought us time," I say, dropping into the chair. "He's willing to talk."
Obiora's brow lifts. "And what did that cost us?"
I hesitate. "Dinner. Tomorrow night."
His fingers stop drumming. "You're playing with fire, Zara."
Like I don't already know that.
"I can handle him," I lie.
Obiora doesn't look convinced. "Fine. But if this goes sideways, you're the one who'll pay the price." His voice softens. "Be careful. Men like Ayo Oladipo don't play fair."
Trust me, I learned that lesson the hard way.
_____________
The next day, I pretend I'm fine.
I write up a corruption scandal. Sit through three editorial meetings. Let Tola drag me to a coffee shop where I choke down a cappuccino I barely taste.
But no matter how much I try to distract myself, Ayo lingers—like the echo of a song I can't shake.
By six o'clock, my nerves are wound tight.
I change in the office bathroom—a simple black dress, sleek and professional, if a little too tight around the waist. My reflection looks composed, but underneath, my heart pounds.
I'm not ready for this.
At exactly seven, a sleek black Mercedes idles at the curb. The driver—an older man with a professional smile—opens the door without a word.
I slide inside, my palms damp against my thighs. The city blurs past the tinted windows, but I barely register it. My mind is too busy rehearsing every sharp, cutting thing I want to say to Ayo.
If only my heart would listen.
When the car finally pulls up to an exclusive rooftop restaurant, I force myself to breathe. I can do this. I have to do this.
The hostess leads me to a secluded table by the windows. The lights of the city glitter beyond the glass, but it's the couple seated across from me that steals my breath.
Ayo. And the woman from yesterday.
Ayo brought his chick to our dinner.