The air inside D.O. Holdings headquarters smelled like wealth—cool air conditioning, polished marble floors, faint hints of designer cologne, and power. The glass doors at the entrance gleamed under the morning sun, and the massive building towered above Lagos like it had something to prove.
Zaria stood outside for the third time that week, clutching her brown envelope like it was her last lifeline.
Because it was.
She hadn't come to beg. At least, that's what she told herself.
But the truth was cruel and loud: she needed a job. Desperately. The pregnancy test wasn't lying. The second one hadn't lied either. And the faint nausea twisting her stomach every morning had already become routine.
She hadn't told anyone—not her roommate, not her aunt in Abuja who only called when she needed something, and certainly not the man responsible. The man she hadn't seen since that night.
Darius Okechukwu.
His name felt heavy in her mouth even when she said it alone in the dark.
She was carrying his baby, and she had no clue how to reach him. She'd tried. Oh, she had tried. No social media. No direct contact. Not even his company's HR line offered real help—just endless redirections and, once, a warning that "unsolicited personal inquiries are discouraged."
But today, she had a plan.
She'd applied for an entry-level administrative assistant position through a small agency she once temped for. Miraculously, she'd been shortlisted for an in-person interview. That was her foot in the door.
She would get inside.
And if she saw him—if God wanted her to—she would tell him.
Even if it burned her pride to ashes.
The receptionist at the front desk barely looked up as Zaria approached. She tapped her pen impatiently against the desk while scrolling on her tablet.
"Name?" the woman asked, voice clipped.
"Zaria Bello. Here for the 9 a.m. interview with HR."
The woman tapped a few things, then motioned toward the elevators. "22nd floor. Left wing. Good luck."
Zaria didn't say thank you. She didn't have the strength for fake smiles. As the elevator doors slid shut, she caught her reflection in the mirror-polished wall. Her natural curls were packed into a low bun, her makeup was simple but neat, and her only good blouse had been carefully ironed the night before. She looked calm.
But inside, her heart pounded like drums at a village festival.
She hadn't expected to feel so... emotional.
Maybe it was the hormones.
Or maybe it was the possibility that today could change everything.
The 22nd floor was quiet. Too quiet. The HR office had a glass wall, through which Zaria could see two other young women waiting. She joined them and sank into a chair, folding her hands on her lap to stop them from shaking.
The interview went smoothly. Surprisingly so. The woman from HR had been kind, even impressed by Zaria's references. They promised to get back to her within a week.
As she stepped out of the HR wing, she hesitated.
The executive suites were on the 25th floor.
She knew it. Everyone in Lagos knew it.
For a full minute, Zaria stood near the elevator, chewing her lip. Then, with a deep breath, she stepped back in and pressed the button for the top floor.
The 25th floor smelled different. Like leather chairs, ambition, and secrets.
There was no receptionist at the executive lobby. Just silence, polished wood, and frosted glass doors with gold-plated name plaques.
And one of those doors read:
DARIUS OKECHUKWU, PRESIDENT & CEO
Zaria stood in front of it, her palms sweating, her chest rising and falling like she'd just run a marathon.
She raised her hand.
And knocked.
Nothing.
She knocked again—firmer this time.
Still nothing.
She was about to turn away when the door suddenly opened, and there he was.
Darius.
In a grey tailored suit, no tie, shirt collar open at the neck. He looked exactly as he had that night—tall, broad, controlled—but now, in the light of day, there was something colder about him. Something sharp.
His eyes landed on her, and for a moment… nothing. No recognition. No flicker of memory.
Just polite confusion.
"Yes?" he asked, his voice calm, deep.
Zaria's stomach turned. Her mouth felt dry. Her words died in her throat.
He didn't remember her.
She took a step forward, then stopped.
"I… I need to speak with you," she said finally.
Darius raised one brow. "About what?"
She held up her envelope like a shield. "It's personal."
He looked at her for a long moment, then finally stepped aside. "You have five minutes."
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
His office was breathtaking—floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the island, art on the walls, leather chairs, bookshelves filled with titles she'd never afford.
He motioned toward a chair. She sat stiffly.
"So?" he asked, leaning back. "What's this about?"
Zaria opened the envelope slowly, carefully. Inside were two neatly folded documents.
A copy of the pregnancy test.
And a small photo from the hotel's valet stand—blurry but clear enough to show them both stepping into his car.
Darius stared at the papers without moving.
Then his eyes lifted to hers. Dark. Cold. But this time… alert.
"You're pregnant," he said quietly.
She nodded.
"And you're saying it's mine."
"I'm not saying it," she whispered. "I know it."
Silence.
Long. Tense.
Finally, he stood and walked to the window, facing the city.
When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a murmur.
"Why didn't you come sooner?"
Zaria stared at him, stunned. "You disappeared."
"I didn't give you a number," he said, turning slowly. "But you didn't ask for one either."
She swallowed. "I thought it was just one night."
He walked back toward her.
Stopped in front of the desk.
His expression unreadable.
"Well," he said at last. "One night or not, this changes everything"