The air was thick with heat and impatience as Elena Nyarko stood in line at Café Sika, scrolling through her emails. Rejections. Again. Three more companies had turned down her pitch. Her fingers tightened around the phone.
"Miss, are you ordering or updating your CV?" came a cool, amused voice behind her.
Elena turned slowly. The man standing there wore a plain black t-shirt, dark jeans, and aviator shades. He had the kind of face that made women forget their passwords — sharp jawline, smooth chocolate skin, a mouth that looked like it had something dangerous to say.
She didn't flinch. "I'm trying to decide if I should spend my last 10 cedis on coffee or mobile data."
He smiled, slow and smooth. "Let me save you the decision."
He stepped forward and ordered, "Two iced espressos. Her bill's on me."
Elena blinked. "I didn't ask you to—"
"I know. But I insist," he said, without waiting for her approval.
She stared at him, suspicious. "Why?"
"I like investing in things that show potential," he said, handing her one of the drinks.
Before she could respond, he was gone — out the door like a mirage.
---
Later that evening, back at her tiny apartment in Adenta, Elena sat with her laptop open, half-focused on coding her new prototype.
Nana Afua, her roommate and best friend, burst in. "You'll never guess who's in Accra."
Elena raised an eyebrow. "If it's another celebrity DJ, I don't care."
"No, girl. Xavier Drake. The billionaire. The ghost."
Elena turned her full attention. "He went off-grid last year after the boardroom scandal, right?"
"Yes! Tech giant. Real estate king. American-Ghanaian. They say he disappeared. But now... rumors say he's hiding here."
Elena rolled her eyes. "Billionaires don't hide in Ghana."
Nana grinned. "What if he walked right past you on the street?"
Elena took a sip of her espresso. "Then he should've left a tip."
---
Meanwhile, in a penthouse at Kempinski, Xavier Drake pulled off his sunglasses, watching Elena's Instagram profile from a burner phone. Her pitch, her project, her voice in that café… He'd seen thousands of people chase dreams. She was different.
He needed a low profile. No press. No board. No scandals. But something about Elena made him want to risk being seen again.
"Mr. Drake," his assistant's voice came through the earpiece. "Shall we proceed with the low-level investment interviews tomorrow?"
He smirked, eyes locked on Elena's bio: "Dreamer. Coder. Disrupting the future, one coffee at a time."
"Yes," he said. "And start with her."