If confidence were currency, I was stepping into that gala as the richest woman alive.
Never mind that my gown was a carefully ironed rental. Never mind that my heels were the exact pair that nearly murdered my pinky toe two weeks ago. Tonight, I was Amara 2.0: refined, radiant, ready to charm a billionaire.
Sophia had insisted.
"This is it, babe. A gala is the ultimate billionaire breeding ground. No riff-raff, no small boys flexing loan apps. Only serious money."
So here I was, standing at the entrance of the Grand Marina Hotel, pretending the valet didn't just give my Bolt ride side-eye. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light over the lobby, violins played like they had been hired to soundtrack my love story, and the air smelled of perfume that could pay for one semester's rent.
I clutched my invitation (courtesy of Sophia's elder brother's brother-in-law—connections were everything) and gave the security guard my best mysterious smile. He scanned it, nodded, and waved me in.
Infiltration successful.
I smoothed my gown, squared my shoulders, and told myself: Tonight, I find my billionaire.
The universe, however, enjoys comedy at my expense.
Because the moment I adjusted my clutch and prepared to strut inside, my eyes landed on a familiar figure.
There. By the quiet side lot, partly shielded by a line of luxury cars that looked like a car dealership's wet dream, stood him.
My café billionaire.
Sharp suit. Calm demeanor. Expensive aura.
And beside him, another man—slightly taller, dressed in a tux. From here, he looked every bit the type who managed schedules and carried phones. My mind quickly labeled him: the assistant.
They were talking, laughing softly, like two men who understood money moved whenever they picked up the phone.
Ah-ha.
My pulse quickened. My entire body screamed, Opportunity.
But just as I made up my mind to approach, my café crush—the one I was convinced was Adrian Cole—nodded to the other man and walked inside, leaving the "assistant" alone, adjusting his cufflinks under the low glow of the parking lights.
I exhaled, gathering courage. This was my chance.
I rushed over, heels clicking like gunshots against the marble.
"Excuse me!" I called, my voice more breathless than intended.
He turned, brows lifting ever so slightly, and I was momentarily disarmed. His face was sharper up close, his eyes the kind of calm gray that could make lies sound like gospel.
"Yes?" he said, smooth as ever.
I swallowed, forcing out a shaky laugh. "Sorry to bother you. I just... I think you might be able to help me."
One eyebrow arched, faint amusement glimmering already. "Help you?"
"Yes," I said, stepping closer. "I, um... I've seen your boss around." I lowered my voice like I was whispering a state secret. "And I was wondering if you could connect me to him."
For a beat, silence. Then his lips curved, slow, deliberate.
"My... boss?"
"Yes," I said quickly, nodding like a bobblehead. "You're his assistant, right?"
Something flickered in his gaze—amusement, disbelief—but he only tilted his head, watching me like a cat that had spotted a very entertaining mouse.
"And why," he asked softly, "would you want to meet Adrian Cole?"
Ahh, so that was the Adrian Cole. The billionaire himself. My lucky day.
I smiled, giving him my most dazzling rich-aunty-in-training grin.
"Come on. Who wouldn't want to be close to a billionaire?"
The words hung in the air like bad perfume.
But instead of laughing in my face, he chuckled—low, warm, maddening.
"Interesting," he murmured. "So, that's your reason."
I laughed nervously, clutching my clutch tighter. "Don't judge me. I mean, a girl has to aim high. And what's higher than a billionaire?"
He studied me for a long moment, then slipped his hands into his pockets.
"Fair point."
Relief washed through me. He wasn't offended. He was... intrigued. Perfect.
"So?" I pressed, lowering my lashes in what I hoped was a sultry manner. "Will you help me? A quick introduction, maybe? Just tell him I'm charming, mysterious, irresistible..."
His mouth quirked. "Irresistible, hmm?"
Heat crept up my neck, but I nodded firmly. "Exactly."
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "And what makes you so sure Adrian Cole would be interested?"
I smirked. "Because men like him... they're overworked, lonely, in need of someone who gets them. And I," I said, placing a dramatic hand on my chest, "am a giver."
At that, he actually laughed. Not the polite kind. A real laugh, rich and unrestrained, echoing through the quiet lot.
My confidence ballooned. If I could make this "assistant" laugh, surely he'd sing my praises to his boss.
"Fine," he said at last, eyes still twinkling with amusement. "I'll... keep that in mind."
I nearly squealed in victory. Step Two completed. Connection secured.
Inside, the gala sparkled like something out of a movie. Women floated in gowns worth my yearly rent. Men glittered with watches that could fund a small village. Waiters glided with champagne flutes balanced like ballerinas.
And me? I was glowing. Because tonight, I had a direct line to Adrian Cole.
The "assistant" didn't hover near me, but every so often, I'd catch his eye across the room. He'd give a subtle nod, or raise his glass in silent toast, like we shared a secret. My heart fluttered each time.
I also noticed a lot of people greeted him. He must have been very popular. I chalked it up to his job—assistants in billionaire circles probably knew everybody.
My mind trailed back to my mission, Sophia's voice ringing in my head: Lonely billionaires are the easiest to trap.
I was already imagining our first yacht trip, my aso-ebi announcement, the Instagram captions, my hater secondary school classmates crying in the background. Ahh, the life.
The evening blurred with chatter, polite laughter, me pretending to understand discussions about foreign exchange markets and oil futures. All the while, I waited for him—the real Adrian Cole. Surely, the assistant would make the introduction any minute now.
It happened near the end. The music slowed, the lights shifted, and a man in a crisp tuxedo took the stage. The MC's voice boomed through the speakers:
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the man of the hour, our gracious host and esteemed entrepreneur... Mr. Adrian Cole."
The room erupted in applause. I clapped politely, turning toward the stage—then froze.
I blinked. Then blinked again. No. No, no, no.
Because standing there, adjusting the microphone with calm authority, was him.
The "assistant."
The man I had just begged to connect me to himself.
My stomach dropped to my toes. My champagne flute trembled dangerously in my hand.
He looked out at the crowd, the picture of poise. But for the briefest moment, his eyes found mine. And in that flicker, I saw it—the smirk he'd been holding back all night.
Heat flooded my cheeks. My brain screamed, Pack your bag, Amara. Relocate to Ghana.
The applause died down, replaced by his smooth voice filling the hall.
"Thank you all for being here tonight..."
But I barely heard a word.
Because all I could think was this: I had just told Lagos's most eligible billionaire that I wanted him to introduce me... to himself.
I was finished. Ruined. Cooked like jollof rice left too long on the fire.
And as I sank into my chair, wishing for the ground to swallow me whole, one thing became very, very clear:
This wasn't just a small mistake.
This was my biggest disaster yet.
Sophia would never let me live this down.