Adrian's POV
My car rolled to a stop in front of a modest apartment building, far removed from the polished circles I usually occupied.
Sophia's flat. The house of Amara's best friend.
Why was I here? Good question. I wasn't sure either.
There was no reason to meet her today. No gala to attend and no appearances to make.
And wasn't that I had free time to waste. Quite the contrary, I had contracts to review, meetings waiting, and the world always demanded my attention. And yet, here I was, standing at the door of a tiny flat in a neighborhood that smelled faintly of plantain.
The door flung open before I could knock twice.
A lady, Sophia I assume,stood there, mascara smudged like she'd just fought a pillow. Her eyes widened, and she immediately grabbed the edge of the door as though it might be the only thing keeping her from collapsing.
"Jesus! Billionaire at my door?!" she shrieked, then clutched her chest. "My wig is not even straight!"
I raised an eyebrow. "Should I come back when your wig is... straightened?"
She slapped her hand over her mouth, then pointed to the side. "Amara! Your billionaire is at the door!"
I heard a muffled groan from inside. A moment later, Amara appeared, barefoot in an oversized T-shirt, with a large bright pink bonnet on her head that threatened to topple at any second. She froze when she saw me, blinking like she wasn't sure if she was dreaming or hallucinating.
"Why are you here?" she demanded. No greeting, no pleasantries. Just suspicion.
I allowed a small, deliberate pause before answering. "Well, if you're going to play the role of my girlfriend, it would help if we were actually seen together. Outside of grand ballrooms and awkward dinners." I made that up on the spot but it did make sense.
Her lips parted, as though she wanted to argue. Instead, she crossed her arms. "So you just... show up? No call? No text?"
I tilted my head. "I sent you a text. Five minutes ago."
She frowned. "I didn't see it, plus that doesn't help anyways"
Sophia, still in the doorway, whispered like she was narrating a Nollywood drama: "This is wild. If you two get married, I want full credit."
I could see why these two were best friends. They were cut from the same cloth.
Amara groaned and grabbed her sneakers. "Fine. Give me ten minutes."
We ended up in the park.
Not the manicured kind where businessmen jog in overpriced sneakers, but a sprawling public park with uneven paths and vendors selling roasted corn at the gate. The kind of place I hadn't set foot in for years.
Amara walked beside me, arms swinging carelessly, while I kept my usual steady pace. It should have felt like a mismatch—her vibrant chaos clashing against my calm control—but oddly, it didn't.
Halfway down the path, a small golden retriever bounded toward us, leash dragging in the dirt. Amara gasped. "Oh my God, look at that baby!" She crouched instantly, clapping her hands until the dog ran over. Within seconds, she was scratching its ears like they were lifelong friends.
"You like dogs?" I asked, genuinely curious.
She glanced up at me like I'd asked if the sky was blue. "Of course I do. Dogs are adorable and loyal. They don't judge you. They don't care if you're broke or ugly." She said with a smile. "Why, you don't?"
I surprised myself, "I had one once. A husky. My grandfather hated the noise."
Her face softened. "So you got rid of it?"
I looked away. "Let's say... it was taken from me."
For a moment, she was quiet. Then, without warning, she bumped her shoulder lightly against mine. "You're not as heartless as you look, Adrian."
I didn't answer, but the corner of my mouth threatened to curve upward.
Later, we stopped at an ice cream stand.
The vendor asked what flavor we wanted. Without hesitation, we both said: "Chocolate."
Amara blinked at me. "Wait—you too?"
I arched a brow. "Why is that surprising?"
"I pegged you as a vanilla type. You know... safe, boring, too refined for chocolate."
"Chocolate is hardly rebellious."
She grinned. "Says the man in a suit eating ice cream at a park."
I ignored the jab, taking a deliberate bite of mine. She laughed anyway, her joy spilling into the air like it had no boundaries. People turned to look at her, but she didn't notice. Or didn't care.
And for the first time in a long time, neither did I.
We spent hours wandering. Talking about things that, in my world, would be considered trivial. She told me about her friend's obsession with reality TV; I told her about the time I nearly got expelled from boarding school for sneaking out to buy suya. She nearly choked on her ice cream, convinced I was lying.
"You? Sneaking out for suya? I can't even imagine it!"
I smirked. "Believe what you like."
It was... effortless. Too effortless.
By the time I drove her home, the sun had dipped low, painting the horizon in shades of orange and purple. She leaned back in her seat, humming a tune I didn't recognize, and I caught myself glancing at her more than once.
I hadn't planned on this. I hadn't planned on enjoying myself.
And that unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
When I dropped her off, she waved casually, as though billionaires showing up at her doorstep was the most normal thing in the world. I watched her disappear into the building, then leaned back in my seat.
Why did I want to see her again? Why did her oddities—the clumsy jokes, the unpolished edges—feel refreshing instead of irritating?
It was dangerous.
By the time I returned home, I'd made a decision. Distance. That was what I needed. She was a distraction, nothing more. A convenient lie I'd dressed up as a girlfriend.
So the next morning, I instructed my assistant to book my two-week business trip. Meetings in Zurich, negotiations in Paris, contracts in New York. A schedule so packed there would be no room for distractions.
But as the plane took off, city lights dwindling beneath me, one thought clung stubbornly to the edges of my mind.
Amara.
And the unsettling truth that I already missed the sound of her laughter.