(Adams's POV)
The elevator doors slid open with a hushed, expensive sigh, revealing a realm of such stark, minimalist opulence that it felt like stepping onto another planet. The 25th floor of the Ais_$ Co. tower was a cathedral of silence. The air itself was different—cool, filtered, and carrying a faint, sterile scent of lemon and polished metal. The only sound was the whisper of climate control and the distant, muted tap of a keyboard.
Plush, charcoal-gray carpet swallowed Adams's footsteps as he approached the reception desk, a single, seamless slab of white marble behind which sat a woman so impeccably groomed she could have been carved from the same stone. Her nameplate read: Habiba. Executive Assistant to the CEO.
"Adams Dared for Hajiya Dr. Aisha," he said, his voice sounding too loud in the sacred quiet.
Habiba didn't smile. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, flickered over him—taking in the fit of his slightly-too-loose suit, the faint scuff on his shoe he'd missed that morning. It was a swift, merciless inventory. "You are expected, Mr. Dared. Please have a seat. The Hajiya will be with you shortly."
Shortly turned out to be a precise, psychological measurement of twenty-three minutes. Adams sat in a deep, leather armchair that threatened to swallow him whole, facing a wall that was a single, gigantic pane of glass. Abuja sprawled beneath him in a grid of ambitious order and simmering chaos. From this altitude, the city's struggles looked small, manageable. It was a perspective designed to intimidate, to remind visitors of their insignificance.
He understood the game. This was the first test. The wait. The assessment of his patience, his nerve.
Finally, a soft chime sounded from Habiba's desk. She looked up. "You may go in now."
The door to the inner sanctum was a massive slab of dark, polished wood. Adams pushed it open.
The office was breathtakingly vast, yet sparsely furnished. It wasn't a room; it was a statement. One entire wall was glass, framing Aso Rock in the distance like a piece of living art. The only furniture was a monolithic desk of polished ebony, a low-slung modern sofa, and a single bookshelf holding not books, but a collection of abstract sculptures that looked both ancient and futuristic.
And behind the desk, dwarfed by the scale of the room yet utterly commanding it, sat Hajiya Dr. Aisha Sani.
She was smaller than he'd imagined, her frame almost delicate. But the energy radiating from her was immense, a palpable force field of intelligence and will. She wasn't looking at him as he entered; she was studying a tablet, her brow furrowed in concentration. She wore a simple but exquisitely tailored navy-blue hijab and a matching tunic. There were no jewels, no obvious signs of wealth beyond the cut of the cloth and the absolute authority she exuded.
Adams stood just inside the door, waiting. Another test. To speak first would be to rush her. To fidget would be to show weakness.
After a full minute that felt like an hour, she placed the tablet on the desk with a precise click. Then, she looked up.
Her eyes were the most striking feature he had ever seen. Dark, piercing, and utterly devoid of social pleasantries. They didn't just see him; they seemed to scan him, analyzing his composition, his history, his potential threat level and usefulness.
"Mr. Dared," she said. Her voice was low, calm, and carried the weight of unarguable authority. It was a voice used to being listened to, a voice that could probably stop a boardroom brawl with a whisper.
"Hajiya Doctor," he replied, giving a slight, respectful nod of his head. He remained standing.
She gestured to the chair opposite her desk. It was a low, sleek thing, forcing the occupant to look up at her. He sat, refusing to let the design manipulate his posture. He sat straight, meeting her gaze.
"Your application was an anomaly," she began, without preamble. She laced her fingers together on the desk. "A man of your… former stature… applying for a middle-management communications role. Most would see it as desperation. Or delusion."
Adams held his breath. This was the moment. The direct hit.
"I am not most people," he said, his voice even. "And I assumed you weren't either. Desperation can be a powerful motivator. But it's unreliable. I prefer to think of it as… recalibration."
A flicker of something—not a smile, but perhaps interest—crossed her impassive features. "Recalibration," she repeated, tasting the word. "An interesting term for a total systemic collapse. You lost your empire, Mr. Dared. Your reputation is a cautionary tale. Tell me, why should I let you practice your 'recalibration' inside my company?"
He leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees. "Because I know how things break. Intimately. I know the sound a legacy makes when it shatters. And that knowledge is more valuable than any MBA. You can hire a dozen people who know how to build a pristine reputation. But can any of them tell you how to rebuild one from rubble? I can. I'm living it."
Dr. Aisha was silent, her gaze unwavering. He felt like a specimen under a microscope.
"The Sharon Holdings deal," she said abruptly, changing tack. "The unincorporated joint venture. At the time, the financial press called it revolutionary. In hindsight, it was reckless. You exposed your primary company to untenable risk for a short-term victory. Explain the flaw in your own logic."
It was a trap. A question designed to make him defensive, to make him justify a past mistake with ego.
Adams didn't take the bait. "The flaw wasn't in the logic of the deal structure. The flaw was in my belief that my own position was unassailable. I built a brilliant trapdoor but forgot to check the structural integrity of the floor I was standing on. I won the battle and lost the war because I was too focused on the opponent across the table to see the ones sitting beside me."
He paused, letting the admission hang in the air. It was the truth, raw and unvarnished. He was not defending the old Adams; he was diagnosing his failure.
Dr. Aisha's expression did not change, but he sensed a shift in the room's pressure. The interrogation was over. The conversation had begun.
"There is a project," she said, her tone becoming brisk, clinical. "A proposed acquisition of a smaller fintech startup. The public narrative is about innovation and growth. The internal reality is that the startup's founder is a liability. Erratic. Volatile. A potential PR time bomb. The board is nervous. I need a communications strategy that prepares for every possible explosion—from a drunken tweet to a full-scale ethical scandal—without ever letting the market smell fear. The files are with Habiba."
She stood up, a swift, economical movement. The meeting was over. "You have forty-eight hours. Show me what recalibration looks like on paper, Mr. Dared. Not what you were. What you are now."
Adams stood, his mind already racing, mapping out the problem. "Thank you for the opportunity, Hajiya Doctor."
She was already looking back at her tablet, dismissing him. As he reached the door, her voice stopped him.
"Dared."
He turned.
She wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on the cityscape beyond the glass. "Don't disappoint me. I have little patience for restored relics that crack under the slightest pressure."
The words were a cold splash of reality. The door was open, but the path ahead was a tightrope over a chasm.
He stepped out of the office, the silent, carpeted hallway feeling like a decompression chamber. Habiba handed him a thick folder without a word.
He had his assignment. He had his chance.
But as he rode the elevator down, the CEO's final warning echoed in his mind. He hadn't just met a formidable CEO. He had entered an arena where his past was a weakness and his only strength was his ability to be ruthlessly, unflinchingly new.
The real work began now.