CHAPTER TWELVE
Ahmed drives into the compound and brings the jeep to a smooth halt.
"We're here, sir," he announces, his voice calm but firm.
I alight from the vehicle, stretch briefly, and take the elevator straight to my apartment. Once inside, I remove my shades, drop the suitcase on the bed, and pull out the folder Ranti had delivered earlier in the day.
Folders like this always made me wary. They were constant reminders of my father's looming presence, his shadow was everywhere.
I open the folder and find a small, neatly wrapped envelope tucked inside.
"An Exclusive Invitation to Celebrate Our Global Expansion Success," it read in bold letters.
Dad had been making big moves quietly for months, but this… this was monumental, even for him.
"Whew. The coming days will be long," I sigh under my breath, running my fingers along the edge of the envelope.
I take a stroll into the bathroom, freshen up, and later collapse onto the bed, my thoughts swirling.
Ere had rejected my offer earlier today, but that didn't worry me. Not at all. There were always ways subtle or direct to make someone see reason.
"You'll be mine, soon," I murmur to myself as I scroll past her pictures on her socials. She was out with her friends, smiling and glowing, an undeniable social butterfly.
Ring. Ring.
My phone vibrates on the dresser. I grumble as I walk over to see who's calling.
Father.
"Hello, son. I trust you received the invitation I sent today?" His tone is sharp but collected.
"I did," I reply flatly. "It's… an invitation."
"Yes, but not just any invitation. It's an in-house celebration for our top investors and a few potential partners.
Very private.
Very exclusive.
It's to mark the success of our company's expansion into several more countries. We can now broadcast, influence, and remodel information across multiple nations as I speak."
Of course. Influence. Always influence.
ADUK MEDIA GROUP wasn't just a company, it was an empire. An information powerhouse that filtered, reshaped, and controlled more than 80% of the country's news. Records, announcements, even propaganda, nothing reached the masses without first passing under my father's scrutiny.
Most wealthy men and power-brokers in the country relied heavily on him whenever they needed narratives controlled, products popularized, or scandals buried.
Our network of secret blogs, fake accounts, and influential media personalities ensured every agenda was executed flawlessly.
To the ordinary citizen, ADUK MEDIA GROUP was just another "successful media house." But the investors, those on the inside, knew how deep the roots went.
"Congratulations," I say finally, standing up and pacing slowly across the bedroom.
"Why do you need me there?" I ask cautiously.
"Just a fun celebration," he replies smoothly, his words too casual to trust.
"Nothing out of the ordinary. Wear your best suit and dress to impress."
"I'll be expecting you. Have a good night."
The line goes dead before I can respond.
I toss the phone onto the dresser and exhale. Knowing my father, there was always another agenda, another hidden motive. Nothing was ever as simple as it seemed.
I lay down. Fatigue creeps in, and I decide to let it rest for tonight. I slide under the covers, and sleep takes me quickly.
THE NEXT DAY
I arrive at the office in high spirits, with Jude trailing behind me. His arms are weighed down by a tall stack of shipment documents from neighboring countries.
After five years in the industry, my persistence had finally paid off. Numerous ad campaigns, tireless promotions, and relentless work had pushed my perfume brand into the spotlight.
I could have leaned on my father's empire to accelerate the growth, but I chose not to. My father was one to count favors like debts, and I refused to owe him.
"Good morning, sir," Jude says as we step inside. His tie hangs loosely around his neck, his black shirt already creased despite the early hour.
Jude, my 5'8 assistant, always seemed weary, as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders, even at the start of the day.
"We have four new distributorship requests from Lagos and neighboring countries," he says, balancing the files as he walks.
"They're particularly interested in our Maiden's Touch perfume."
I scan over the iPad he hands me, scrolling through the emails.
"That's wonderful," I say with a faint smile. I unlock my office door and gesture for him to follow me inside.
The moment we enter, the office's signature scent fills the air, my signature creation, one of many.
"How many shipments do we have in total?" I ask, settling into my chair.
"Seven hundred bottles, sir," he answers, his expression tightening.
I pause, nodding slowly. No wonder he looked stressed.
"Seven hundred bottles…" I repeat thoughtfully. "This is the largest shipment we've had since we started."
"Yes, sir," Jude confirms.
"When are they expected to go out?" I press.
"In a few days," he replies.
"Then inform the production team to sideline all ongoing orders. I want the new shipments prioritized immediately."
"Yes, sir," Jude says, and exits the office, closing the door behind him.
I wait for his footsteps to fade completely. Silence wraps the room.
Then, I turned off the light.
And walk over to the wall beside the sofa.
A light tap on a concealed panel reveals something only I know, something I've kept hidden from everyone.
The wall clicks open, a narrow slit of darkness revealing itself.
I slip inside.
THE SECRET ROOM
It isn't just a room. It's a world.
Dim amber lights flicker on automatically, casting long shadows across the walls.
At the center of the space sits a wide black marble island, its surface littered with beakers, scent strips, glass vials, and measuring cylinders.
Every tool here has been hand-selected, every placement deliberate.
The air smells sharper, rawer, like unbottled inspiration.
Along one side of the wall, a towering shelf stretches from floor to ceiling. Row after row of slim bottles, some labeled, most not, gleam under the lights.
These are my secrets, the unreleased testers, the forbidden blends, the experiments that may never see daylight. Scents too bold, too dangerous, or too personal to share.
No one knows this room exists. Not Jude. Not Ahmed. Not even my father—Especially not my father.
Beyond the island, a single bed is nestled against the far corner. It's stark yet inviting, my retreat for long nights, for solitude, for silence. The place I retreat to when the world outside becomes too loud, too demanding.
This is where I breathe. This is where I think. This is where I create.
I sit at the edge of the bed, running a hand over the sheets, and let the silence fill me.
Minutes turn into hours before I finally return to the office, slipping back into the normal world as though nothing happened.
I open my laptop, ready to send out thank-you emails to new distributors.
But midway through the list, I halt.
There it is—
A name I know too well.
"Jude," I say into the receiver, "which of the new clients placed the largest order?"
"A client here in Lagos, sir. A Mrs. Adebayo," he replies.
My chest tightens. Rage simmers immediately. Ayanfe.
She was pushing her luck, weaving schemes in silence. My absence had made her bolder.
I dial her number without hesitation.
"You finally called back," she teases when she answers.
"You placed an order for my perfumes?" My voice is clipped, impatient.
"Oh… you found out," she says, feigning innocence. "In my defense, I needed new perfumes. Mine are almost finished."
"And so you placed an order for three hundred bottles?" My tone sharpens.
She laughs lightly, trying to disarm me.
"Maybe I was just trying to support your empire, you should be thanking me".
"It's a no, Ayanfe," I cut in firmly.
"Cancel the order, don't test me"
"You really should relax Aanoni, come on. Can't a girl try to get your attention? You'll find out soon enough, Aanoni I always find a way."
I end the call not wanting to respond.
Immediately, I call Jude back.
"Cancel Mrs. Adebayo's order and refund the money to the source account. Effective immediately."
"Yes, sir."
I drop the phone on the desk and exhale harshly. I despised women who refused to accept boundaries. Ayanfe was proving herself one of those.
I wrap up the rest of my work and signal Ahmed to bring the jeep around.
A familiar routine now.
I step out to the front where Ahmed is waiting, the door already open.
"Where to, sir?" he asks.
"To the boutique. I have an event this evening," I reply, hoping it distracts me from the frustrations of the past few weeks.