The restaurant overlooked the city, lights stretching endlessly beneath the glass walls. Abuja at night always looked forgiving—soft, beautiful, full of promise.
Darius arrived first.
He didn't like waiting. Not because he was impatient, but because waiting gave him time to think. And thinking had become dangerous since Amara entered his life.
When she walked in, the noise of the room seemed to dim.
She wore a simple black dress. No jewelry. No effort to impress. Yet every step she took toward him tightened something in his chest.
"You came," he said.
"I said I would."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
They talked. Laughed. Ate. And for a moment—just a moment—Amara forgot the reason she had been placed in his path. Forgot the warnings. Forgot the blood attached to his last name.
When Darius reached across the table and brushed her fingers, she flinched.
"You're afraid of me," he said quietly.
Amara met his gaze. "I'm afraid of getting used to you."
Darius didn't know it yet, but that fear would save her life later.