ABUJA BADDIES
Chapter 2 — The Man in the Dark Suit
The private dining room in Maitama glowed in soft amber light. Crystal chandeliers shimmered above the table, reflecting off champagne glasses and diamond bracelets.
Zara noticed him first.
She didn't turn her head fully. She didn't need to. Years of high-society training had sharpened her instincts. You never stare. You assess.
Across the restaurant, seated alone, was the man in the dark suit.
Tailored perfectly. No flashy logos. No unnecessary movement. The kind of confidence that didn't beg for validation.
He wasn't watching the room.
He was watching them.
Specifically — her.
Teni leaned forward, oblivious. "I'm telling you, that ambassador's son is obsessed. He keeps sending flowers to my house."
"Block him," Amara said calmly, swirling her drink.
"You don't block connections," Laila corrected gently. "You manage them."
Zara finally turned her head slightly.
Their eyes met.
And he didn't look away.
Interesting.
Most men in Abuja either tried too hard or folded too quickly. This one did neither.
He simply held her gaze like he had already decided something.
Across the room, Malik Suleiman did not blink.
He had heard about the "Abuja Baddies" long before tonight.
Whispers at political dinners. Mentions in private boardrooms. Instagram fame. Billionaire fathers. Tech acquisitions. Influencer power.
But Zara Bello…
She was different.
Old money. Oil money. Untouchable.
He liked untouchable things.
Because he specialized in acquisition.
Back at the table, Zara picked up her phone casually and typed into the girls' group chat.
Zara:
Dark suit. 2 o'clock. Watching us.
Teni's lashes fluttered instantly as she reached for her wine glass.
"Oh?" she murmured, pretending to adjust her seat.
Amara didn't move, but her eyes flicked toward the reflection in the mirrored wall.
Laila's expression remained serene. "Is he a threat?"
Zara considered.
"No," she said softly. "He's confident."
"That's worse," Amara replied.
Malik stood.
The movement was smooth, deliberate.
He approached their table without hesitation.
Every head in the restaurant subtly turned.
Abuja loved drama.
"Good evening, ladies," he said, voice deep and controlled. "Forgive the interruption."
Teni smiled automatically. "Depends on what you're offering."
He didn't look at her.
His eyes stayed on Zara.
"My name is Malik Suleiman."
Zara's expression didn't change. "Should we know you?"
A faint smile touched his lips. "You will."
Laila's gaze sharpened. That name.
Suleiman.
Northern business dynasty. Construction contracts. Oil servicing. Quiet political influence.
Dangerous.
"I don't interrupt powerful women without reason," Malik continued. "I simply wanted to introduce myself."
"And now that you have?" Zara asked.
"I look forward to our next conversation."
He slid a black card onto the table.
No title. No logo.
Just a number.
Then he walked away.
No rush.
No backward glance.
Silence hung for two seconds.
Then Teni exploded.
"ZARA. WHAT WAS THAT."
Amara picked up the card. "Minimalist. I like him already."
Laila's jaw tightened slightly. "My father mentioned the Suleiman family last week."
Zara leaned back in her chair.
Her pulse had shifted.
Not faster.
Sharper.
"He's calculating," she said. "I can tell."
"And you like that," Teni teased.
Zara's eyes flicked toward the exit where he had disappeared.
"I don't like anything," she replied coolly.
But something unfamiliar stirred in her chest.
Not attraction.
Challenge.
Later that night, Zara stood on her balcony in Maitama, Abuja glowing beneath her like a jeweled kingdom.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
She already knew.
Malik:
You handled that well.
She stared at the message.
Zara:
You're bold.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
I prefer intentional.
She hesitated for only a moment.
Zara:
Goodnight, Mr. Suleiman.
His reply came seconds later.
Sleep well, Zara. We have a lot to discuss.
Her expression hardened slightly.
We?
Nobody decided her future without permission.
But for the first time in a long time…
She felt the board shift.
And in Abuja, when the board shifts, someone always falls.