The music at the rooftop lounge of Eko Heights Hotel throbbed like a living thing, weaving through the crowd like smoke. Lagos nightlife had a pulse, and tonight it beat loud and fast, full of laughter, flashing lights, and clinking glasses.
Zaria Bello stood near the edge of the balcony, holding a tray of champagne flutes. Her feet ached inside borrowed heels two sizes too small, and her black dress—a tight, sleek uniform provided by the event company—hugged her like a second skin. She balanced the tray expertly, despite the ache in her shoulders and the dull pain in her lower back.
Nobody noticed the servers. That was the rule. Be seen, not heard. Smile, nod, disappear.
But she was tired of disappearing.
This was not how her life was meant to go. Not after graduating top of her class in Business Admin. Not after all the fasting, prayers, and hustle. But the Lagos job market had chewed her up and spat her out. Her uncle's promises of "I'll help you soon" had faded with time. Now, she worked weddings, parties, funerals—anywhere people needed to be served but didn't want to serve themselves.
Still, tonight wasn't a total loss. The rooftop was beautiful. The city lights stretched out like a blanket of diamonds, the lagoon glistening under the moonlight. For a moment, Zaria allowed herself to dream.
Then she saw him.
Tall. Dark. Sharp suit. And eyes that scanned the room like he owned it.
He probably did.
She recognised him from the business blogs she used to read before her phone line was disconnected. Darius Okechukwu, billionaire CEO of D.O. Holdings. The youngest board member at Central Bank. Lagos's most eligible bachelor.
The man who didn't smile.
But he was smiling now.
At her.
Zaria blinked, looking behind her to be sure. Maybe there was another server—taller, prettier, richer—but no. He was looking directly at her, a flicker of amusement and curiosity dancing in those deep brown eyes.
He crossed the floor like he had all the time in the world. Confident. Controlled.
"Are those glasses for the gods," he asked, his voice deep and smooth, "or can mortals have one?"
Zaria blinked. Then smiled. A small, cautious smile.
"You look like you could use one," she replied, lifting a glass toward him.
He didn't take it.
Instead, he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "What's your name?"
She hesitated. Every part of her said be professional, serve the drink, walk away.
But her mouth said, "Zaria."
His eyes lingered on her lips, then her neck, then drifted back to her eyes. "Zaria," he repeated like he was tasting it. "You don't belong here."
Her breath caught. "I'm working."
"I know," he said, stepping even closer. "But you still don't belong here. Not with that look in your eyes."
She swallowed hard. "And what look is that?"
"The look of someone pretending they don't want something more."
Zaria almost laughed, but something about the way he said it made her chest tighten. He saw through her—like a glass window on a rainy day. Transparent. Vulnerable.
The air between them thickened. Her tray dipped slightly. She straightened it quickly, cheeks burning.
"I have to get back," she whispered.
He didn't stop her.
But an hour later, when her shift ended, she found him waiting downstairs, near the valet stand, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding his car keys. His car—a black Range Rover with tinted windows—glinted under the soft light.
He didn't say a word. Just opened the passenger door and looked at her.
No promises.
No explanations.
She stepped inside.
The hotel suite was silent. Plush. Cold.
Zaria had never felt so hot in her life.
He kissed like a man who knew what he wanted. Touched her like a secret he planned to keep. He didn't ask her questions. Didn't speak sweet nothings. Just undressed her slowly, reverently, like she was the answer to something he hadn't dared ask.
She told herself it was just one night. She'd leave before sunrise.
No one had to know.
No one would care.
Especially not him.
But three weeks later, standing in her cramped flat in Agege with a pregnancy test clutched in her shaking hand, Zaria realised something with bone-deep certainty.
Someone would care.
Because she was carrying a stranger's baby.
A billionaire's baby.
And the stranger… was Darius Okechukwu.