Chapter 1: The Premiere

The Transcorp Hilton ballroom glows as a chandelier turned inside out. Champagne-gold light slides across mirrored walls, every sparkle rehearsed. The air smells of Oud Wood, ambition, and the nervous aftertaste of relevance. Amira Suleiman sits in the second row of the VIP section, her posture the quiet grammar of self-survival. The blush-sequin dress — Andrea Iyamah, low-back, deliberate — fits like punctuation between restraint and hunger. Cameras keep finding her. They always do. She smiles in rationed doses, the way actresses learn to. Generous enough for lenses, never sufficient to give away thought. Beneath the soft mask lies a tremor she hides well — tonight’s premiere is more than vanity. It’s her first public outing since the endorsement fallout, since the tabloids called her manufactured grace. One wrong expression could reset the narrative. The director is speaking about light and story arcs. Applause rises in predictable intervals. Amira’s phone buzzes with fresh tags: #AmiraReturns. She pretends not to see them.

---

Finally, he enters without ceremony.

No PR escort, no murmured announcement.

Just movement — clean, certain.

A cream-silk kaftan that absorbs light instead of chasing it; cufflinks shaped like falcon wings.

His eyes sweep the hall once, not as a survey but as a verdict. When they brush over her, something stills.

He passes the first row, pauses briefly, and says low enough for only her

“You didn’t laugh at the jokes.”

“They weren’t funny,” she replies before her caution can interfere.

“Then you’re still honest,” he murmurs, and moves on.

The perfume he leaves behind, a blend of oud and citrus, folds into the night like an ellipsis.

The applause returns. Cameras pivot. Amira pretends to follow the speeches, but her pulse is drumming a new choreography. She tells herself it’s curiosity, not recognition.

---

Later, when the lights dim for cocktails, Feyi materializes with two glasses of champagne.

“Smile, abeg. You’re trending already.”

Amira does, automatically. The smile lands, hollow but professional.

Feyi leans closer.

“You see that man who came late? Kaftan, no entourage? People say he funds half the awards committee. They call him Khalid Al-Hassan. Nobody knows what he actually does.”

Amira shrugs, too casual. “People say many things.”

“Hmm.” Feyi’s grin sharpens. “If he looks your way again, remember — rich men who whisper are more dangerous than poor men who shout.”

“I’m not planning to find out.”

“Plan all you like. Curiosity doesn’t need permission.”

Amira laughs, softer than intended, and excuses herself.

---

In the lobby mirror, Amira retouches her lipstick, mainly to keep her hands occupied. The reflection stares back. Perfect composure, strategic glow. The actress, not the girl who googles herself at 2 a.m. to confirm she hasn’t vanished.

Her phone vibrates.

An unknown number.

Welcome to the part of Abuja that whispers. 10 p.m. The Glass Room. Dress honestly.

No name. No address. Yet she knows it isn’t spam; it feels as though it was typed for her pulse.

A second notification arrives before she can overthink.

Curiosity opens doors. Caution keeps them locked.

She scans the ballroom—no sign of him. Only the afterglow of presence, the air still carrying that citrus-and-oud ghost.

---

“Babe,” Feyi calls, reappearing. “Afterparty’s moving to the bar. You coming?”

“In a bit.”

Feyi studies her face, catches the half-hidden tension.

“Whatever you’re thinking, think small. Abuja men play chess with people, not pieces.”

Amira smiles to end the conversation. “I’m just tired.”

Feyi kisses her cheek. “Tired people shouldn’t answer unknown texts.”

When she’s gone, Amira scrolls back to the message. Her thumb hovers over 'delete,' then she taps 'reply ' instead.

Send location.

Three dots blink, disappear. Then:

Car outside. Black Maybach. Your name is with the driver. Come alone.

A laugh escapes her, thin and unbelieving. She glances toward the exit, where the glass doors reflect the ballroom’s gold into the night. Beyond them, engines idle — a Maybach, perhaps, or imagination practicing wealth. For a heartbeat, she imagines ignoring it, going upstairs, removing makeup, sleeping as ordinary people do. Then she slips her phone into her clutch, stands, and lets the sequins catch one last flicker of light. As she walks out, she tells herself this is research — for the script she’s writing, for the character she might someday play.

It doesn't take long when the lobby doors slide open and cool air kisses her skin before she knows the truth.

Curiosity has already signed her name.