Saturday morning light poured through the blinds of Victor’s corner office in clean, slanted bars. The rest of the building was silent—no phones ringing, no footsteps in the corridor, only the faint hum of the HVAC and the distant murmur of Abuja traffic far below. Victor had texted Delilah at eight sharp: Strategy session. 10 a.m. My office. Bring nothing but yourself. She arrived at ten on the dot wearing a thin wrap dress the color of heavy cream—soft jersey that clung to her curves and parted with the slightest tug of the tie at her waist.
Elena was already there.
She lounged against the edge of Victor’s desk in a charcoal silk blouse and tailored trousers, one ankle crossed over the other, a knowing half-smile on her lips. Victor sat in his high-backed leather chair, sleeves rolled,
