CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CAROLINE
The building is enormous — glass and marble stretching up into the clouds. My shoes echo against the polished floor as I step inside.
Lovett and I had spent all week trying to find Nat's real address. It took phone calls, contacts, and favors I didn't even want to owe. But we found them — or rather, eight of them.
Eight head office addresses. In one city. Who does that? Who owns that many offices in Lagos?
Only a man like Nat — a man with too much power, too much pride, and too much money to waste.
I've already visited seven of those buildings, including the one everyone insisted was his main headquarters. Every time, the same conversation played out like a broken record.
> "Mr. Nathaniel Phillips's office is not here, madam. Do you have his number?"
And when I told them I couldn't reach him, their tone changed. Their smiles vanished, and I was politely — sometimes firmly — escorted out.
So, I learned to lie.
"I misplaced my phone," I'd say, pretending to laugh it off.
Still, no result.
Lovett won't let me quit. She insists we're close.
She even gave me a small recording device — sleek, silver, and cold.
"All we need," she said, "is his voice saying, 'This child isn't mine,' or something close enough. Once we have that, we can twist it the way we want."
I told her that would take a miracle.
As much as I want him to say those words, a small part of me — the part that still remembers him — prays he won't.
Our plan is simple: if he denies the child, we'll use his own words as proof of rejection. If he doesn't, we'll twist them until they sound like he did.
Either way, we win.
Or so I tell myself.
Now, here I am, standing in the most intimidating lobby I've ever seen.
I approach the receptionist with my brightest, most harmless smile.
"Good morning," I say, hoping my voice doesn't shake.
"Good morning," she answers politely.
"Please, I'm here to see Mr. Nat."
Her smile widens. "Oh, Mr. Nat is— sorry, there he comes now, dear."
My blood turns to ice. I freeze.
No. Not here. Not like this.
I'd prayed our confrontation would happen privately — somewhere behind closed doors, away from witnesses, away from humiliation.
If he says anything cruel here, I'll crumble.
I whisper to myself, barely moving my lips:
"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me."
The words steady my heart, if only a little. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I turn — and there he is. Nat.
His presence hits me like a storm I wasn't ready for.
"Caroline," he says, his tone smooth, cold, unreadable. "To what do I owe this… meeting?"
I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. I can't even breathe.
He turns to the receptionist. "Has she been waiting long?"
"No, sir," she replies. "She just arrived."
"Good." He looks back at me. "If you want to see me, then come with me."
And just like that, he walks off — calm, confident, in control.
I follow. Like a shadow. Like a lost thing waiting to be claimed.
The elevator hums quietly as we ascend. I can feel my heart beating in my throat.
He's acting as though he expected me to come — and that arrogance infuriates me. But when we step into his office — a vast expanse of glass and leather and soft lighting — all that anger momentarily fades.
It's stunning. Every inch screams wealth and power.
So this is where the money lives. Everything about our date suddenly makes sense — the confidence, the silence, the expensive cologne.
Then his voice slices through my thoughts.
"After you're done admiring my office," he says coolly, "perhaps you can tell me why you're here."
That tone. That infuriating calm.
I grip my purse tighter. "Sorry to bother you, it's—"
"Please, spare me the apology," he interrupts. "Why are you here?"
The nerve of him. The sheer arrogance.
If he wants the raw truth, he'll get it.
"I'm pregnant," I say, my voice trembling but loud enough to echo in the room. "And before you start—"
He laughs.
The sound of it burns. It's not shock or confusion — it's mockery.
I wait, staring at him until the laughter dies. "I know this is sudden, Nat. And maybe hard to—"
He cuts me off with a dismissive wave, picks up his phone, and says coldly,
"Meet me in my office. You have five minutes."
He's calling security.
Unbelievable.
He can have me dragged out if he wants — but not before I say what I came to say.
"Nat, listen. I didn't come here to ask for anything. I just thought you should—"
"Will you just shut up and sit down?"
His voice cracks through the air like thunder.
I flinch, then recover. Anger blazes back through me. "Hold it there. You have no right to talk to me like that! Are you insane? What is your—"
Before I can finish, he's in front of me. His mouth crashes onto mine.
The world stops.
My body goes numb, then trembles. My anger melts away, replaced by a storm I can't name.
When did he cross the room? When did the air between us vanish?
His kiss is firm, desperate — like a confession, like punishment.
An electric current shoots through me, from my lips straight to my core.
My body betrays me. My mouth opens. I respond. For one insane moment, I want nothing else.
Then he pulls away. Slowly. Deliberately.
Without a word, he guides me to a leather chair, his touch steady, almost gentle, as though afraid I'll collapse.
I sink into the seat, trembling.
He straightens up, eyes hard again — walls back in place — and walks out of the room without a backward glance.
The door closes behind him with a quiet click.
And I sit there — stunned, breathless, tasting him on my lips and shame in my throat.
I came here to confront a man. But I walked straight into a storm I no longer understand.
For a long time, I couldn't move.
The door clicked behind him, and all I heard was silence — thick, choking silence that pressed down on my chest until breathing felt like work.
My heart was still racing, but my body… my body was trembling in a way I couldn't explain.
My lips burned. My mind screamed. My soul — I don't even know what it was doing anymore.
That kiss — God, that kiss — it wasn't gentle, wasn't kind, wasn't even romantic.
It was war.
Every emotion I thought I'd buried clawed its way to the surface. Anger. Longing. Shame. Fear.
All at once.
I wanted to cry, but tears wouldn't come.
I wanted to scream, but my throat had turned to dust.
Instead, I sat there — in that expensive chair, in that cold, beautiful office — feeling like the poorest woman alive.
The same man who broke me just walked out without a backward glance.
And somehow, a part of me still wanted him to look back.
"Caroline," I whispered to myself, gripping the arms of the chair. "You're stronger than this. You didn't come here to fall apart."
Lovett's voice echoed in my mind: 'Get his voice. Get proof. Don't lose focus.'
But focus was the last thing I had left.
How do you plan revenge on someone whose touch still lives under your skin