Writers 
CHAPTER TWO
The next day, I stood in front of the mirror to admire my appearance. I didn't just look fine, but dangerously fine. My body held the kind of curves that spoke louder than words, pulling at the fabric in all the right places. Between my friends and me, I knew the undeniable truth that I was the most beautiful. They would never say it out loud, but I could see it burning in their eyes. Especially Ebere’s.
Just thinking of her name made my jaw tighten with annoyance. She carried herself like she was untouchable, like her polished life was the blueprint everyone was supposed to copy. Please.
I carefully adjusted the wine-coloured wig sitting neatly over my golden-tinted low cut. It felt smooth and impossibly rich under my fingers, bouncing with every sharp turn of my head. That was what real, expensive hair did. And even though I could have walked out of the house completely barefaced and still stopped traffic, I went loud and bold with my makeup. My winged eyeliner was sharp enough to kill, and my lip gloss shone like glass.
The plan tonight was to catch men, and I wasn’t out here for small fish.
I slipped into a sleeveless black jumpsuit that ended in thigh-skimming shorts, paired it with matching wine heels, and snatched up my black designer bag. The sight of my reflection was enough to force a slow, triumphant smile across my lips.
“God, I’m gorgeous,” I whispered to the mirror.
In the living room, Ebere and Gift were already dressed and waiting.
Gift wore a white crop top so short the bottom rim of her lace bra peeked out, paired with high-waisted blue palazzo trousers that hugged her waist tightly. She rocked a simple black wig and soft, natural makeup. Cute, sure, but she wasn’t anywhere near my line of competition.
Ebere, of course, was trying far too hard to shine. She wore a sheer, see-through vintage shirt over a dark camisole, with painted blue skinny jeans, silver heels that caught the chandelier light, and a full face of makeup, with every bit as heavy as mine.
“Shall we go?” I asked, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
The destination was the big downtown club. It was the exact kind of high-end venue where wealthy men wasted absurd amounts of money on expensive bottles, women, and exclusive VIP tables just to stroke their own egos. Which made it the exact place we needed to be tonight.
“So, whose car are we taking? Yours or Ebere’s? I vote for Ebere's!” Gift shouted, her voice bouncing off the high ceilings.
Of course she voted for Ebere.
Gift didn’t own a car herself, and Ebere’s shiny Range Rover was always treated like the star of the show. Supported by her ridiculously rich fiancé and her wealthy family, Ebere practically fed on the attention it brought her.
“Let’s go then,” Ebere said, her lips curving into a smug smile like she’d already won the night before we even stepped out the door.
We walked out together, our high heels clicking in sharp unison against the tiles. When we reached the gate, we stopped to play rock–paper–scissors, as childish that may sound, to decide who would do the honours of pushing it open. Lucky for me, Gift lost in the third round.
It was exactly what she deserved for constantly looking down on me and my car.
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The club was a sensory onslaught of chaotic, blinding strobe lights, pounding sub-bass that vibrated right through the soles of my shoes, thick curls of shisha smoke hanging heavy in the air, and bodies grinding slick against each other on the overcrowded floor.
It was a typical Sunday night in Lagos.
“Let’s go to the bartender!” Gift shouted over the deafening music, her eyes already glued onto the man behind the counter. “He’s hot!”
“Everybody’s hot to you,” Ebere shot back with a roll of her shoulders. Gift hissed loudly, or at least her glossed lips parted as if she did. With this level of noise shaking the room, who could really tell?
We slid onto the high leather stools lined along the polished bar top while the bartender set to work shaking our cocktails. He wasn’t hot. Not even close.
My eyes wandered past him instead, expertly scanning the VIP edges for my very first target. Most of the men in sight looked like desperate, wannabe ballers draped in cheap flashy chains, oozing fake steeze and unmistakable yahoo-boy vibes. Absolutely nothing was worth my time or my outfit.
“Ma’am.” A waitress wearing the exact same black uniform as the bartender suddenly appeared at my elbow, pressing a neatly folded piece of paper directly into my palm.
I frowned down at it, my brows knitting. “What’s this?”
She said nothing, just offered a silent nod. My irritation flared instantly, but before I could bark at her, I snatched the note open myself.
Come over.
“Who sent this?” I asked, looking up sharply.
Ebere and Gift immediately snuggled in close, practically snatching the slip of paper out of my hands like two nosy detectives on a crime scene.
“A gentleman at the VVIP table upstairs asked me to bring that down to you,” the waitress finally explained, gesturing toward the sleek staircase.
Gift’s dark eyes gleamed with instant, greedy excitement. “Girl, you just hooked a huge fish! VVIP in this kind of high-end club? He must be seriously loaded!”
I shot them both with a deeply sceptical, sideways look. “If I end up getting used for a money ritual just so some stranger can buy his next Benz, my ghost will haunt the two of you forever.”
“Look at our dangerous heartbreaker, suddenly full of fear,” Ebere grinned, her eyes dancing with wicked mischief.
Rolling mine dramatically, I tilted my head back, downed the bitter remains of my drink in one sharp gulp, and stood up from the stool.
The waitress turned and led me straight through the blue-tinged haze, guiding me up the carpeted stairs to the second floor.
The loud, sweaty crowd thinned out up here, replaced by the heavy, choking stench of expensive cigars, weed, and something far stronger lingering. Right at the end of the corridor, the bold golden letters on the door gleamed under the spotlight: VVIP.
Stepping through the double doors, the suffocating atmosphere hit me like a physical wall.
There was a rank, nauseating stew of stale cigarette smoke, heavy sweat, and the sharp, chemical reek of cheap spirits.
Sitting right at the centre of the gilded carnage was my mysterious admirer, perched on a leather sofa like some self-proclaimed king of trash.
He was completely shirtless, his thick neck burdened under a heavy cluster of garish gold chains, flanked on either side by two women who clung desperately to his arms like famished, eager hounds. The moment his gaze locked onto mine, his mouth split into a wide, triumphant grin, exposing a row of teeth fully plated in glistening gold.
“Beautiful,” he drawled, his voice oozing with a sickening, unearned arrogance that made the skin on my arms prickle.
I managed a tight half-smile, a conditioned reflex rather than a single drop of genuine admiration, as I watched him dismiss the two women beside him with a sharp, dismissive snap of his fingers.
They scrambled off the couch, slinking away into the haze while throwing sharp, venomous daggers at me with their eyes. I didn't give a damn; I simply tilted my chin a fraction higher, wrapping myself in pure, untouchable pride.
“Sit,” he commanded, gesturing with a heavy ringed hand to the empty space right beside his bare hip.
I stepped forward, making my approach deliberate, poised, and painfully slow. I sank onto the plush leather instead, and took meticulous care to preserve a broad, unmistakable distance between us.
If he wanted a taste of my presence, he was going to have to reach across the divide for it.
“You’re beautiful,” he repeated, his eyes sliding down my frame as he leaned into my space.
“I’ve been told,” I cut in coolly, crossing one leg smoothly over the other and letting my wine-coloured heel dangle with effortless apathy. “So . . . why summon me with a cheap little note?”
He let out a low, raspy chuckle, dragging his gaze slowly up from my heels to my chest like he was physically licking me clean. “I noticed you from the balcony, when coming up. You shine among these other girls, and I decided I wanted to get to know you better.”
Before I could reply, his ring-laden hand slid onto my bare thigh, the thick skin sticky against my jumpsuit. I didn't flinch or pull away like a frightened girl, but my eyes narrowed into two razor-sharp slits. “You certainly don’t waste any time, do you?”
“Time is money, fine girl,” he smirked, his fingers tightening just enough to push his luck.
With swift, unyielding precision, I clamped my fingers around his thick wrist and physically lifted his hand off my body, dropping it back onto his side of the couch. “Then let’s save both. Give me your number, and we can talk somewhere that doesn’t smell like a rotting graveyard.”
The sheer audacity of my response made him roar with a loud, ugly burst of laughter. “Sharp tongue! God, I like that.”
Without a second thought, he pulled out his phone and spat out his digits anyway, his small eyes glittering with a volatile mix of genuine respect and raw, hungry lust.
“You know how to play your cards well,” he said, his gold chains clinking heavily as he shifted closer. “Tell you what, let’s do this properly. Anything your heart desires in this club tonight, I’ll make it happen. My boy can follow you downstairs and handle all the bills.”
He jerked his chin toward a massive, stone-faced bodyguard standing silently in the shadows.
I leaned in close, letting my smile cut through the dim light like a polished blade. “Keep your dog. Write me a cheque instead.”
That froze him dead in his tracks. The smirk vanished from his lips for a full, glorious second while he processed the demand. Then, he let out a sudden, booming clap, and another mountain of a man stepped out from behind the velvet curtain, handing him a sleek chequebook and a gold pen.
“You know exactly what you want. That’s rare in a woman.” He scribbled wildly across the paper with aggressive, heavy strokes, tore the slip from the book, and slid it directly into my waiting palm like a piece of candy.
I unfolded the paper, and despite my cool exterior, my pulse took a violent, unexpected leap against my ribs. Two Million Naira. Two whole million just for five minutes of my presence and a bit of sharp talk.
I folded the paper with delicate care and tucked it neatly into my black designer bag, flashing him a smile that was dripping with sweet, intoxicating poison. “That will do.”
He pressed forward again, the stench of his body warmth washing over me as his chains clinked. “Don’t you dare forget to call me, hear? You can save my number as Gold Master, that’s what daddy goes by.”
“I’ll take my leave then, Gold Master,” I said, lifting two fingers to my lips and blowing him a playful kiss.
The smile vanished and the kiss died the absolute microsecond the VVIP door slammed shut behind me.
A violent wave of disgust surged up from my stomach, making my throat tighten. The absolute degradation of it all hit me at once. Maybe this entire heartbreaker operation was just a pathetic, toxic fantasy that needed serious rethinking.
Swallowed by the dark vortex of my own thoughts, I took three fast steps down the dimly lit corridor and slammed full-force into a wall of solid chest.
The collision sent a jolt down my spine, knocking me backward so hard I completely lost my footing, until a hand shot out and clamped firmly around my waist, yanking me against a warm body before my heels could slip.
My gaze snapped upward, ready to bark out a curse, but the words withered in my throat. I completely forgot how to draw breath.
The man standing over me was . . . utterly unreal. His skin was the colour of rich, dark chocolate, glowing with an impossible, poreless sheen under the low violet spotlights.
Every line of his face, from the sharp, chiselled jawline to the high, regal cheekbones, looked like it had been painstakingly sculpted by the gods themselves. He was handsome, yes, but beyond that, he was breathlessly, painfully ethereal.
“You okay?”
His voice hit me like thick, warm velvet. It was deep, resonant, and so breathtakingly smooth that the thunderous bass pounding through the floorboards seemed to blur into dead, silent air.
“I’m fine,” I managed to choke out, though every fibre of my being knew I wasn’t fine at all. Not with his hand still wrapped firmly around my waist, and his heat burning straight through the thin fabric of my jumpsuit, sending a wild, terrifying electric shock coursing through my veins. When his fingers finally loosened and dropped away, a sudden, embarrassing wave of loss washed over me.
I wanted him to grab me again.
He gave me one last lingering, unreadable look before turning his shoulder to walk away. Panic flared in my chest, and before my brain could filter the sheer desperation of the moment, the words tumbled frantically out of my mouth.
“Wait!”
My hand shot forward and caught his wrist in a tight, reckless grip. It was bold, entirely reckless, but that was who I was. I was unapologetic, straightforward, and driven by instinct. I knew what I wanted the moment I saw it, and right now, every nerve ending in my body was screaming for more of him.
His dark brows arched slightly in surprise, not with irritation, but with an unspoken, amused curiosity.
“Are you here with someone?” I asked, my voice dropping into a soft, breathless register I barely recognised as my own.
“Yeah. Upstairs with my friends.” His deep eyes held mine, completely steady and impossible to read.
“Oh,” I breathed, stepping a fraction closer, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I just thought maybe we could —”
“Look, I’m in a bit of a hurry.” His tone wasn't sharp or cruel, just completely final. His voice was a calm, unbothered wall that made it painfully clear he didn't owe a stranger a single second of his time.
For a long, agonising moment, I just stood there frozen, searching his flawless face for a single crack, a flicker of hesitation, or a hint of interest in his calm exterior. There was nothing. He was already pulling his arm back, slipping right out of my fingers.
“Sure, why not?” I muttered, forcing my lips to press into a tight, indifferent line as I watched him turn and disappear down the hallway.
I swallowed hard, desperately trying to mask the hot, burning sting of rejection crawling up my neck. Who the hell did he think he was to brush me off like a minor inconvenience? Handsome or not, nobody turned down Eddy. Nobody.
But even as I spat the angry lie to myself, my skin was still screaming, burning in the exact shape of his hand where he had touched me.
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I made my way downstairs, the music pounding harder with every single step, vibrating right through the soles of my heels. Guys turned their heads in slow motion as I walked past, some completely forgetting their girlfriends for a split second, as their eyes followed me across the room like I was the only light in the place, which, clearly, I was.
“Heartbreaker!” Ebere shouted the second I reached her, her voice cutting through the bass. She patted the leather stool beside her like she’d been guarding it for me all night.
I dropped into the seat with slow, calculated grace and slipped my hand into my designer bag. Slowly, and with maximum drama, I pulled out the neatly folded slip of paper, kissed the edge, and held it up between two fingers like a championship trophy. “So, his name is Gold Master, and look how much he gave me.”
“Just like that?!” she gasped, her jaw dropping after her eyes scanned the numbers on the cheque.
“Just like that,” I grinned, sliding it back into my bag like it was loose change. I signalled the bartender with a sharp flick of my wrist. “Mix me your strongest.”
He placed a glass in front of me that reeked of dark spirits that was strong-smelling and promising pure trouble.
I downed a heavy gulp, scrunched my face at the burn in my throat, then let out a long, satisfied sigh. “Arggh. Strong. I like it.”
“So, what actually happened up there?” Ebere leaned in close, her eyes bright, wild, and hungry for the full gist.
“Nothing much,” I said casually, tracing the moist rim of my glass with a manicured nail. “We exchanged numbers, and I promised to meet him again.”
“Heartbreaker!” she hailed again, bursting into that laugh of hers that was witchy, loud, and completely impossible to ignore.
I rolled my eyes at her drama but couldn’t help the smirk spreading across my face.
“Where’s Gift sef?” I scanned the chaotic dance floor, but there was no sign of her white crop top anywhere.
“She went to shoot her shot at one fine guy,” Ebere waved her hand dismissively, like it wasn’t even worth talking about. “According to her, Sunday nights are strictly for getting laid.”
I snorted into my drink. Yeah, that sounded like Gift, word-for-word.
“By the way . . .” I leaned in closer to her ear, lowering my voice into a conspiratorial whisper, “I met a god upstairs.”
“God kwanu?” Ebere squinted at me through the dim purple lights.
“A Yoruba demon,” I teased, my chest tightening just thinking about him. “Okay, maybe not Yoruba. But you get me. The guy was too fine.”
“Then where is he?” Ebere raised a dark brow, looking around us. “Why isn’t he down here, crawling all over you?”
“I shut him down.” I spun my glass slowly on the counter, my finger tracing smooth circles against the glass. “I’m here to break hearts, not fall into anything.”
Ebere rolled her eyes dramatically. “Abeg. You could have hooked up with him first and then broken his heart afterwards. Double win.”
I shot her a sharp, lethal glare. She just chuckled into her cocktail, entirely unbothered.
“Anyways . . .” she dragged the word out, her lips twitching with mischief. “What are you actually going to do with Gold Rapper —”
“Master,” I cut in sharply, giving her a stern warning look.
“— Master,” she corrected, laughing out loud at the ridiculous name like it was the funniest joke she had ever heard. “He’s a big catch. Are you really not going to reel him in?”
“I don’t see myself in any kind of relationship with him.” My voice came out flat and bone-dry as I took another sip of my drink.
“But he’s loaded,” she pushed, turning her whole body towards me on her stool. “That’s steady money.”
“I don’t need steady money from any man,” I snapped, a sudden wave of heat rising in my chest.
“You hate your job,” she shot back without missing a beat. “You always come home cursing the people you work for.”
“I hate Annabelle,” I stressed the name, letting it taste as bitter on my tongue as it felt. “And everybody hates someone at their workplace. It’s completely normal.”
“Babe —”
“E-heh!” I cut her off sharply, shaking my head violently. “Don’t even start. If this is about Gold Rap —” I froze mid-sentence, suddenly realising the slip of my own tongue.
Ebere’s lips instantly curled into a wide, triumphant grin.
“See what you’ve caused, abi?” I muttered under my breath, glaring at her.
Ebere threw her head back and laughed her loud, reckless, booming laughter that made several heads turn toward our corner and made me crack a smile despite myself.
I shook my head, desperately trying not to join her fully, but the corners of my lips betrayed me completely.
