I should have expected this.
After everything that happened — after finding that file in his house full of information about me, my family, my habits, my fears, my life — I should have known that nothing about Michael was accidental. Nothing about him was normal. Privacy meant nothing to him. Boundaries meant nothing to him. He crossed lines the way other people crossed streets — barely looking both ways.
And still, somehow, seeing his message pop up on my private number felt like being dunked in ice water.
"Hello criminal."
That was the first text.
I stared at it so long my eyes stung.
Before I could even process it, Onyi snatched my phone right out of my hands, stared at the screen, and let out a scandalized gasp dramatic enough to be audible three rooms away.
"Oh my God," she breathed, looking at me like I had personally offended her ancestors. "Who's this? Wait — no. Don't answer. I already know. It's him, isn't it?"
I nodded weakly.
"No, because—girl—your private number?" She paced a small circle like she was winding herself up. "This is the number your management said they would guard with their lives. The one they swore was locked in a virtual vault guarded by dragons and NDAs and lasers."
"That's what I thought too," I muttered.
"Then how does he have it?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes. "Tell me you didn't give it to him. Anna, look at me right now and tell me you didn't—"
"I didn't!" I snapped. "Do you really think I'd just hand it over? I'm not—"
Ding.
A second message.
I snatched the phone back before she could grab it again.
My breath caught when I read it.
"Did you get home safely, little noise?"
Onyi made a choking sound that was half disbelief, half laughter. "Little noise? What kind of weird Wattpad nickname—? Why would he call you that? Wait—did you scream too much in bed?"
"ON—YI!" My voice cracked. "No! What—no! Stop!"
"Well then why—"
"I don't know!" I snapped. "He just—he just calls me that."
"Mmhm," she said, squinting at me like she didn't believe a word I said.
Ding.
A third message.
My heart thumped painfully.
"I was hoping we could get dinner and get to know each other better. What do you say, little criminal?"
Onyi threw her hands in the air. "Okay WHAT is with the nicknames? Is he twelve? Does he think he's mysterious? Does he think he's cool? 'Little criminal'—boy, please."
But I wasn't listening anymore.
Because fury — hot, bright, humiliated fury — rose inside me like a fire catching wind.
"Does he think I'm dumb?" I burst out. "Does he think I forgot everything he did? He pretends like he didn't throw my life off a cliff. Like he didn't blindfold me. Like he didn't—like—ugh!"
"So don't meet him to be cute," Onyi said, crossing her arms. "Meet him to get answers. You deserve answers."
"And if it's dangerous?"
"Everything with him is dangerous," she said matter-of-factly. "But ignorance? Worse."
I hated that she was right.
I hated even more that part of me wanted to see him.
Which is how I ended up standing outside an expensive restaurant — small, elegant, intimate — a place I chose.
Neutral. Familiar. Public.
My heart pounded the whole time.
When I stepped inside, I found him instantly.
He didn't blend in — he couldn't. He sat in a corner booth at the back, posture straight, shoulders broad, calm confidence radiating off of him like warmth from an open fire. His black shirt hugged his body a little too well. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal forearms that should honestly be illegal. His watch caught the light every time he moved.
And his eyes — dark, steady, sharp — locked onto mine the second I entered.
He watched me walk toward him like he already knew exactly how I'd move.
"Hi," I said stiffly.
His smile was slow and dangerous. "Hi, beautiful."
I sat down fast, hoping he wouldn't notice how shaky I was.
He noticed. He always noticed.
"So," he said, voice low. "What's your favorite food? I'll order it."
I shrugged. "I don't really have one."
He smirked. "Your report says otherwise, little liar."
My blood ran cold.
"Then don't ask questions you already know the answers to," I muttered before thinking.
His gaze sharpened — not angry, just… focused. Too focused.
Guilt hit immediately. "It's—it's grilled salmon with creamy mashed potatoes."
His smile returned, softer this time. "Good girl."
My stomach flipped.
He ordered for both of us effortlessly, voice smooth and controlled. When the waiter left, he leaned back.
"If you weren't an influencer," he asked, "what would you be?"
No one had ever asked me that.
"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe a politician who actually tries. Or a journalist who does real work. Or someone who runs a charity. Something meaningful. Something that—matters."
He studied me like I'd revealed a secret.
"You're ambitious," he said quietly. "I like that."
Heat curled in my chest.
We talked more. Or rather — he asked and I answered. His questions were precise. Personal. Disarming. And he listened like everything I said mattered.
Somewhere in between bites of salmon and sips of wine, I forgot — briefly — that he terrified me.
Until—
BANG.
A gunshot cracked through the restaurant like lightning.
The bottle in the waiter's hand shattered against the floor.
My heart slammed into my throat. My breath caught. My ears rang. Everything froze.
Then—
Click.
Click.
Click.
Guns cocking.
Dozens of them.
I turned my head—
And every single person in the restaurant had drawn a weapon.
The couple near the window.The man reading a newspaper.The hostess.The servers.The bartender.
All of them.
Guns out.Arms steady.Eyes locked.
Pointed—
At me.
At least — that's what it looked like.
My breath lodged in my chest.
My pulse roared.
Adrenaline flooded my veins so fast I felt dizzy.
I couldn't move. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe.
Slowly—terrified—I turned toward Michael.
He hadn't moved.
Not flinched.Not panicked.Not looked surprised.
Nothing.
He sat there, calm and collected, like a man who'd seen this a thousand times.
Only then did I notice—
He wasn't looking at the guns.He was looking past me.
Over my shoulder.
Toward the direction the gunshot came from.
But I didn't understand that. Not yet.
All I saw were weapons. All I felt was fear. All I knew was that the world had tilted under my feet.
"What—" My voice broke. "Michael, what is happening?"
He lifted one hand — slowly — palm relaxed, not worried at all.
"Stay calm."
"How?" I whispered, voice shaking. "There are—they're—"
"Look at me," he said gently.
I forced my eyes to him. His expression softened — just a fraction — like he could see the fear in my face.
"There was a shot," he said quietly. "It wasn't aimed at you."
I didn't understand.
Not until he added:
"My men are pointing at the threat behind you."
My stomach dropped.
Behind me?
I didn't dare turn around.
I couldn't.
Not when every instinct screamed that if I moved, if I breathed wrong, if I even blinked too slowly — something terrible would happen.
Michael leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on mine.
"You wanted answers," he murmured. "This is your first one."
"What…what does that mean?" I whispered.
His eyes flicked past me one more time — assessing, calculating, lethal.
Then he looked back at me.
And he smiled.
Not comforting.Not reassuring.
A smile that said:
Welcome to my world.
My pulse stuttered.
Fear wrapped around me like cold hands.
And right then — at that exact moment — I realized something horrifying:
I didn't know whether to be more afraid of the unknown danger behind me…
Or the man sitting directly in front of me.