Deòlu stretched lazily on the plush white couch in her penthouse, a glass of chilled wine in her manicured fingers. The floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the breathtaking Lagos skyline, the city twinkling like a bed of diamonds under the night sky. From this height, the noise of the streets felt distant, insignificant. She had made it.
Her phone buzzed beside her. She glanced at the screen, her full lips curving into a smirk. Hon. Emeka.
She let it ring twice before picking up. “Honorable,” she purred.
A low chuckle came through the line. “You enjoy making people wait, Deòlu.”
She took a slow sip of her wine. “Only the ones who don’t mind.”
Emeka laughed. “You’re a dangerous woman.” Then his tone shifted, turning all business. “It’s time.”
Deòlu’s gaze sharpened. “Time for what?”
“The NGO.”
She sat up, crossing one long, toned leg over the other. “Talk to me.”
“We’re setting you up as the face of a new charity. Something for women—widows, abused girls, struggling mothers, whatever sounds emotional enough to attract public sympathy.”
Deòlu twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers. “And the real purpose?”
Emeka’s voice lowered. “It’s the perfect front. We move money through it, clean it up, and by the time it comes out the other end, it’s untouchable.”
Deòlu hummed in approval. “That’s smart.”
“You’ll get your cut, of course. But this isn’t just for you. We all eat from this table.”
She smiled. “I understand, Honorable.”
“I’ll send my boys to handle the paperwork. You just have to look pretty, attend a few events, give some speeches.”
Deòlu chuckled. “Looking pretty is my specialty.”
Emeka laughed. “That’s why we chose you.”
**
Two weeks later, the Hope for Women Foundation was officially registered.
It had everything—an impressive website, glamorous charity events, even a few social media influencers hyping it up. Donations poured in, but the real money came from the politicians and businessmen who needed a safe passage for their dirty billions.
And Deòlu? She played her role effortlessly. Cameras loved her. The media painted her as a beacon of hope for struggling women. But behind closed doors, she was counting numbers, making sure every transaction was smooth, every dime accounted for.
One evening, she was at an exclusive lounge in Victoria Island when a new opportunity presented itself.
Honorable Emeka had introduced her to someone—Senator Hassan, a wealthy, powerful man with an appetite for danger.
“Senator,” Emeka said with a knowing smile, “meet the woman who keeps Lagos talking.”
The older man’s gaze swept over Deòlu, slow and deliberate. She knew that look.
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said, her voice smooth like silk.
Hassan smirked. “The pleasure is all mine.”
The night passed in a blur of expensive champagne, hushed conversations, and subtle touches. When Deòlu leaned close to whisper something in the Senator’s ear, he exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around his glass.
“Name your price,” he murmured.
She tilted her head, pretending to consider. Then, with a sultry smile, she whispered back, “Ten million.”
His brows lifted, impressed.
“For one night?”
“For this night,” she corrected, brushing her fingers over his wrist. “If you want more, you’ll have to negotiate.”
Hassan chuckled. “I like you.”
An hour later, she was in the back of his armored SUV, heading towards his Banana Island mansion.
**
By morning, Deòlu’s account balance had grown by ten million naira.
Everything was working out perfectly. The money, the power, the connections—she was untouchable.
Or so she thought.
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