The airport in Accra buzzed with energy—vendors shouting outside, travellers pulling designer luggage, and the scent of fried plantain floating on the breeze. Zaria stepped out of the air-conditioned SUV, clutching her handbag tightly, her belly prominent beneath a flowing green ankara maxi dress.
It was her first trip out of Nigeria since the pregnancy.
The invitation had come directly from Women Rise Africa, a coalition of female entrepreneurs and leaders hosting their annual summit in Ghana. Zaria had been selected as a keynote speaker—her speech from the Lagos gala now a beacon across West Africa.
It was a moment of triumph.
But as her heels clicked along the marble floors of the Mövenpick Hotel, a strange unease crept up her spine.
She wasn't here just to speak.
She was also here because of an anonymous message she'd received two nights ago.
"Someone here knows the truth about your family. Ask for Madam Essi at the market in Jamestown."
At first, she thought it was spam. But when she tried to trace the number—it was unregistered.
Now, despite Darius's warnings to lie low, she was following that whisper.
---
Her panel went brilliantly.
The hall had been packed—rows of women in colourful headwraps and power suits, clapping and cheering as Zaria spoke about resilience, reinvention, and the fire it took to reclaim one's name.
But her mind stayed distracted.
So the next morning, escorted by her PA Lami and a discreet driver, Zaria went to the Jamestown Market.
Crowded. Loud. Chaotic.
Fishmongers, seamstresses, young boys juggling phones and plantain chips. She weaved carefully through the noise, Lami close behind.
Then she found the small stall, tucked between a spice seller and a fabric trader.
An old woman sat inside—grey dreadlocks wrapped in red cloth, her eyes like deep wells of memory.
Zaria stepped closer. "Are you Madam Essi?"
The woman looked up. Smiled slowly. "You have your mother's fire."
Zaria froze.
"You knew my mother?"
Madam Essi nodded. "Before she was a Bello. Back when she lived in Kumasi. Before she vanished into Lagos and was told to forget the Okonkwo name."
Zaria's blood ran cold.
"My mother had no connection to the O—"
"She did," Madam Essi interrupted gently. "More than you know. The man who fathered Darius... had another child. A girl. Before Ayo. Before even the company. He left her in Ghana. Paid her silence. That girl… was your mother."
Zaria staggered slightly, her hands flying to her belly.
"No," she whispered. "That's not possible."
Essi's voice was firm. "You are not just carrying the billionaire's child. You are one. By blood."
The weight of the words hit Zaria like thunder.
A hidden daughter.
A buried name.
She wasn't just a woman who fell in love with Darius.
She was family.
Which meant the child growing inside her… had a deeper claim than anyone knew.
Zaria sat down slowly, her hands trembling.
Everything was changing.
And Darius had no idea.