The morning after the storm, Lagos was slow to wake. But inside Amira's boutique, the air was buzzing with quiet tension.
Damian was already dressed and sweeping water from the front porch when Amira stepped out in her wrapper and oversized shirt, rubbing her eyes. She paused when she saw him.
"You're up early," she said.
He nodded without looking up. "Didn't sleep much."
"Still thinking about Tunde?" He paused.
"No," he said, then corrected himself, "Maybe."
Amira sighed and joined him outside. The air was fresh, the street still wet. For a moment, the world was still. Until her phone buzzed.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
She frowned and picked it up. Three missed calls. One text.
Then a voice note came in from her assistant, Kemi.
"Aunty Amira! Check Instagram oo! People are tagging your boutique. Someone posted pictures of you and Mr. Damian. It's everywhere!"
Amira's stomach dropped. She clicked the link. And there it was.
A video grainy, taken from across the road, of Damian stepping out of the boutique, carrying a roll of fabric, sweat on his shirt, her name stitched across his chest.
Caption: "Is that billionaire Damian Cole working at House of Amira? Omo, how the mighty have fallen."
The comments were worse.
"Ah ah. Na wa oo. Na this fine man?"
"Chai, he dey suffer!"
"I heard he's now dating Amira because he's broke."
"Gold digger reverse. Love in hard times 😂"
Amira's hands were shaking. "Who… who filmed this?"
Damian stepped closer, reading over her shoulder. His jaw tightened.
"I should've stayed inside," he said coldly.
"No… this isn't your fault," she said quickly.
But she could see the pain in his eyes. The humiliation. The way his shoulders sank a little.
"People will talk," she added.
"Yes. But now they're dragging you into it too."
Amira didn't care what the world thought about her. But she cared what it might do to him.
By noon, bloggers were calling. Clients were whispering. Staff were gossiping. The boutique felt smaller, heavier, more toxic.
Even Kemi, the assistant, asked, "Ma, should we release a statement?"
"No," Amira snapped. "There's nothing to say." But deep inside, she was boiling.
They didn't know the truth. They didn't know this was a man fighting for a second chance, not just with life, but with himself.
That evening, she found Damian sitting alone in the storeroom. He had been silent all day.
"Hey," she said gently.
He looked up. "You okay?"
"I knew it was a mistake," he whispered. "Coming here. Staying here. Dragging you down with me."
"You didn't drag me down. I let you in."
"Maybe you shouldn't have."
His voice cracked.
"I'm tired, Amira. Of losing. Of being laughed at. Of watching people twist the truth."
"You're not alone anymore."
He looked up at her again. This time, his eyes were darker. Heavy.
"I'm a joke to the whole world," he muttered. "Even the people I once helped are laughing now."
She knelt beside him.
"You are not a joke."
"I don't even know who I am without my money."
Amira was quiet for a second. Then she asked gently, "Do you want to leave?"
He shook his head. "No."
"Then fight."
He blinked. "Fight?"
"Yes. Fight for your name. Fight to rebuild. Fight to show them that money made your image, but not your soul."
He stared at her. Then nodded.
The next morning, Amira posted a story on her boutique's page.
"At House of Amira, we believe in second chances. We don't hire names, we hire hearts. Everyone deserves a new beginning. Even those who once sat on thrones."
The comments exploded. Some were ugly. Some were touched.
And one, hidden deep among the rest, simply said:
"He's lucky to have you."
That night, Damian walked up to her as she was closing the office.
"I want to help more," he said.
"You already help enough."
"No. I want to pitch something to you. A partnership."
Amira frowned. "A what?"
He took a deep breath.
"I've been working on a design software… something that could help your fashion brand reach a global audience. A digital runway."
Amira raised an eyebrow. "You've been working on that?"
He nodded. "While sweeping. I still think. I still build."
She smiled. And for the first time, she didn't see a man who lost everything. She saw a man building something from nothing.
Again.