The Eko Hotel & Suites did not smell like the rest of Lagos. It smelled of aggressive air conditioning, imported lilies, and old money. It was a scent David Kingsley had only ever inhaled from the lobby, usually while waiting for a job interview that would end in a polite rejection.
Now, he was inside. Not as a visitor, but as a resident of the Diplomatic Suite on the fifth floor.
He stood on the balcony, the humid wind from the Atlantic whipping at his new white shirt. Below him, the city sprawled like a chaotic circuit board—the flashing lights of Victoria Island, the endless stream of headlights on Ozumba Mbadiwe Avenue. From this height, the poverty he had escaped just hours ago looked like mere texture, an aesthetic choice rather than a cage.
He took a sip of the whiskey he had ordered from room service. It was a twenty-five-year-old single malt. It tasted like smoke and oak. He tried to savor it, but his tongue felt strange. Not numb, exactly, but distant. As if he were tasting the memory of whiskey rather than the liquid itself.
He rubbed his left pinky against the cold glass railing. Still dead. Still a piece of meat.
"Small price," he muttered to the wind.
He turned back into the room. It was massive, decorated in beige and gold, with a bed large enough to sleep a family of five. On the mahogany dresser lay the source of his new reality: the leather wallet.
It sat there like a loaded gun.
David had spent the last two hours testing it. He had ordered the room. He had ordered a tailored suit from the hotel boutique. He had tipped the bellboy a hundred dollars just to see the man's eyes widen. Every time he pulled a bill out, another one seemed to shift into place behind it. It wasn't infinite in a magical, cartoonish way—the wallet didn't bulge. But it never emptied. It was a well that refilled the moment he looked away.
He checked his watch. 8:00 PM.
The hunger in his belly was real, and for the first time in years, he could answer it with whatever he desired.
He grabbed the wallet, slid it into the inner breast pocket of his new navy-blue blazer, and headed for the door. He patted the pocket twice. Tap. Tap. A nervous tic. A confirmation.
The Sky Restaurant was the jewel of the hotel, a glass-enclosed space that offered a panoramic view of the ocean. It was dimly lit, filled with the soft murmur of conversations that cost millions of Naira to have. Men in agbadas made of Swiss lace sat with partners in shimmering gowns. Expatriates discussed oil prices over lobster.
David walked in.
The old David would have hunched his shoulders. He would have apologized for existing. The new David, fueled by the ozone in his veins, walked with a predatory grace. The maître d', a man trained to smell net worth, didn't ask for a reservation. He simply bowed and led David to a table by the window.
David sat down. He opened the menu. The prices were obscene. He smiled.
"I'll start with the calamari," David told the waiter. "And a bottle of your Dom Pérignon. The 2012."
"Excellent choice, sir."
As the waiter turned to leave, the room seemed to tilt.
It wasn't the vertigo of the height. It was a visual impact, a sudden recognition that hit David in the chest with the force of a physical blow.
Three tables away, sitting in the soft glow of a table lamp, was Sarah.
David stopped breathing.
Sarah. The woman who had held him while he cried after his third business failure. The woman who had sold her jewelry to pay his hospital bill when he had malaria. The woman who, three months ago, had packed her bags in silence, leaving a note that said, I can't drown with you anymore, David. I want to live.
She looked breathtaking. She was wearing a red dress that clung to her curves, her hair braided in an intricate style that exposed her elegant neck. She was laughing—a genuine, head-thrown-back laugh that David hadn't heard in two years.
And she wasn't alone.
Sitting across from her, holding a glass of red wine with practiced ease, was Femi Adebayo.
The air in David's lungs turned into acid. Femi. The son of a senator. A man who had been in David's university set. A man who had mocked David's ambition, calling him a "hustler with no shoes." Femi was everything David hated: arrogant, loud, and born into a safety net of stolen government money.
David watched them. He saw Femi reach across the table and take Sarah's hand. He saw Sarah squeeze it back. She looked at Femi with a mixture of adoration and... relief. That was what hurt the most. She looked safe.
Rage, hot and blinding, surged through David. It wasn't the cool, detached power of the Benefactor. This was human. This was the anger of a man replaced.
He stood up.
He didn't think. He didn't plan. He just moved.
He walked across the plush carpet, his footsteps silent. He arrived at their table just as Femi was pouring more wine.
"Hello, Sarah," David said.
The sound of his voice dropped like a stone into a pond.
Sarah froze. The smile vanished from her face, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated shock. She looked up, her eyes widening as she took in the suit, the grooming, the aura of the man standing before her.
"David?" she whispered. She sounded like she was seeing a ghost.
Femi looked up, annoyed at the interruption. His eyes scanned David, ready to dismiss a beggar, but he paused when he saw the cut of the blazer. Recognition dawned slowly.
"Kingsley?" Femi laughed, a sharp, barking sound. "Is that you? What are you doing here? Are you applying for a waiter job?"
David ignored him. He kept his eyes locked on Sarah.
"You look good, Sarah," David said, his voice steady, though his heart was a storm. "Red suits you. It always did. Though I remember you couldn't afford that dress when you were with me."
Sarah flinched. "David, please. Don't do this here."
"Do what?" David smiled, a cold curving of his lips. "I'm just saying hello to an old friend. And her... benefactor."
Femi stood up. He was shorter than David, but wider, bulked up by gym sessions and protein shakes.
"Watch your mouth, Kingsley," Femi snapped. "I don't know whose suit you stole, but this is a private dinner. Security is very tight here. Don't make me embarrass you."
David laughed. It was the same laugh he had given Mr. Balogun. The laugh of a man holding a royal flush.
"Embarrass me?" David stepped closer, invading Femi's personal space. "Femi, you couldn't buy the ground I'm standing on. Sit down before you hurt yourself."
He turned to a passing waiter. "Bring another chair. And bring my champagne here. I'm joining them."
The audacity was so absolute that the waiter obeyed instantly. Sarah looked terrified. Femi looked ready to throw a punch, but he was also confused. The David he knew was a mouse. This David felt like a wolf. Femi sat down, unsure of the new rules.
David sat. The champagne arrived. The waiter poured three glasses.
"To old times," David toasted, raising his glass.
Sarah didn't move. "David, where did you get this money?" she asked, her voice trembling. "You... you were being evicted yesterday. My sister told me."
"Fortune changes, Sarah. Wheels turn." He took a sip. "I came into an inheritance. A partnership."
"You're lying," Femi spat. "You're a broke ass hustler. Who are you fronting for? Is this 419? Are you doing Yahoo-Yahoo now?"
David set his glass down hard. The crystal rang out.
"I could buy your father's estate tonight, Femi, and turn it into a parking lot. Do not test me."
The tension at the table was thick enough to choke on. David felt a perverse thrill. He saw the way Sarah was looking at him now. It wasn't just fear. It was curiosity. It was attraction. The scent of power was an aphrodisiac, and David was drenched in it.
"I missed you, Sarah," David said, his voice softening, ignoring Femi entirely. "I wanted to tell you that I fixed it. The pattern. It's broken. I can take care of you now. Better than this." He gestured vaguely at Femi.
Sarah's eyes filled with tears. "David, you don't understand..."
"I understand that you left because you were scared," David said. "But you don't have to be scared anymore."
"Enough," Femi slammed his hand on the table. People turned to look. "Get out, Kingsley. Now."
"Make me," David challenged.
"Sir?"
A calm, authoritative voice interrupted them. It was the floor manager. He looked apologetic but firm.
"Is there a problem here, Mr. Adebayo?" The manager knew Femi. Of course he did. Femi was a regular.
"Yes," Femi sneered. "This man is harassing my fiancée. Remove him."
Fiancée. The word hit David like a bullet. He looked at Sarah's hand. There, on her finger, was a diamond ring. It was small, but it was there.
David felt the world spin. She hadn't just left. She had moved on. Completely.
"Sir," the manager said to David, "I'm going to have to ask you to return to your own table, or leave the restaurant."
David stood up slowly. He adjusted his jacket. He needed to win this moment. He needed to crush Femi, not with fists, but with the ultimate weapon.
"I will leave," David said, his voice dripping with disdain. "But first, I'm buying this meal. And everyone else's meal in this section."
He looked at Femi. "Consider it a wedding gift. Since you clearly need the financial assistance."
Femi's jaw dropped.
David reached into his inner breast pocket. He reached for the wallet. He reached for the leather anchor of his soul.
His hand met nothing.
David froze.
He patted the pocket. Flat.
He checked the other side. Nothing.
He checked his trousers. Nothing.
The cold confidence that had been shielding him shattered instantly. The noise-canceling headphones were ripped off. The rush of the restaurant noise—the clinking cutlery, the jazz music, the whispers—came roaring back at 100 decibels.
His heart kickstarted into a frantic, terrified rhythm.
"Is there a problem, sir?" the manager asked, his tone shifting from polite to suspicious in a microsecond.
"I..." David stammered. He patted his pockets again, harder this time, frantically. "My wallet. It was here. I just... I just had it."
Femi started to laugh. It was a low, cruel sound that grew in volume.
"Oh, this is rich," Femi crowed. "The billionaire left his wallet in his other suit? Or did the magical inheritance disappear?"
"I had it!" David shouted, his voice cracking. He looked at the chair he had been sitting in. He looked under the table. "Someone took it. You!" He pointed at the waiter. "You bumped into me when you brought the champagne!"
"Sir, I did not touch you," the waiter said, stepping back, offended.
"Check the cameras!" David was sweating now. The ozone smell was gone, replaced by the sour stench of his own fear. "I am staying in the Diplomatic Suite! I have money!"
"I'm sure you do, sir," the manager said, his voice now ice cold. He signaled to two large men in dark suits standing by the entrance. Security. "But if you cannot pay for the champagne you opened..."
"I can pay! I just... I misplaced it!"
David looked at Sarah. He needed a lifeline. He needed her to believe him.
"Sarah, please," he begged, the wolf dying, the mouse returning. "I swear to you. I had thousands of dollars. I'm not crazy. Tell them I'm not crazy."
Sarah looked at him. Her eyes were dry now. The curiosity was gone. In its place was a profound, crushing pity.
"David," she said softly. "Stop. Just... stop. You need help."
"I don't need help! I need my wallet!"
The security guards arrived. They were large, silent men who specialized in making problems disappear quietly. One of them took David's arm.
"Don't touch me!" David screamed. He shoved the guard.
It was a mistake.
The guard didn't stumble. He reacted with professional violence. He twisted David's arm behind his back, forcing him down onto the plush carpet. David's face was pressed against the floor. He saw the dust motes in the carpet fibers.
"Get him out of here," Femi said, taking a sip of his wine. "And call the police. He's clearly unstable."
"No! Listen to me!" David struggled, kicking out. He was humiliating himself. He was confirming every rumor, every whisper, every doubt Sarah ever had. "It's a trick! The Benefactor... he took it! It's a test!"
"He's raving," Femi said. "Sad, really."
The guards hauled David up. His beautiful white shirt was rucked up, the collar twisted. His hair was a mess.
They dragged him toward the exit. The entire restaurant watched. The wealthy elites paused their lobster dinners to watch the pauper get evicted from their paradise.
David locked eyes with Sarah one last time. She turned away. She couldn't watch.
As they dragged him through the double doors and into the lobby, David felt a sensation.
It was in his left pinky.
The numbness. It throbbed. Not with pain, but with heat.
Tap. Tap.
A weight against his chest.
David stopped struggling. "Wait," he gasped. "Wait."
The guards paused, tightening their grip. "Walk, sir. Don't make us carry you."
"My pocket," David whispered. "Check... check my breast pocket."
"We checked it, sir," the guard said, annoyed. "It was empty."
"Check it again!" David roared, a sudden surge of authority returning to his voice.
The guard frowned. He reached into David's blazer pocket. He paused. His face went slack.
Slowly, the guard pulled out the leather wallet.
It was thick. Heavy.
The guard looked at the wallet, then at David, then at his partner. "I... I swear it wasn't there."
"Let. Me. Go," David hissed.
The guards released him, confused. David snatched the wallet. He opened it.
Green. Beautiful, crisp green.
He stood up straight. He smoothed his shirt. He fixed his collar. His breath was coming in jagged gasps, but the money was there. The power was there.
But something had broken.
The shame of the last five minutes wasn't erased. The image of Sarah turning away... that was burned into his retina.
He didn't go back inside. He couldn't. The victory was lost. He couldn't buy the meal now; it would look like a magic trick, a desperate attempt to save face.
He looked at the guards. He pulled out two hundred dollars and threw the bills at their feet.
"For your trouble," he spat.
He turned and walked toward the elevators. He needed to get back to his room. He needed to get away from the eyes.
He reached the elevator bank. He pressed the button.
As the doors slid open, he saw a reflection in the polished brass panel.
It wasn't his reflection.
It was the Benefactor. Standing right behind him.
David spun around.
The lobby was empty. Just a few tourists checking in. No man in a grey suit.
But the voice... the voice whispered directly into his ear, as clear as if he were wearing earbuds.
"Lesson one, David: The contract is the source. The money is just the symptom. Never confuse the two. And never... ever... let them see you bleed."
David stepped into the elevator. His legs were shaking.
He looked at his hand. The numbness in his pinky had spread. It was now consuming the ring finger as well. Two fingers. Dead.
He leaned his head against the cool metal wall of the elevator as it ascended.
He had the money. He had the power. But he had just lost Sarah forever. Not because he was poor, but because for five minutes, he had shown her that he was still the same desperate, broken man underneath the suit.
And Femi... Femi was still laughing.
David closed his eyes. A cold resolve hardened in his chest, freezing over the humiliation.
"Laugh now, Femi," David whispered to the empty elevator. "Laugh now."
He opened the wallet again. He stared at Benjamin Franklin. The face on the bill seemed to be winking at him.
"I will buy the hotel," David said, his voice trembling with mania. "I will buy the whole damn hotel. And I will evict him."
The elevator dinged. Fifth floor.
David stepped out. He was alone. He was rich. And he was terrified.