The documents arrived that night as promised. Akanbi read them in his penthouse study, the sprawling lights of Ikoyi a diamond carpet below him. Peter's license photo showed a younger, softer version of the man he'd met. The insurance was decent, not exceptional. The policy was under Emmanuel & Sons Limited. A quick, ruthless search later the kind only wealth and connections allow and Akanbi had a skeleton: Peter was the second son. The family business was solid mid-tier wealth, import-export, comfortable but nowhere near Akanbi's orbit. The older brother, Michael, was the heir apparent. Peter was… the spare. The one who drove expensive cars to galas he probably couldn't afford.
This knowledge should have satisfied Akanbi. It should have allowed him to categorize Peter as a minor nuisance, a blip to be handled by underlings. Instead, it irritated him further. The audacity of that calm demeanor from a spare.
He instructed his personal assistant to handle all communications with the insurance company, but with one specific order "Every communication, every estimate, every query must be copied to me. And I will approve every single step."
It became a ritual. His PA would send a terse email. Peter would reply, always polite, always prompt. "Please find the attached document from the workshop." "Kindly confirm the approval for this part."
Akanbi would let the emails sit in his inbox for hours, sometimes a full day, before sending back a one-word reply: "Approved." or "Proceed." He never engaged. It was a silent war of attrition, a demonstration of who held the power to delay, to inconvenience, to dominate the process.
The obsession was a slow drip, fed by these emails. He began to read them not for content, but for subtext. Was there frustration in that "Kindly"? Was the politeness a mask for simmering anger? Akanbi found himself imagining Peter on the other side, receiving the delayed approvals, maybe complaining to his jittery friend Fess. The thought was perversely satisfying.
The fixation finally boiled over two weeks later. Akanbi was at a rooftop bar in Victoria Island, a beautiful woman from Ghana laughing at his jokes, when his phone buzzed with an email notification. It was Peter, following up on a garage query.
Suddenly, the woman's perfume was cloying, her laughter an annoying chirp. The entire evening felt trivial. All he could see was the memory of gold-flecked eyes under valet lights, looking at him without the proper fear.
Excusing himself with cold politeness, Akanbi stepped to the balcony. He didn't reply to the email. Instead, he did something unplanned, something his system flagged as an error even as his thumb pressed the call button.
It rang twice.
"Hello?" Peter's voice came through, clear and composed. There was no "Sir?" No acknowledgment of who was calling. Just a simple, neutral hello. As if he hadn't memorized the number that was costing him a fortune.
The sheer normality of it was an insult.
"Your garage is requesting authorization for a OEM rear light assembly," Akanbi said, his voice colder than the night air. He wasn't asking a question. He was stating a fact, a demand for attention.
A beat of silence. He could almost hear Peter's surprise. "Okay… I approved the estimate last week. They should have everything they need."
"They claim there's a discrepancy. That the one you approved was for a standard model. My car is not standard." Akanbi knew this was a technicality, a minor hurdle his PA could have resolved. He was here for something else.
Another pause. He heard a faint sigh, not of frustration, but of someone shifting mental gears. "I see. Can you forward me their specific query? I'll speak to them directly in the morning and ensure it's sorted. There's no need for you to be bothered with this."
No need for you to be bothered.
The phrase lashed at Akanbi.It was dismissal. This boy was trying to manage him, to shunt him aside in his own process of vengeance.
"I am already bothered, Peter," Akanbi said, his tone dropping into a silken threat. "You bothered me the moment you decided to drive a car you clearly cannot control. You will not speak to my garage. You will explain the discrepancy to me. Now."
The silence on the other end was different now. It was charged. When Peter spoke again, the polite veneer had a thin crack. "It's 10 PM on a Friday, Mr. Onobanjo. The workshop is closed. I have the approved documents. If there's an issue, it's a clerical one we can resolve on Monday. Is there something else you need?"
Is there something else you need?
The question hung in the air, simple and devastating. It forced Akanbi to confront the truth of his call. He had no real reason for it. No business reason. He had called because the image of Peter had intruded upon his evening, and he had wanted to hear the voice that went with those infuriatingly calm eyes. He had wanted to reassert dominance, to prick that calm.
And he had failed.
The realization was a poison in his veins, more potent than the hatred. It was a sickness.
"Just see that it is fixed," Akanbi snarled, and ended the call.
He stood on the balcony, the glittering, sinful expanse of Lagos before him, and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. He had not just called to intimidate. He had called to connect. And in doing so, he had exposed a desperate, humiliating need to be a thorn in Peter Emmanuel's side, just to remain in his thoughts.
The hatred curdled, turning in on itself. He wasn't just disgusted by Peter anymore.
He was becoming disgusted with himself.