Benin City smelled like rain and old memories.
Femi stepped out of the car and stood still for a moment, staring at the house in front of him. The structure was small, weather-worn, its paint peeling, windows dusty. It looked nothing like the glass towers and guarded estates he was used to.
And yet—this was where Ivie had chosen to hide.
From him.
His chest tightened painfully.
"This is it," the driver said quietly.
Femi nodded and waved him away. He wanted to do this alone.
Ivie heard the knock just after sunset.
She froze.
Nobody came here.
Her hand instinctively went to her stomach as she moved cautiously toward the door. When she opened it, the world tilted.
Femi da Silva stood on her grandmother's cracked porch, suit dusty from travel, eyes bloodshot, shoulders rigid with restraint.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then she laughed softly—without humor.
"You have a lot of audacity," she said.
"I know," he replied hoarsely. "I came anyway."
Her throat tightened. "You shouldn't have."
"I couldn't stay away," he said. "Not after the truth."
She turned away sharply. "Too late."
He followed her inside.
The house was dim, modest, filled with the echoes of childhood. He noticed everything—the thin curtains, the chipped furniture, the quiet strength in the way she moved through the space.
"This is where you grew up," he murmured.
"This is where I learned not to trust promises," she said coldly.
Femi stopped in the center of the room.
"I was wrong," he said.
The words sounded foreign—unused.
"I let my past decide for me. I let fear speak louder than truth."
She faced him then, eyes bright with restrained tears. "You looked at me like I was nothing."
His chest ached. "I looked at you like my mother once looked at my father. And I hated myself for it."
Silence swallowed the room.
"I didn't just doubt you," he continued. "I abandoned you."
Her breath shook.
"I loved you," she whispered before she could stop herself. Then she laughed bitterly. "That's the cruelest part."
His eyes darkened with emotion. "I love you."
The words landed heavy and dangerous.
"You don't get to say that now," she said. "Not after what you did."
"I know," he replied. "That's why I'm not asking you to come back."
She blinked, surprised.
"I'm asking to stay," he said quietly. "Here. Near you. To earn back every breath I wasted doubting you."
Ivie shook her head. "You don't belong here."
"Neither did you," he said gently. "And yet you survived."
Tears slipped free despite her efforts.
"You broke me," she said. "And I'm carrying your children."
"I know," he whispered. "And I will spend the rest of my life proving I deserve them. And you."
She studied him—really studied him.
For the first time, the billionaire was stripped bare. No control. No arrogance. Just a man kneeling emotionally before the woman he'd wronged.
"Stay one night," she said finally. "That's all."
Relief nearly buckled him.
"Thank you," he said.
That night, they sat on opposite sides of the room, silence thick but no longer hostile.
He fixed the broken window latch. She made tea.
At one point, their eyes met—and neither looked away.
Nothing was resolved.
Nothing was healed.
But for the first time since Lagos, hope breathed quietly between them.
And outside, Benin City slept—unaware that love, once shattered, had begun the slow work of rebuilding.