Kofi.
It had been eight months.
Eight long months since Akosua walked out of my office for the last time—and somehow took my empire with her.
She was no longer available.
Not for my company.
Not for my board.
Not even for my calls.
At first, I told myself it was temporary. That she needed space. That I needed time to cool down too. I convinced myself she would return once emotions settled and pride softened.
But pride does not soften when silence grows.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
And everywhere I turned, I saw her.
Not physically—but her name.
On television screens in hotel lounges where I sat alone, pretending to watch the news. On business journals stacked neatly in waiting rooms, her face calm and confident on glossy pages. On phones, tablets, billboards—sometimes even when I wasn't looking for her.
Akosua Mensah.
Her name moved faster than I ever did.
People spoke about her with respect now. With admiration. Some even with awe. She was being called the woman behind collapsing empires—and the mind rebuilding them stronger than before.
I watched from a distance.
Powerless.
While her influence grew, my world slowly came apart.
It didn't collapse loudly. It bled quietly.
First, one board member resigned. He said he needed "new direction." I nodded like it didn't matter.
Then another followed. Then another.
Investors began to hesitate. Meetings ended without decisions. Projects stalled halfway, suspended in uncertainty. Files piled up on my desk, untouched. Numbers stopped making sense.
Without Akosua, nothing worked the same.
And without her, neither did I.
I stopped eating properly without realizing it. Meals came and went untouched. Sometimes I forgot entirely. My clothes grew loose. My suits hung awkwardly on my shoulders. When I caught my reflection in mirrors, it startled me—sharper cheeks, hollow eyes, skin dull and tired.
The fire people once feared in me had dimmed.
Sleep no longer came easily. When it did, it carried dreams of boardrooms where Akosua stood confidently, explaining strategies I could no longer understand. She never looked at me in those dreams. Never waited for my approval.
I woke up exhausted.
My empire was bleeding.
And I was bleeding with it.
That afternoon, I sat alone in silence when the palace doors opened quietly.
My mother walked in.
The Queen.
She didn't announce herself. She never had to. Her presence alone commanded space. Authority followed her like a shadow.
"Kofi," she said gently, setting a tray before me. "You must eat."
I glanced at the food briefly and looked away. "I'm not hungry."
She didn't argue immediately. She studied me—really studied me. The weight I had lost. The emptiness in my eyes.
"You haven't been hungry in months," she said softly.
I exhaled, leaning back. "Food won't fix this."
Her voice tightened. "This cannot continue. You are a king—not a shadow walking through his own palace."
A bitter laugh escaped me. "What is a king without a kingdom?"
She reached across the table and held my hand firmly. Her grip was warm. Steady.
"Your kingdom did not fall because you were weak," she said. "It fell because you pushed away the woman who held it together."
Her words landed hard.
Because they were true.
"I will bring Akosua back," she continued. "She will manage the empire again. We will negotiate properly this time. Compensation. Authority. Respect."
I shook my head slowly. "Mother… it was never only about the empire."
She paused. Her eyes searched my face.
"You love her," she said quietly.
"Yes," I admitted, my voice low. "And now I understand something I was too proud to see before. Akosua was never just an employee. She was my balance. My clarity. My partner."
Silence filled the room.
"She belongs beside me," I added, my voice breaking slightly. "As my wife."
My mother inhaled deeply. "But Princess Adjoa is already in the picture. The kingdom expects—"
"She is not my queen," I cut in firmly. "And she will never replace Akosua."
Almost as if summoned by tension, the doors opened again.
Princess Adjoa walked in.
She was beautiful—polished, elegant, confident. She always was. Her gown was perfect. Her smile practiced. She moved toward me without hesitation, her fingers brushing my shoulder, her voice soft and calculated.
"Kofi," she whispered. "You look exhausted."
Her closeness felt wrong.
Empty.
I stepped away gently but firmly.
Her smile faltered. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I said flatly. "Please… give me space."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're thinking about her again."
Before I could respond, her voice sharpened. "Akosua's success is temporary. My firm will rise higher soon. People will forget her."
Something twisted painfully in my chest.
"Do not speak her name like that," I warned quietly.
She laughed, light and dismissive. "You still defend her?"
"She still matters," I said. "In ways you will never understand."
Her face hardened. "You're obsessed."
Before I could reply, the room tilted.
The walls spun.
Pain exploded in my chest, sharp and unforgiving.
"Kofi?" my mother called, panic rising.
My legs failed me.
As darkness closed in, I heard only one command—urgent, desperate, breaking through everything.
"Summon Akosua. Immediately."
Then everything went black.