Chapter 2: From the Ashes
Pain was no longer a sensation; it was my entire identity. For six months, the world was nothing but the smell of burnt flesh, the sting of rubbing alcohol, and the hazy white ceiling of a room that didn't exist on any map.
I was in a private estate in the hills of Zurich, Switzerland—a world away from the humid, treacherous streets of Lagos. Every morning, a team of German doctors would peel back the bandages that covered seventy percent of my body. I never cried. I had no tears left. The fire that had nearly consumed my body had settled into my soul, hardening into a diamond-sharp resolve.
"You are staring again," a voice rumbled from the doorway.
I didn't turn my head. I couldn't. My neck was still stiff from the skin grafts. Instead, I watched the reflection of the man in the window.
His name was Alexander Thorne. To the world, he was a ghost—a trillionaire recluse who moved markets with a whisper. To me, he was the man who had pulled me from a burning van on the Ore expressway. Why he had been there that night, I still didn't know. But I knew what he wanted. He wanted a weapon. And I wanted to be one.
"The bandages come off the face today," Alexander said, walking closer. He stood by the bed, his presence like a mountain. "Are you ready to see her?"
"Nneka is dead," I whispered, my voice still raspy from the smoke that had scarred my vocal cords. "I am ready to see the woman who will kill the Adenugas."
Alexander gestured to the head surgeon. Slowly, with the precision of a man defusing a bomb, the doctor began to unwind the gauze from my head. One layer. Two layers. The air hit my new skin, cold and biting.
When the final strip fell away, the doctor held up a mirror.
I didn't scream. I didn't even gasp.
The woman staring back at me was a masterpiece of surgical perfection. The round, soft face of the village girl who had loved Tunde Adenuga was gone. In its place was a face designed for war. My cheekbones were high and sharp, like blades. My nose was straight and aristocratic. My eyes, once wide and full of hope, were now narrowed and dark, framed by thick, sweeping lashes.
I looked like a goddess carved out of obsidian.
"She is beautiful," the doctor whispered, clearly proud of his work.
"She is a predator," Alexander corrected. He handed me a tablet. On the screen was a live feed from a gala in Lagos.
My heart skipped a beat. There he was. Tunde.
He looked glowing. He was dressed in a white tuxedo, his arm wrapped around a woman in a shimmering gold dress. I recognized her—Abisola, the Senator's daughter his mother had praised. They were laughing. They were celebrating a new merger. My merger. The one I had spent three years of my marriage negotiating for the Adenuga family.
"They think they won," Alexander said, his voice dropping to a low dangerous hum. "They've taken your name, your child, and your history. They are currently the darlings of the Nigerian Stock Exchange. In six months, they will be untouchable."
I gripped the edge of the mirror until my knuckles turned white. "Then we don't have six months. How soon can I travel?"
"You have a new identity," Alexander said, handing me a passport. I looked at the dark blue cover.
Name: Adriana Valance.
Nationality: British-Nigerian.
Occupation: CEO of Thorne International Acquisitions.
"Adriana Valance doesn't cry," Alexander warned, leaning down so his eyes were level with mine. "She doesn't seek closure. She doesn't ask for apologies. She destroys. If you go back there, you cannot let a single spark of Nneka remain. If Tunde looks into your eyes and sees a wife, you will fail."
"Tunde won't see a wife," I said, my voice finally finding its new, silky, dangerous tone. "He will see the woman of his dreams. He will fall in love with me. He will trust me with his secrets, his heart, and his bank accounts. And when he is at his happiest... I will let him watch while I dismantle everything his mother worked for."
Alexander smiled—a rare, chilling sight. "Then the training begins. You have a new face, but you need a new spirit. You will learn the art of the deal, the art of the lie, and the art of the kill. By the time I am done with you, the Adenugas won't just fear you. They will pray for the fire to come back and finish what it started."
The next year was a blur of brutal transformation. I studied finance until I could recite the global markets in my sleep. I learned how to walk in six-inch heels like they were combat boots. I learned how to shoot a glock and how to ruin a man's reputation with a single email.
Every night, before I slept, I repeated their names like a prayer.
Tunde. Chief Mrs. Adenuga. Bolanle. Funke.
I kept a small, charred piece of the van's metal in a silk box on my nightstand. It was a reminder of what the fire felt like. It was a reminder that I was already dead, and a dead woman has nothing to lose.
One morning, eighteen months after the fire, Alexander walked into the training room. He was holding a glass of champagne.
"It's time," he said.
"What happened?"
"The Adenuga Group is looking for a foreign investor to save their new project in Eko Atlantic. They are overleveraged. They are desperate. They've invited the top ten female CEOs in Africa to a private auction in Lagos next week."
I felt a surge of adrenaline so powerful it made my fingertips tingle. "And am I on the list?"
Alexander handed me a gold-embossed invitation. "You are at the top of the list, Adriana. Tunde himself requested your presence. He saw your profile in Forbes. He told his board that you are 'the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.'"
I looked at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Swiss mansion. I was dressed in a red power suit that cost more than Tunde's first car. I looked like a queen. I looked like a nightmare.
"He has no idea," I whispered.
"No," Alexander said. "He thinks he's inviting a savior. He doesn't know he's opening the door for the executioner."
I took the invitation and tore it in half, a slow smirk spreading across my face.
"Tell the pilot to ready the jet," I commanded. "Lagos is hot this time of year. It's the perfect weather for a funeral."
As I walked out of the room, my heels clicking against the marble floor like the ticking of a time bomb, I didn't look back. The girl who cried in that hospital bed was gone. The wife who begged for love was ash.
Adriana Valance was going home. And she was bringing the fire with her.