Selene's POV
The gala was exactly what she'd expected: the glittering theater of Lagos high society, where power dressed itself in designer labels and smiled for the cameras.
Selene moved through it like she'd been trained her whole life to do—because she had been. Before London. Before the betrayal. Before she became the kind of woman who could survive alone. She'd been groomed for rooms like this, taught to network like breathing, conditioned to turn conversation into currency.
She wore white again.
It had become a choice now, not an accident. White meant she could move through the room and be seen without being touched. White meant clarity. White meant a woman who'd won a major contract and was here to celebrate by securing the next one.
She was talking to the CEO of a textile import company—charming him with talk of sustainable materials and supply chain innovation—when she felt it.
That particular shift in the air. That subtle change in atmospheric pressure that meant someone had just looked at her with the kind of attention that made your skin aware of itself.
She turned.
Damien Osei was standing three feet away.
He wasn't with anyone. Wasn't talking to anyone. Wasn't performing the social networking that everyone else in this room was doing. He was simply... watching her. Not with hostility. Not with professional calculation. With something quieter. Something that looked like he'd been standing there long enough to see the moment she realized he was there, and he was curious about what she'd do with that knowledge.
The textile CEO was still talking. Something about cotton imports. Selene made appropriate noises, excused herself with the kind of grace that suggested she was simply moving on to another conversation, and turned toward the bar.
Which meant turning directly toward Damien.
He smiled slightly, like he'd been waiting for her to do exactly that.
"Ms. Obi," he said. Not a greeting. An observation. "You're having quite the evening."
"Mr. Osei." She kept her voice level, professional. "I wasn't aware the Osei Foundation supported sustainable fashion initiatives."
"We support excellence in all forms." He moved slightly closer, and she could smell him—something clean, expensive, understated. "I've been following your work since you returned to Lagos. The collection you're launching is remarkable."
It was a compliment. It shouldn't have felt like a trap.
"Thank you," she said carefully. "I've done my research on local manufacturers. Quality is non-negotiable."
"I would expect nothing less from you." He paused, and in that pause, she felt him searching for something. "Your approach to sustainable production—it's very personal. Almost like you're honoring something."
She didn't answer immediately. She couldn't, because there was no safe answer to a question that seemed to know more than it should.
"Every business is personal," she finally said. "The ones that matter, anyway."
"True." He turned slightly to face her more directly, and she noticed they were now separated from the rest of the crowd by the subtle geometry of the room. Two people having a private conversation in public. "I read about your brand's philosophy. The way you describe your grandmother's legacy in the company materials—it's compelling. She must have been remarkable."
Selene's hands went very still.
"My grandmother's name isn't public knowledge," she said quietly. "It's not in my company materials or anywhere else publicly available."
Damien's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—recognition of the fact that she'd caught him.
"Isn't it?" he asked. "I may have confused it with another designer. The fashion world is small. Stories travel."
It was a lie. A polite one, but a lie nonetheless. He knew something about her grandmother that he shouldn't know. He knew that Adaeze Textiles had been founded by her great-grandmother and passed down through the family until Selene's father had run it into the ground through poor management and worse choices. He knew the name because he'd looked for it. Because he'd researched her. Because somewhere in his investigation of Selene Obi, he'd dug deep enough to find the family history she'd never publicly discussed.
Which meant he'd been thinking about her.
Which meant she was not as irrelevant to him as she'd tried to convince herself.
"The story isn't very interesting," Selene said carefully. "My family's textile business was defunct before I was born. I'm simply trying to resurrect it with a new philosophy."
"That's not a resurrection," he said, and there was something in his voice that sounded almost reverent. "That's redemption. Which is far more difficult."
They stood in silence for a moment. Four minutes had passed since he'd walked up to her, and in those four minutes, everything had shifted. The conversation had started as professional banter—the kind of exchange you had at galas with rivals you were meant to hate.
It had become something else entirely.
Something that felt like recognition.
"The fabric trends you're targeting," he said, changing the subject with the smoothness of a man used to controlling conversations, "they're interesting. Most new designers focus on fast fashion or luxury exclusivity. You're building something in between."
"Because that's where the real market is," she said. It was easy to talk about business. Business was safe. Business was something she understood. "Luxury for people who work. Premium quality without the gatekeeping. That's where the future is."
"You always did see things other people couldn't," he said, and then stopped—like he'd said something he hadn't meant to say.
Selene's breath caught.
"I'm sorry?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and in his eyes was something that looked like pain and confusion and hunger all tangled together.
"I meant—your strategic thinking. It's distinctive."
But that wasn't what he'd meant. And they both knew it.
Before she could respond, before she could ask the questions that were suddenly screaming in her mind, he took a step back. Created distance. Rebuilt the professional walls that had briefly cracked.
"Your collection will do well in Lagos," he said. "The market is ready for what you're offering."
"That's kind of you to say," she replied carefully, "considering you're my primary competition."
"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe I'm something else entirely."
And then he walked away, disappearing into the crowd of the gala, leaving Selene standing alone in her white dress with her heart hammering against her ribs and a single devastating question burning through her mind:
How does he know about my grandmother? How does he know that I always saw things other people couldn't? How does he know anything about me at all?
She pulled out her phone with shaking hands.
Texted Zara: We need to talk. Something is wrong.
Zara's response came immediately: ??? What happened?
Selene stared at her phone, trying to find words for something she couldn't articulate.
Finally, she typed: I think Damien knows me. From before. And I have no idea how that's possible.
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Then Zara's message: That's impossible. You were in London. He was here. You've never met before the contract negotiation.
But as Selene stood in that gala, watching Damien Osei disappear into a crowd of Lagos's elite, she realized something that made her blood run cold:
He'd been at the Black Veil that night. Three years ago. The masked bar. The stranger with quiet hands.
It couldn't be.
But the way he'd looked at her when he said "You always did see things other people couldn't"—like he was remembering something. Like he was trying to place her in a memory that had been haunting him for years.
What if it wasn't a coincidence that he was her primary rival?
What if he'd come into her business world deliberately?
What if he'd recognized her the moment she stepped off that plane, and everything—the negotiation, the loss of the Adeola contract, his presence at this gala—was part of something she didn't yet understand?
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message: We met before, Selene. I know we did. I just need you to help me remember.