Married for His Empire

The Westbridge building was a beacon of chaos when we arrived. Fire trucks blocked Victoria Island Road, their lights painting everything red and blue. Water arced from hoses into shattered windows on the fourth floor, steam rising where it hit flames.

Elijah's driver stopped as close as the police barricade allowed. We got out into air thick with smoke and burnt paper—the smell of destroyed evidence.

"Stay behind me," Elijah said.

"It's my evidence burning."

"Exactly. Which makes you a target if whoever set this fire is still watching."

A fair point. I stayed close as he approached the police line, flashing some kind of credential that got us through. An inspector met us near the building entrance—older man, tired eyes, shirt soaked with sweat despite the night air.

"Mr. Kingston. Didn't expect you here."

"Westbridge contracts with several of my subsidiaries. I have an interest in what happened." Elijah gestured to me. "This is my wife, Eniola. She's a former analyst here."

The inspector's eyes sharpened. "Former as of when?"

"Three days ago."

"Interesting timing." He pulled out a notepad. "The fire started in the records room. Fourth floor, southeast corner. Someone bypassed security, used an accelerant, and was gone before the smoke alarms triggered."

"Professional," Elijah said.

"Very. No cameras caught anything useful—the system went down twenty minutes before the fire started. Came back up ten minutes after." The inspector looked at me. "What kind of records did Westbridge keep up there?"

"Physical backups of transaction reports. Audit trails. Anything that needed to be preserved for regulatory purposes." I watched another window shatter from the heat. "Seven years of financial documentation."

"Someone wanted that documentation very badly." The inspector made a note. "We'll investigate, but without witnesses or camera footage..." He trailed off meaningfully.

"I understand." Elijah pulled out his phone. "I'll have my security team send over anything our cameras caught. We have offices across the street."

After the inspector left, I stared at the building. Smoke still poured from broken windows. Everything I'd documented, every paper trail I'd carefully preserved—gone.

"They think they've won," I said quietly.

"They think they've removed the evidence." Elijah's hand found the small of my back. "They don't know the evidence is standing right here."

A black Mercedes pulled up behind the fire trucks. A man emerged—fifties, silver hair, expensive suit despite the hour. He moved through the chaos like he owned it, security detail flanking him.

Elijah's entire body went rigid. "Thomas."

His uncle. The man trying to steal his company.

Thomas spotted us. His face arranged itself into concern, but his eyes stayed calculating. "Elijah. What a terrible coincidence, finding you here."

"Coincidences don't exist in our world, Uncle."

"No, I suppose they don't." Thomas's gaze shifted to me. "And you must be the mysterious wife. Congratulations on your marriage. So sudden, I didn't even receive an invitation."

"It was intimate. Immediate family only." Elijah's voice could have frozen steel.

"How unfortunate. I would have loved to meet the woman who finally convinced you to settle down." Thomas stepped closer, studying me like I was an acquisition he was considering. "Eniola Adeyemi, correct? Analyst at Westbridge until recently."

"That's right."

"Such timing. You leave, and days later their records burn." He smiled. "One might think there's a connection."

"One might think a lot of things," I said. "None of them would be correct."

"Hmm." He turned back to Elijah. "The board is concerned, nephew. A hasty marriage to a woman from... uncertain background. Erratic behavior. Some are questioning your judgment."

"Some are questioning their own futures once the forensic accountants finish their work."

Thomas's smile hardened. "Careful, Elijah. Accusations require proof. And proof, as we can see—" he gestured to the burning building "—has a tendency to disappear."

"Physical proof, perhaps." Elijah pulled me closer. "But my wife has a remarkable memory. Photographic, actually. Every transaction she ever reviewed is still right here." He tapped his temple, then mine. "You can burn buildings, Uncle. You can't burn what she carries in her head."

Something dark flickered across Thomas's face. "How... convenient. Though judges tend to prefer documents to memories. People forget. Or remember incorrectly. Or get confused under pressure."

"Are you threatening my wife?"

"I'm stating facts about the legal system." Thomas straightened his cufflinks. "See you both at the board dinner Friday. I'm sure it will be... illuminating."

He walked away, security following. But one of his men looked back—a hard stare that lasted two seconds too long to be casual.

"We need to leave," Elijah said. "Now."

In the SUV, neither of us spoke until we were blocks away. Then Elijah made a call.

"Kemi. Thomas just threatened Eniola at the Westbridge fire. I need security doubled on the penthouse immediately." Pause. "Yes, I know it's two a.m. I don't care. And pull the footage from our building—I want to know if anyone was watching Westbridge before the fire started."

He hung up. Looked at me. "You're not going anywhere alone until this is over."

"I can't live in a cage."

"You can't testify if you're dead." His hand found mine, gripped it hard. "They just showed their hand, Eniola. This isn't corporate maneuvering anymore. This is them trying to erase you."

My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I almost ignored it.

Then it buzzed again. And again.

I answered. "Hello?"

Breathing. Then a voice, distorted through a modifier: "You should have stayed quiet."

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone. Elijah took it, checked the number, his expression darkening. "Burner phone. Untraceable."

"They know where I am."

"They know you're with me. That's different." He leaned forward to the driver. "Take the long route. Make sure we're not followed."

The SUV made sudden turns through Lagos streets I didn't recognize. Twenty minutes of doubling back, switching routes, ensuring no one was tracking us.

When we finally reached the penthouse, security had tripled. New guards, new protocols, new scanners at every entrance.

Elijah walked me to my suite. Checked the rooms personally. Windows, locks, the small balcony I'd never used.

"I'm putting a guard outside your door," he said.

"That's excessive."

"You just got a death threat after watching evidence burn. I'm not sure what would qualify as excessive at this point." He stood in the doorway, reluctant to leave. "You should try to sleep."

"Right. Because that's happening."

"Fair point." He checked his watch. "It's almost three. We have the security review at seven, then media training at nine. The stylist arrives at two for the board dinner prep."

"Sounds delightful."

"Welcome to being a Kingston." He started to leave, then stopped. "Eniola. What you said to Thomas—that was well done. You didn't back down."

"I'm not very good at backing down."

"I've noticed." Almost a smile. "It's one of your better qualities."

After he left, I stood at the window. Looked out at Lagos, at the distant glow where Westbridge was probably still smoldering.

Someone had tried to erase me tonight. Burned the evidence, made threats, sent a message.

They thought I'd break. Run. Disappear.

They didn't know that the girl who'd walked into that police station three days ago had nothing left to lose. And the woman standing here now had something even more dangerous than evidence.

She had a billionaire husband with unlimited resources and a very personal grudge.

My phone lit up. Text from Elijah: *Guard is posted. Press the panic button by the bed if you need anything.*

I looked at the device mounted on the nightstand. Sleek, black, probably connected to enough security to invade a small country.

Then another text: *And Eniola? Thank you for not running.*

I stared at those words. He'd expected me to bolt. To decide this wasn't worth my life.

Maybe I should have.

Instead, I texted back: *I don't run. I finish what I start.*

Three dots appeared. Then: *Good. So do I.*

I turned off the lights but didn't get into bed. Just stood at the window, watching the city, making mental calculations.

Thomas had made his move. The fire, the threat, the intimidation.

Now it was our turn.

And I had seventy-two hours before I'd face him across a dinner table, smile on my face, diamond ring on my finger, ready to prove that burning evidence was meaningless when the witness had perfect recall.

They wanted war?

Mrs. Kingston was about to give them one.