Chapter 1 THE CLOCK START'S TICKING.

The waiting room was cold.

Too cold for a July morning in Lagos, even with the hospital's air conditioning set to "mild." But Amara Ikenna barely noticed. Her hands were clutched tight in her lap, fingers digging into each other as she stared blankly at the pale green walls. Her eyes were open, but she wasn't really seeing.

She had always imagined death as a thing that crept up slowly-something that happened to the old, the weary, the ready. Not something that arrived as a doctor with sympathetic eyes and a clipboard full of lab results.

"Miss Ikenna?" The nurse's voice was soft, too careful.

She stood up slowly, bones heavier than usual. Her legs ached from sitting, her mind from anticipating.

Inside the doctor's office, the clock ticked louder than anything else.

Doctor Adebayo didn't smile. He didn't sit behind his desk like he usually did. Instead, he stood in front of it, hands clasped, eyes scanning her face as though memorizing it.

That's how she knew it was bad-worse than she expected.

"It's stage four," he said quietly.

Three words. That was all.

Not a sentence, not a paragraph. Just three words that dropped into her chest like a block of cement.

Stage four.

Lung cancer.

How?

She'd never smoked a day in her life. No family history. No warning signs until the persistent cough turned into bloody sputum. She'd joked about it to her roommate last month, calling it "the Lagos air," trying to pretend she wasn't scared.

But now it was real. Too real.

"How long do I have?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He hesitated. "With treatment... perhaps a year. Without it... six months, give or take."

The words blurred. Her ears rang.

A year? Six months?

"I'm sorry, Amara," he added gently. "There are experimental treatments... but they're expensive. We can refer you to LUTH or a private center with oncologists-"

"I don't have money," she cut in flatly.

She stood abruptly. Her knees trembled. "Thank you, doctor. I'll... figure something out."

He reached for her shoulder, but she stepped back and walked out before he could finish his sentence.

Outside, Lagos moved on.

Horns blared. Keke drivers shouted for passengers. A beggar tapped a man on the shoulder and was waved off. The world didn't care that her life had just been shattered. That she had an expiry date.

She walked, blindly, past shops, past market stalls, past the church where someone was shouting hallelujah into a microphone.

"Six months," she whispered to herself, almost laughing.

She had no time to waste crying. She'd done enough of that during the scans and tests over the past few weeks. No, what she needed was a plan.

By the time Amara returned to her cramped flat in Surulere, her decision was made.

She would not tell her family. Not yet. Her mother had just gotten a part-time job at a school. Her younger brother was preparing for WAEC. They couldn't afford emotional drama-or hospital bills.

She would work.

She'd get a job, save what she could, and quietly seek treatment. If it worked, maybe she'd get more time. If not...

At least she would have done everything she could.

The next morning, Amara wrapped her long black braids into a bun, applied light makeup to hide her exhaustion, and slipped into her best outfit-a secondhand blue blouse and black trousers that no longer fit quite right on her thinning frame.

Her CV was simple but solid: a 2:1 in Mass Communication from UNILAG, a year's internship at a media firm, and a few freelance gigs. She had dreams of working in public relations, maybe even starting her own firm someday.

But dreams didn't matter when you had six months left.

She walked into the café in Ikoyi just before noon, one of the places she'd circled in the classifieds as "possibly hiring." It was upscale-glass windows, marble floors, and soft jazz playing overhead. The kind of place rich people brought their laptops to "work remotely."

She was just about to ask the cashier for the manager when she collided-hard-into someone coming from the opposite direction.

"Oh! I'm so sorry-"

The cup in his hand spilled straight down his crisp white shirt. Coffee. Hot. Everywhere.

Her eyes widened in horror.

"I-oh God-I'm so sorry!"

The man looked down slowly, then back up at her.

His eyes were sharp. Cold. But strikingly handsome.

"No," he said calmly. "You're not."

She reached for a napkin, trembling. "Please let me-let me wipe it-"

"Don't touch me."

He said it quietly, but it wasn't anger. It was control. Precision. The way his voice wrapped around the words made her freeze.

A hush fell across the café.

"Mr. Okoye," one of the baristas gasped, rushing forward. "Sir, we'll clean that immediately."

Amara blinked. Wait-Okoye? The billionaire? The man who owned OrionTech? The one always in BusinessDay headlines?

She had just poured coffee on Nigeria's most eligible bachelor.

He studied her for another second, then turned to the barista. "Get my car. And give her a job application form."

The staff froze. "Sir?"

He nodded toward Amara. "I want her name. Her CV. Now."

With that, he walked out, shirt drenched, not looking back.

Amara stood rooted to the spot, napkin in hand, heart pounding.

What the hell just happened?