Chapter 2 The CEO's Entrance

(Ethan's POV)

The first sound I heard that morning was rain on glass. Lagos rain always had a rhythm of its own-urgent, messy, alive. I lay there a few seconds, staring at the ceiling of my penthouse in Ikoyi, thinking about the girl from last night.

Amara.

The name still echoed like a lyric I hadn't learned how to forget.

I tried to shake it off and rolled out of bed. Mornings for me were predictable: green tea, thirty minutes of emails, then the gym before work. Routine kept my head clear. In my world, emotions were expensive distractions. Yet as I brewed the tea, I caught myself replaying her voice-the way she said "I'll find it." The tired hope in her eyes. You can meet hundreds of people at a gala, but sometimes one face burns through the noise.

I opened my phone. Fifty-three unread messages.

Board reports, investor notes, a reminder about the new ColeTech campus in Lekki. Somewhere between the numbers and plans, my assistant, Sade, had added:

"Charity Gala follow-up: media coverage positive. Also, your driver reported you helped one of the servers get home-everything alright?"

I smiled slightly. Sade noticed everything.

"All good," I typed back. "Just making sure no one got stranded."

That was true, mostly. But there was more I couldn't explain in a text.

---

ColeTech's headquarters sat on the 10th floor of a glass-walled building that looked out over the Lagoon. From the outside it screamed wealth; inside, it was quiet-more like a library than a tech company. I'd built it that way. My employees didn't need to see marble floors to know we were successful.

As soon as I stepped out of the elevator, the team chorused, "Good morning, sir!" I never liked that. "Morning, everyone," I replied, dropping my umbrella in the stand. "Let's just get things done today, yeah?"

My schedule was packed: meetings with app developers, a call with investors in London, and a CSR briefing. We were expanding an education fund that sponsored university students in STEM fields.

Ironically, that was the same kind of program Amara would have needed.

During the CSR meeting, my operations head, Kunle, spoke about new scholarship applicants. "We received almost four hundred submissions this quarter," he said. "Many from UNILAG, UNN, FUTA-bright kids, but limited funds."

I nodded, trying to focus on his presentation. But every slide reminded me of the girl serving drinks last night.

She's a student, she'd said. Final year.

When I built ColeTech, I told myself I'd never forget where I came from-Ajegunle streets, power cuts, studying by torchlight. My first laptop had been a hand-me-down that barely worked, but it got me into programming. Sometimes, when people call me a billionaire, I still hear the boy who couldn't afford JAMB forms.

"Sir?" Kunle's voice pulled me back. "Should we add more slots for emergency bursaries?"

"Yes," I said. "Add ten more. Some students can't wait for the next cycle."

He blinked, surprised. "Noted."

By noon, the clouds had cleared. I stood by my office window, watching sunlight ripple over the water. Down below, cars streamed across the bridge, each one carrying its own story. Lagos never stopped moving.

Sade walked in, tablet in hand. "You have lunch with the Minister of Innovation at one. Also, the event company from last night sent their appreciation letter."

I took the letter absently, scanning the signature. "Did they mention their staff list?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Their staff list? No, sir. Should I ask for it?"

I hesitated. "No... don't worry."

She tilted her head. "This isn't about that server girl, is it?"

I looked up, caught. "You noticed?"

"Sir, I notice when someone manages to hold your attention longer than five seconds." She smirked. "It's rare."

I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "She just looked-tired. Reminded me of what it used to feel like, struggling."

Sade smiled knowingly. "That's why people trust you, Ethan. You remember."

"Maybe," I murmured. "But remembering doesn't fix anything."

She left me to my thoughts.

The ministerial lunch dragged on for hours-formal smiles, empty promises, the usual dance of power and politics. When I finally escaped back into my car, I felt the fatigue creeping in.

"Where to, sir?" my driver asked.

"Home," I said, then paused. "Actually, wait. Take me to Surulere."

He glanced at me through the mirror. "Sir?"

"Just drive."

We cut through traffic, past street vendors shouting prices, past yellow danfos honking impatiently. I rarely came here anymore, but some part of me needed to see the city again-the part that wasn't polished glass and gated compounds.

We stopped by a small kiosk I recognized from years ago. The owner, Mama Nkechi, still sold bottled water and phone cards. When she saw me, her eyes widened. "Ethan? Ah! You've grown into a big man now!"

I laughed. "Still here, Mama. Still surviving."

She handed me a bottle of water. "Your father would be proud. You never forget this place, ehn?"

"I try not to."

As I paid her, I thought of Amara again-her determination, her tired smile. People like her kept this city alive.

Back in Ikoyi that evening, I sat on the balcony overlooking the lagoon. The sky was streaked orange, the air heavy with that after-rain freshness. I opened my laptop to review the scholarship applications Kunle had mentioned.

Scrolling through, one name froze me mid-scroll:

Eze, Amara Chidinma – University of Lagos, Microbiology, Final Year.

My heartbeat stumbled.

There it was-her name, written in simple Arial font, tucked among hundreds of others. She'd applied two weeks ago.

I read through her essay: "Science gives me a sense of purpose. I want to use microbiology to make water safer for rural communities."

No mention of hospital bills or eviction notices. Just quiet determination.

I sat back, exhaling slowly. Of all the coincidences. I could easily approve her grant myself-but that would cross a line. I prided myself on fairness. Still, something inside me whispered, You already crossed the line the moment you cared.

My phone buzzed. Sade again.

"Reminder: press conference tomorrow. Do you want me to prepare talking points about the scholarship program?"

"Yes," I typed. "And add one more slot-personal discretion."

Later that night, sleep wouldn't come. I walked through the apartment, the city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. From up here, Lagos looked peaceful, almost gentle. But I knew the chaos underneath-the hunger, the dreams, the people like Amara fighting to stay afloat.

I poured a glass of water and stared at the reflection of my own face in the window. Billionaire, CEO, philanthropist-titles that looked good on paper but said nothing about the ache of loneliness.

I'd dated before. Beautiful women who wanted to be seen beside a headline. But there was something different about that girl with the trembling hands and quiet eyes. She hadn't wanted anything from me except a chance to survive.

Maybe that was what pulled me in-the simplicity of it. The honesty.

I told myself I'd forget. I told myself she'd get the scholarship, finish school, build her life, and I'd be nothing more than a kind stranger she once met in the rain.

But deep down, I knew that wasn't true.

Because even as I turned off the lights and the city outside fell into night, one thought refused to leave me:

Some people enter your life quietly... and somehow, they never really leave.