Cafe Neo in Victoria Island was one of those places where Lagos's elite came to see and be seen—sleek furniture, air conditioning that actually worked, overpriced lattes served by servers who spoke in hushed tones. Dami arrived ten minutes early, choosing a corner table with a view of the entrance.

Her phone buzzed. Tyrel: Where are you?

Running errands. Back soon.

She'd told no one about this meeting. Not Tyrel, not Eni, not her parents. Whatever Bolaji wanted to say, she needed to hear it alone.

At exactly 5pm, he walked in.

Bolaji looked good—he always did. Tailored shirt, designer watch, the confidence of someone who'd never doubted his place in the world. His eyes found hers immediately, and he crossed the cafe with purpose.

"Dami." He didn't sit. "Thanks for coming."

"You said it was important."

"It is." He pulled out the chair across from her, finally sitting. A server appeared, but Bolaji waved her away. "I'm not staying long."

Dami's stomach tightened. "Then why are we here?"

He leaned forward, his voice low. "Because I need to understand what's happening. And you're going to tell me the truth."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't." His voice was sharp. "Don't insult me by lying. Something's off about this whole thing, and you know it."

"Bolaji—"

"Eight months ago, you told me you needed space. That you wanted to focus on your business. No relationship, no distractions." His eyes held hers. "Now, suddenly, you're engaged to a man I've never heard of, planning a wedding in a rush, and acting like everything's normal."

"People change their minds."

"Not like this. Not you." He sat back, studying her. "I know you, Dami. I know when you're hiding something."

The server returned with water neither of them had ordered. Dami took a sip, buying time.

"Tyrel and I fell in love," she said carefully. "It was fast, but it's real."

"Is it?" Bolaji's voice was quiet. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like a performance."

"You're reading too much into—"

"On the plane. Frankfurt. I watched you two. He held your hand like he owned you, not like he loved you."

Dami's pulse quickened. "You were watching us?"

"I was sitting two rows back. I had nothing else to do." He leaned forward again. "Dami, if you're in trouble—if he's forcing you to do this—"

"He's not."

"Then what is it? Because something is very wrong."

For a moment, Dami was tempted. To tell him everything. The debt, the scheme, the desperation that had led her here. Bolaji had always been safe—predictable, stable, the kind of man her father approved of.

But that was the problem. If she told him, he'd tell her father. And her father would fix it—would pay off her debt, shut down her business, bring her home. Would look at her with disappointment in his eyes and know she'd failed.

"There's nothing wrong," she said firmly. "I love Tyrel. We're getting married. And I'd appreciate it if you'd respect that."

Bolaji was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Our families have been friends for thirty years. My father and yours have done business together since before we were born. Do you really think I'm going to stand by and watch you make a mistake?"

"It's not a mistake."

"Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove it." He pulled out his phone, scrolled, then turned it toward her. "This is your fiancé's company. Booker & Associates. I did some research."

Dami's blood went cold.

"It's registered as a venture capital firm, yes. But it's only been operating for a year. Before that?" He scrolled through what looked like news articles. "There's nothing. No employment history, no education records, nothing until he suddenly appears with a VC firm backed by... interesting investors."

"What are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating facts." His eyes were hard now. "Your fiancé is a ghost, Dami. And the investors backing his firm? They have connections to organized crime in the Pacific Northwest."

The air left her lungs.

"So I'm going to ask you again," Bolaji said quietly. "Are you in trouble?"

Dami's mind raced. He knew. Maybe not everything, but enough to be dangerous. Enough to ruin everything.

"What are you going to do?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"That depends on you." He set his phone down. "If you tell me the truth right now—whatever it is—I'll help you. No judgment, no telling your father. Just help."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I'll do what I have to do to protect you. Even if that means going to your father myself."

It was an ultimatum. Clean and simple.

Dami looked at him—at this man who'd once loved her, who maybe still did in his own way. Who was offering her an out.

But taking it would mean admitting defeat. Admitting she couldn't handle her own problems. Becoming the daughter who needed saving.

"There's nothing to tell," she said finally. "Tyrel's past is his business. What matters is who he is now, and who he is with me."

"Dami—"

"No." She stood. "You asked for the truth. That's my truth. Believe it or don't, but stop digging into my life."

Bolaji stood too, frustration clear on his face. "I'm going to that wedding, Dami. And I'm going to be watching. If anything—anything—seems wrong, I'm going to act."

"There's nothing wrong."

"We'll see." He pulled out his wallet, left money on the table for drinks they hadn't ordered. "I hope you're right. For your sake."

He walked out, leaving Dami standing alone in the corner of an upscale cafe, her hands shaking.

Her phone buzzed. Tyrel: Where are you? Photographer's here in 30 minutes.

The engagement photos. She'd forgotten.

She typed back: On my way.

As she left the cafe, stepping back into Lagos heat and chaos, one thought consumed her: Bolaji knew too much. And in two days, at a wedding with fifteen hundred witnesses, he'd be watching every move she made.

The walls were closing in.