CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
—Ikoyi, Lagos, Nigeria —
Chidinma waits by the matte-black G-Wagon parked in the far corner of Bodyline’s private lot, hood pulled low, shadow covering her face.
The membership pass had slid her through - one of the Organisation’s quiet strings tugged. No raised brows. No questions.
She doesn’t need a second guess. The custom license plate. The subtle modifications. It’s him.
Timi Daniels.
She slips one hand into the back pocket of her jeans, fingers brushing the cold metal of the injector - Clonidine and Benzos, dosed precisely to knock her body into a medically undetectable coma for just under three hours. No vital signs. No real harm. Just a body that looks close to dying.
It’s a gamble.
But over the years, Chidinma has learned that impossible only means you haven’t tried hard enough.
This is the closest she’s ever been to Timi. No tinted windows. No armed guards. Just him, behind those glass walls, in his gym clothes, dripping sweat, wrapping up his session.
Her heart thuds… part nerves, part strategy.
The Organisation’s file on him was clear: Timi doesn’t walk past need. He’s the man who halts convoys to help beggars. Who pays strangers’ hospital bills. Who gets out of the car when others wind up.
So she’ll be the girl he can’t walk past.
When she sees him walking toward the exit, towels slung over his shoulder, earbuds tucked in their case, she moves.
Her phone hits the pavement hard. Once. Twice. It splinters. Perfect.
She shoves the wreckage into her pocket and pulls back the hoodie just enough to reveal her neck. One smooth motion. The injector slips beneath her collarbone.
The sting hits first. Then the rush. Then... the drop.
She tosses the injector behind the row of palms, staggers to the G-Wagon’s rear door, then lets her knees give way.
Her body folds, silent, hitting hard ground.
Timi pushes through the gym doors, wiping sweat from his brow. The sun blazes against the polished row of luxury cars in the lot. His steps slow as he scans the lot… then freeze.
A woman is crumpled by his car.
At first, he thinks she tripped. But she’s not moving.
He jogs, then sprints. “Hey!” His voice shadows through the parking lot.
He drops beside her, hands moving fast - checking pulse, breath, anything. Barely there. His gaze catches on the puncture near her collarbone. Fresh.
Injected.
He leans down, ear pressed to her chest. A heartbeat flutters faint and fragile, slipping away.
Adrenaline surges. No time for questions. No time for logic. She’s dying here, by his car, on his watch.
He scoops her up, weight limp against his chest, his own breath sharp with panic.
He yanks the G-Wagon door, lays her across the backseat, fumbles with the belt before slamming the door shut.
“God,” he mutters, forehead damp, breath ragged.
Behind the wheel, his fingers grip the leather so hard it creaks. Tires screech as he reverses out.
Think. Think. THINK.
He should have called security. Should’ve reported it. Every instinct warns him that something is wrong.
But right now, she’s all that matters.
His jaw tightens. One question pounds louder than the rest…
Who left her like this?
And who, exactly, is hunting her?
If he weren’t trained to see what others miss, he’d have mistaken it for heatstroke, exhaustion, or anything simple.
But the puncture mark lingers in his mind.
His eyes dart to the rearview mirror. Still no movement. Her chest barely rises. A knot coils in his gut.
What if she slips away before he gets there? What if this explodes on his head?
Without loosening his grip on the wheel, he taps the voice command.
“Call DCP Oyeniyi.”
The car dials. His jaw tightens. He needs backup. A witness. Protection. But first, she has to live.
The G-Wagon roars down Awolowo Road, cutting lanes with the urgency of a man racing death. His palms sweat against the leather, his breathing clipped.
“Mr. Daniels,” Oyeniyi’s voice fills the cabin, steady and calm. “Longest time. To what do I owe the honor?”
“I’ve got a situation.” Timi exhales, pushing harder on the gas, the bridge lights streaking across his windshield as they hit Falomo. His eyes flick to the mirror, still nothing.
“A woman collapsed by my car. She wasn’t breathing right. I couldn’t risk waiting. I’m taking her to Reddington now.”
Static whirs in the silence. His voice drops lower.
“Her heartbeat is... barely there. I don’t even know if she’s—”
“You did the right thing,” Oyeniyi cuts in, smooth and clipped. “Send me the hospital’s location. One of my boys will meet you there for your statement.”
Timi swallows, nodding even though the man can’t see him.
“Thank you.” He ends the call, breath escaping sharply through his teeth.
Another glance back. Still lifeless. His chest tightens, dread clawing at his thoughts. Who is she? Why here? And what if she doesn’t wake up?
The hospital gates rise ahead like an answer to prayer.
He swings into Reddington, tires screeching as the SUV halts by the emergency doors. He’s out before the engine fully settles, gym shirt clinging to his back, sweat streaming down his spine.
He yanks open the rear door. Her body slumps toward him, head lolling, skin cold beneath his arm.
“Help! Somebody help!” His voice cracks with urgency as he lifts her, her weight limp against his chest.
The sliding doors burst open.
Nurses rush out, stretcher wheels rattling against tile.
He lays her down carefully, as if fragile, every motion careful though his pulse hammers.
“She just collapsed,” he pants, hand pressed to his knee to steady himself. “Barely breathing.”
They wheel her away, shouting vitals, their voices sharp and urgent. In seconds, she vanishes through the double doors.
Timi stays planted, chest rising fast, hands braced against his hips. Sweat trickles down his temple, his mind stripped bare to one thought only:
What if she never wakes up?
“Timi, we ran everything,” Dr. Ayomide Daniels-Coker says, her stethoscope draped across her neck like jewelry against the sharp white of her coat. Her tone is steady, but her eyes keep darting to the monitors.
“Toxicology. Neuro scans. Bloodwork. EEGs. Cardiac panels. Every test we could push through.”
Timi stands at the foot of the bed, arms folded so tightly his knuckles pale. He hasn’t blinked in minutes.
His gaze is locked on the woman lying there, her breath soft beneath the gown, lashes brushing her cheek like nothing’s wrong.
But something is wrong. Too wrong. Her skin carries a faint pallor he can’t ignore, a quiet cue of how she dropped lifeless by his car.
“And?” His voice scrapes low, as if speaking louder might shatter her stillness.
Ayomide hesitates. Her fingers tap once against her clipboard before she steadies them. “Everything came back clean. No poison. No head trauma. Nothing neurological.”
Timi’s jaw flexes. His throat works. “Then why isn’t she awake?”
Ayomide exhales, measured. “Her body shut down in a way we don’t fully understand. It looks like a coma, but it isn’t. Almost like…” She stops, searching his face. “Like something switched her off.”
The words hit him like cold water.
He straightens, arms uncrossing, fists clenching at his sides. “Mide, are you saying she won’t survive?”
“No.” She shakes her head quickly, stepping closer. “Her vitals were faint, but consistent. She’s holding.”
Timi nods once, sharp. His shoulders drop a fraction, but tension still ripples through his stance. “So someone did this.”
Ayomide lowers her voice, eyes narrowing. “I can’t confirm. But I’ve seen something close - buried in pharmacology abstracts. Experimental. Precise. Designed to vanish before detection.”
She leans in, her words clipped. “Not your average tox screen. But we’ll dig. I won’t stop until I know.”
His eyes drift back to the woman: fragile, still. Beautiful, but wrong in this silence. His fingers twitch once, restless, as if resisting the urge to touch her hand.
“Her vitals are climbing. Pupils reactive. She’ll wake soon, an hour, maybe two.” Ayomide pauses, then softer: “Keep her off the grid. No press. No noise. And if she wakes afraid, meet her where she is. Don’t push.”
Timi nods slowly, chest tightening as he studies the stranger who’s already pulled him into a storm.
He doesn’t know her name. Doesn’t know if she’s a victim or a pawn.
But someone wanted her erased.
And instead, she’s here. In his hospital. Under his roof.
Now, whether he likes it or not, under his protection.
Hours drag.
A police officer came earlier: polite, clipped, efficient. A few notes scribbled, a few nods, and he was gone. No fuss, no warmth. Just the chill of official procedure lingering in the air.
Now the suite is hushed, lights dimmed to a low amber glow. The room smells faintly of antiseptic layered over soft leather.
Timi sits against the wall in a low chair, no longer damp from the gym. A gray tee clings neatly across his shoulders, black shorts clean, his posture relaxed but never careless.
His Galaxy Tab glows in his lap, fingers moving quickly, steadily, the muted clicks of a secure memo filling the silence.
His face is unreadable, a mask carved smooth.
Chidinma stirs.
Her lashes tremble, then lift.
The world seeps in slowly: white walls softened by shadows, the sterile tang of hospital air, a dull throb blooming behind her eyes.
Then memory strikes. Her lips twitch, almost betraying her.
He brought me here.
It worked.
Reddington Hospital. Private suite. His suite.
Her chest stills with quiet triumph. All the scenarios she rehearsed, and here she is in the best one. Gold.
Perfect.
Her eyes drift shut again. She smooths her breathing until it’s slow, fragile, childlike. Her body slackens as if helpless. Inside, she counts beats, shaping her next move.
Phase Two.
Wake soft. Confused. Vulnerable.
Call him her boyfriend.
Act surprised when he denies it. Let fear cloud her eyes. Whisper that he’s the only face she remembers.
Safe. Steady. Hers.
And later, when the timing ripens, she’ll weep. Pretend memories trickle back. Apologize for the mistake. But beg him to let her stay… just until the world outside stops spinning.
He’ll say yes. Not because he’s stupid. Because he believes control belongs to him.
Men like him always do.
Her lips curve into a small, genuine smile this time. Her pulse steadies. She counts down in silence.
Three. Two. One.
She bolts upright, eyes wide, breath ragged, panic rehearsed to perfection.
“Where... where am I? Babe? Babe?!”
Her voice cracks the quiet like glass shattering.
Timi jerks. The tablet slips from his lap; his hand catches it clean before setting it down with care. His body unfolds in one fluid motion, sharp and alert.
He’s on his feet. Striding for the bed.
“You’re awake.” His voice is even, but his eyes stay sharp, tracking every shift in her face.
He drags the chair closer, lowers himself into it, knees angled toward the bed. Calm. Present. Watching.
“Hello there,” Timi says softly, offering a small, steady smile. “I’m Timileyin. You fainted right beside my car.”
Chidinma blinks at him. Then, like a light flicking on, her whole face brightens. “I know you, babe. You’re my boyfriend.”
The smile falters at his mouth. A half-second stiffening.
Boyfriend?
His brows twitch, but the calm mask returns almost instantly.
The doctor’s warning whispers back.
If she wakes up disoriented, meet her where she is.
He swallows, keeps the smile pinned in place. “I understand,” he says slowly, “but I’m not your boyfriend. Maybe you should try calling someone from your phone. I saw one in your back pocket earlier.”
His tone stays so calm, it could rock her to sleep.
Her face cracks. A frown. Hurt flashing quick, sharp as lightning.
“What do you mean?” Her voice trembles. “Are you denying me?”
Timi’s chest rises and falls once, quiet.
Expensive, his mind whispers. This complication will cost.
“No,” he says, voice steady, controlled. “I’m not denying you. I’m saying I don’t know you. We met today. You collapsed at Bodyline Fitness. I brought you here.”
He leans forward a little, nodding. “Let’s ask the nurses for your phone. Maybe call someone you trust. Maybe… the boyfriend you think I am.”
Her eyes cling to his like a lifeline, then she nods, slow, hesitant.
He dials the reception without breaking their gaze, his fingers precise on the keys.
A nurse arrives with a clear zip bag - her clothes folded, her phone resting cracked inside.
Chidinma pulls it out, the screen spiderwebbed, dark. She cradles it like something fragile, precious.
Timi mutters under his breath, almost to himself. “Of course. Must’ve hit the pavement when you fell.”
“Can you remember any number?” His voice stays gentle, but his eyes are studying her now, sharper.
She grips the phone tighter.
“No, Asher,” she whispers, eyes wide, raw. “I don’t have parents anymore. You’re all I have. You’re my boyfriend.”
The name slams into him.
Asher. His middle name. The one buried under layers of privacy.
He straightens, spine taut. His calm hardens into something alert, edged.
“How do you know that name?”
She smiles faintly, dreamy, certain. “Because you’re my boyfriend. We’re in love. You told me.”
Twisted.
His breath slows. “I’m not in a relationship,” he says carefully.
“I don’t even know your name. I found you unconscious. That’s all. You were at Bodyline Fitness. Do you remember why?”
She tilts her head, eyes soft, steady.
“Timi… it’s me. Chidinma. We’ve been dating. You asked me out. We met at that tech conference in Abuja.”
He studies her, searching.
No laughter. No cracks in her voice. No sly grin waiting to break through.
She believes it.
Or she wants him to.
Or her mind is broken in ways medicine can’t name.
He rakes a hand through his dreadlocks, jaw set.
“Alright. Let’s start simple. Your full name. I’ll run it through some channels… maybe something comes up about your family.”
Chidinma folds her arms, shoulders pulling tight. “I told you already. I’m an orphan. You know this. We met in Abuja two weeks ago. We talked every night. You said I made your heart softer.”
His eyes narrow, searching her face. No twitch. No hesitation. The edge in her voice is rooted, not defensive.
She believes it or wants him to.
He exhales, slow, weary. No use pushing. “Okay. Let’s say… I’m your boyfriend—”
“No.” Her cut is sharp, final. “Not ‘let’s say.’ You are.”
The air thickens, pressing down between them.
Timi presses his tongue to his cheek, holding back whatever question wants to bite out.
Her calm unsettles him more than her words. He shifts, lowering his voice. “Alright then. What about your best friend? Anyone you trust, siblings, or someone we can call?”
Her fingers twitch against the sheets. A pause. “Yes. Wait, I…” Her eyes dart quick, restless, as if chasing a thought slipping through fog. “I can’t remember anyone else. Just you.”
He leans back, a dry chuckle escaping before he can stop it. “This is worse than I thought.”
He rises, reaching for the phone on the bedside stand. The movement is precise, controlled, even as frustration vibrates under his skin. He dials, waits, then hangs up.
“Doctor’s on her way. Won’t be long.”
He settles back beside her, tablet balanced on his knee.
“I need your full details,” he says quietly, fingers hovering over the screen. “If you’re having memory gaps, I need someone to run a check.”
Chidinma sighs, the sound soft but edged with offense.
“Chidinma Kelechi Uche. Thirty-two. Enugu.”
Timi pauses mid-typing, eyes lifting. “How do you remember all that but not a single friend?”
Her gaze hooks into his, unflinching. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “It’s like everything recent just… slipped away. Except you.”
His jaw works, but he gestures for her to continue.
The door opens quietly.
Dr. Ayomide Daniels-Coker steps in, presence calm, smile warm as sunlight breaking through a storm.
“Timi,” she greets softly, before turning to the bed.
“Hello. How are you feeling?” Her fingers move deftly to Chidinma’s wrist, checking her pulse.
Timi shakes his head, frustration cutting through his tone.
“She’s not fine, Mide. She says she can’t remember anything recent, except that I’m her boyfriend. Please, tell her I only just brought her here. I’m not her boyfriend.”
“Calm down, Timi,” Ayomide says gently, her eyes steady as she faces Chidinma. “What’s your name?”
Chidinma straightens, performance flickering in her eyes like a curtain half-lifted. “Chidinma Kelechi Uche.”
Ayomide nods, unfazed. “What did you eat for breakfast?”
“I haven’t eaten,” Chidinma murmurs, voice delicate.
Then her eyes linger on the doctor, tracing the resemblance, the line of the jaw, the quiet authority.
How come she looks like him? she wonders, pulse quickening.
She looks like an older sister.
But the organization never mentioned he had any siblings.
“And dinner last night?”
Chidinma doesn’t flinch. “Yam porridge.”
“Good.” Ayomide’s voice is even, her pen scratching against the clipboard. “What brought you to Bodyline Fitness & Gym?”
Chidinma’s gaze drifts, landing squarely on Timi. “I went to meet my boyfriend. Timi.”
Timi jerks upright, eyes snapping wide. “I am not your boyfriend!” His voice cracks, disbelief bleeding raw through the room.
“Calm down, Timileyin,” Ayomide says, not raising her tone, her eyes moving back to Chidinma. “Do you remember anyone besides Mr. Daniels?”
Chidinma blinks slowly, lashes heavy, confusion cutting sharply across her face.
“No, Doctor. The only thing I can remember is being with him these past two weeks. We started dating then. Other than that… I only remember when I was a teenager. And how my parents died.”
Ayomide’s hand stills, her face softening. “How did they die?”
“They had a road accident.” Chidinma’s voice is quiet, steady, but shadowed.
Ayomide nods, gentle, coaxing. “When was this?”
“Sixteen years ago.”
The doctor’s gaze flicks toward Timi - his shoulders stiff, his jaw working like he’s swallowing a blow - then slides back to Chidinma.
“Miss Uche, what memories do you have of Mr. Daniels?”
Chidinma shifts, tucking her hands in her lap. Calm. Too calm. She’s rehearsed this. She’s lived it. Months of studying him online, offline, so now, telling it is like slipping into silk.
“We met at a tech conference in Abuja,” she says, her voice soft, measured. “I volunteered. Two weeks ago. He said he liked me. We talked.”
Her brows draw together faintly, like she’s pulling memory through fog.
“I was in danger. I don’t remember from what… only that I needed to escape. Timi spoke softly. Said I was safe. Asked me out. I agreed. I wanted to feel safe.”
Timi blinks hard, confusion clouding thicker with every word.
Did he say that? Did he ask her out? His memory holds nothing.
But as she speaks, her skin glowing under sterile hospital light, grey eyes steady, hair cropped neat against her delicate face, it grows harder to believe he didn’t.
Chidinma turns toward Ayomide, voice steady.
“We’ve spoken every day these past two weeks. I wanted to surprise him, so I came to Lagos and checked into my hotel; you can confirm that. This morning, he said he was heading to the gym at Wheatbaker. I went there. Tried calling him. Next thing I know, someone grabs me from behind, covers my mouth, injects me… and I black out.”
Ayomide studies her for a moment, then nods. “Can I check your phone?”
“My phone is ruined,” Chidinma replies quickly, frustration cracking through her calm.
She lifts the broken device like proof. “But my luggage is still at the hotel. I haven’t checked out. I have no one else. No memory of anyone else.”
Timi lets out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head.
“Mide, if I asked her out, I’d own it. I’m not a kid; you’ve known me forever. Why would I lie about being in a relationship? Why pretend she isn’t my girlfriend if she is?”
His hands lift slightly, palms open in disbelief.
“Is this even possible? To remember only one person and not a single other?”
Ayomide folds her arms, her tone calm.
“Yes, Timi. It’s rare, but possible. Sometimes patients keep early childhood memories and fragments of the present, while everything in between disappears. It’s called retrograde amnesia.”
Timi’s eyes narrow, scanning her face as if logic might be hiding there.
“Did you attend a tech conference in Abuja two weeks ago?” Ayomide asks.
“Yes,” Timi answers without pause. His tone is clipped, certain. “I was there. But I never asked anyone out.”
Ayomide turns back, her gaze steady on Chidinma. “Miss Uche, aside from his name, what do you know about Mr. Daniels?”
Chidinma doesn’t blink. Her voice drops, softened by something almost tender.
“Everything. We talk all the time. I know his age. His routine. His last two weeks’ schedule. His favorite food. I know where he goes when stress gets too much. I know the way he breathes when he’s thinking too hard.”
Timi’s shoulders lock, breath catching tight in his chest.
“Please share,” Ayomide says gently.
Chidinma obeys. Details spill out like water from a cracked jug: the restaurant where he orders his favourite meals, the exact days he visited TechCrest HQ, the playlist he loops when he works late, the hidden calm in his Ikeja flat, the silence of his Banana Island apartment.
Every word falls with the precision of someone who has studied him closer than a mirror.
Timi shoots up from his chair, pulse hammering, eyes wide. “This is absurd.” His voice slices through the room, sharp, ragged.
She’s been watching him. Tracking him. Maybe even following him. He’s sure now.
But why can’t he remember her face? Not once. Not even in passing.
Ayomide doesn’t flinch. “Oluwatimileyin,” she says softly, arms folding as though bracing the weight of the room.
“Given how much Miss Uche knows about you, I suggest you both sort this out privately. This might be personal.”
She leaves on quiet steps, the door shutting with a final, padded click.
The silence left behind is heavy. Timi stares at the door before turning back, his gaze cutting into Chidinma.
“Who are you, really?” His voice is low, sharp enough to sting.
Her eyes soften, shoulders dipping as if he’s just dropped something fragile between them.
“Why are you making me feel like the crazy one?” His voice climbs, rawer now.
“If you were my girlfriend, I’d know. You’re the one with memory loss, not me. So why does it feel like I’m the one losing it?”
Chidinma leans in, fingers curling against the sheets, desperation flickering behind her steady eyes.
“Timi… it’s me. Chidinma. Your girlfriend.”
His hand slams against the iron frame of the bed, metal ringing out, sharp as a slap.
She flinches, breath catching.
He drags a palm down his face, chest rising and falling hard.
When he speaks again, his tone is lower, but the strain coils tight inside it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. But I don’t know you, Chidinma. Please… stop.”
A soft ding cuts through the silence.
The tablet lights up on the chair beside him.
Timi picks it up. His thumb hovers, then taps.
A WhatsApp message slides across the screen.
Mr. Daniels, here is the information on Chidinma Kelechi Uche:
She lost her parents in a car accident when she was sixteen. She is the only child. No record of other family members. Recently, she has been on the run, moving from state to state. She doesn’t keep a job for long. Currently working as a barrister in a café in Abuja.
His grip hardens. The tablet creaks in his hand. He reads again, slower this time, each line drumming against his ribs.
This isn’t random.
Not the fall beside his car.
Not the clean memory of his life, while hers is blank.
Not the way she’s been running.
Every detail presses like a warning.
This isn’t chance. This is design.
He lifts his eyes to her. She sits on the bed, lashes lowered, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.
“Let’s go home,” he says, voice steady but sharp underneath.
Her gaze jerks up. “Home?”
“My place.” His stare doesn’t shift. “Didn’t you just call me your boyfriend?”
She hesitates. The air hangs. A flicker of doubt crosses her face, then vanishes as quickly as it came. Her lips curve slow, like she’s just been given what she’s been waiting for.
“You remember me now?” she asks, her tone light, testing.
Timi’s jaw flexes. “No,” he says flatly. “But I plan to.”
He’ll play along. Not because he believes her, but because he refuses to lose control.
If she wants to play long, he’ll play longer.
Let her walk in. Let her think the door is open.
Then he’ll find out what she’s hiding and why it led her straight to him.
Her smile deepens. A secret glint flickers in her eyes. She pushes herself up from the bed, movements fluid, almost rehearsed.
Phase two complete, she thinks.
Now to win his trust. Make him fall.
“Okay, babe,” she says, the sweetness in her voice wrapping thin as lace.
Timi doesn’t answer. He only slips the tablet into his bag, his eyes never leaving hers.
Together, they step into the corridor.
Did y’all notice the age gap? 👀 Timi is five years younger than Chidinma.
This guy should be careful o. Take her to his home ke? Timi shey you want scandal ni?😦