Chapter One: The Wrong Kind of Man
The first time Achieng saw him, she was balancing a tray of drinks in heels two sizes too small.
The rooftop bar buzzed with Nairobi's elite-men in tailored suits, women in sleek dresses, the air thick with money, cologne, and scandal. She didn't belong here, and everyone knew it. Especially the man in the navy-blue suit with eyes that seemed to strip her bare from across the room.
He looked like sin dipped in silk.
"Table seven," her supervisor hissed behind her. "That's Mr. Mwangi. Don't mess this one up."
Achieng swallowed. Of course he had a name. Of course he was the kind of man who didn't need to ask for attention-it simply bowed to him.
She walked over, heels clicking, knees threatening to buckle.
"Your whiskey, sir," she said, carefully placing the glass down.
He didn't reach for it.
Instead, he looked at her.
No-through her.
And then he smiled. Lazy. Dangerous.
"What's your name?" His voice was deep, velvet-wrapped trouble.
"Achieng," she replied, too quickly.
"Achieng," he repeated, tasting her name like it was something exotic on his tongue. "Beautiful name... for a beautiful woman."
She froze.
This wasn't part of the job.
Flirting with customers was against the rules. Getting involved with a client-especially a man like this-was more than forbidden. It was social suicide.
Still... something in her chest fluttered.
"I-I have other tables," she stammered, stepping back.
His smile didn't waver. "Don't worry. I'll wait."
She turned and walked away, but she felt his gaze clinging to her like Nairobi heat-slow, heavy, and impossible to escape.
And in that moment, Achieng knew one thing:
She was in serious trouble.