The word clung to Amara’s mind like a curse: Gone. Her lips moved, but the sound failed her. The hospital lounge tilted, the sterile white walls closing in, and the glowing fluorescent light above hummed like it mocked her fragile state. Gone. Not dead, but vanished. disappeared, like breath ripped from her lungs.

“No,” Amara whispered, her voice barely audible. She shook her head violently, strands of hair sticking to her tear-streaked face. “No, that’s not possible. He was here. I—I just held his hand. He can’t…”

Her chest tightened as if invisible chains were wrapping around her ribs. “He can’t just disappear.”

The nurse wrung her hands, glancing nervously between the three of them. “We searched the floor. The security team checked the corridors, stairwells, and even the exits. He isn’t here.” Her voice faltered, laden with the weight of uncertainty. “Someone removed him.”

A gasp tore from Amara’s throat. She stumbled forward, gripping the nurse’s sleeve, her nails digging into the fabric. “Then find him! My father is hooked to machines; he can’t breathe on his own. how long before—" Her voice cracked, strangled by fear. “How long before he dies without them?”

The nurse’s lips pressed together, unable to provide comfort or answers.

Ifeoluwa’s voice cut through the panic, sharp as a blade. “Where is the CCTV footage? This is a hospital, not a village clinic. Someone carried a man out of here; the cameras must have seen something.”

The nurse hesitated, eyes darting nervously to Ademola.

Amara noticed it, the glow of unease that passed between them.

Slowly, the realization crashed into her like a wave. She turned her face to Ademola, who hadn’t moved an inch. His arms were folded, his face unreadable, but his stillness was anything but calm; it was dangerous.

“You knew,” Amara breathed, her voice trembling. She stepped closer, fists clenched so tightly that her nails bit into her palms. “You knew this would happen.”

Ademola’s jaw tightened, but he offered no explanation. “Control yourself.”

“Control myself?” Amara’s voice rose into a shriek, drawing the attention of nearby nurses. Her chest heaved with anger and desperation. “That’s my father in there, my father!—and you’re standing here like this is just another one of your business meetings! Where is he?”

For a few seconds, something lightened his dark eyes—guilt? Regret? But it vanished almost instantly, swallowed by that infuriating mask he wore.

“Careful, Amara,” he said softly, too softly. “You’re speaking without thinking.”

“Don’t you dare silence her!” Ifeoluwa thundered, stepping forward with fierce defiance. Her heels clicked sharply against the tiled floor, challenging his authority. “You orchestrated this. Or, at the very least, you allowed it.”

“Enough,” Ademola snapped, his tone strong enough to silence even the nervous nurse. He turned his face to Amara, a chilling calmness settling in. “Your father is no longer your concern. Accept it.”

The words landed like a slap, echoing in the silence.

Amara staggered backward, tears stinging her eyes, rage boiling in her chest. “No longer my concern?” Her voice cracked, raw and almost unrecognizable. “You dare stand there and tell me my father doesn’t matter? That his life doesn’t matter?”

Her hands shook violently, but her voice hardened into steel. “I swear to you, Ademola, if he dies because of you, I will never forgive you. Never!”

A tense silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Then, the nurse cleared her throat nervously. “Miss Johnson, if you’ll excuse me… I’ll return once security has the footage.” She fled quickly, eager to escape the storm brewing in the lounge.

The moment the door closed, Amara turned back to Ifeoluwa. “We have to find him.” Desperation laced her voice. “If he’s out there without oxygen—without help—” She broke off, her entire body trembling. “I can’t lose him, Ife. I can’t.”

Ifeoluwa crouched in front of her, gripping both of Amara’s hands firmly. Her eyes, though fierce, softened just enough to steady Amara. “Listen to me. We’ll find him. Whatever it takes.” She shot a scathing look at Ademola. “Even if it means dragging the truth out of the devil himself.”

Ademola didn’t flinch. He merely adjusted his cufflinks, his calmness an insult to their pain.

Hours later, the security footage revealed nothing. The cameras on Chief Johnson’s floor had mysteriously glitched, showing static during the exact window of his disappearance. The guards claimed ignorance, their reports robotic and rehearsed.

Amara’s stomach twisted with every revelation. Too clean. Too perfect. This wasn’t an accident. Someone wanted her father gone—and had the power to erase every trace of it.

In the hospital parking lot, rain drizzled over the asphalt, the night swallowing the city in damp shadows. Amara stood beneath the awning, arms wrapped around herself as if she could hold her breaking world together.

“He’s alive,” she whispered to no one in particular, her teeth chattering. “He has to be. I’d feel it if he wasn’t.”

Beside her, Ifeoluwa placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “Hope is for good, Amara. But hope without action is just waiting to die. Whoever has your father doesn’t want him dead—not yet. That means leverage. And leverage means a trail. We’ll find it.”

Ademola approached, his black umbrella shielding him from the rain. His voice was as sharp as the chill in the air. “Enough of this. The hospital is compromised. Whoever took him did so with precision. That requires resources. Power. Connections.”

“Yours?” Amara spat, glaring at him. “Was it your people?”

He stopped, standing inches from her, the rain splattering across his polished shoes. His face bored into her, cold and unyielding.

“Ask yourself, Amara,” he said quietly. “If I wanted your father gone, would I waste time with theatrics?”

Her throat tightened because, as much as she despised him, part of her knew he was right. Ademola wasn’t sloppy; he was ruthless and efficient. If he wanted her father dead… he would already be buried.

But that didn’t mean he was innocent.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the sudden blare of her phone cut through the storm. Her shaking hands dug into her bag, pulling it out.

An unknown number.

Her pulse spiked. With shaking fingers, she answered. “Hello?”

Static hissed, then a distorted voice spoke.

“Miss Johnson. If you want to see your father alive, come alone. Midnight. Warehouse 17, by the docks. Tell no one—or you’ll collect a corpse.”

The line went off.

Amara’s breath caught. The phone slipped from her hand, clattering to the wet pavement.

Both Ifeoluwa and Ademola were staring at her, their eyes sharp and demanding.

“What was that?” Ifeoluwa pressed.

But Amara’s heart raced wildly, her voice barely a whisper. “They have him.”

Her face shone to Ademola, who watched her with unnerving calm. He didn’t look surprised. Not at all.

And that terrified her more than the call itself.

Amara now faces an impossible choice: obey the kidnappers’ orders and go alone into danger, or tell Ademola and risk her father’s life. Either way, trust is shattered, and every step could cost her everything