I froze for a split second, my heart slamming against my ribs like a drum in a highlife band. Mr. Yinka’s words hung in the air—“I do not want your money, Amaka. I want you.” His eyes, those sharp, assessing eyes behind his glasses, weren’t on my face anymore. They roamed down, lingering on the swell of my breasts straining against my blouse, the curve of my hips in my tight skirt, the way my thighs pressed together as I shifted in the chair. Heat flushed my skin, but it wasn’t just ...