Clinton’s phone buzzed.

He groaned. “What is it again?”

It was his mum- Mrs Blackwood

He connected his earbuds and picked up. “Hi, Mum.”

Not her usual “how are you son” Her voice came sharp. “What about Kiesha ?”

“Mum, I’m not Keisha’s keeper. You know I have no business with her anymore.” Clinton sighed.

Maybe he shouldn’t have picked it up.

Keisha this. Keisha that.

“Clinton, you’d listen to me when I talk . Keisha is your fiancée. You both should get married soon,” she said, serious as ever.

The only time he had seen her this serious was when he skipped his medication back in the college.

“Mum, if anyone’s getting married, it’s definitely not Keisha and me. We’re not even dating anymore. Don’t force me into anything. Mum.”

He was pissed. But he was talking to his mum—he had to keep it together.

“I am your mother, Clinton. You’ll do as I say. Or I’ll disown you.”

Then—click. She ended the call.

Keisha is Clinton’s worst nightmare. Arrogant,rude, spoiled brat with no manners . His mum doesn’t care about any of those . All she sees is the legacy—her friendship with Keisha’s mum, their business bond, their dream of turning into a family.

Clinton is not ready to trade his feelings for that.

Years ago, Keisha made his life a living hell. She didn’t care where they were—she’d go violent on him in public. Her palm was fast in his face . Her temper is faster.

The memory of her still rings in his head.

And cheating? That was the final blow. He caught her in bed with the guy she called her bodyguard. He told his mum about it, all she could say was “Clinton, she is still going to be your wife, mistakes happen, you know”

How could his own mother say such because of Keisha.

~~~

He was still thinking about that when a soft knock tapped against my door.

“Come in,” he said, not looking up.

“Good morning, sir,” Sharon greeted, in her girliest voice like it’s dipped in sugar.

Does she actually sound like that naturally?

He raised an eyebrow, cleared his throat. “Good morning, Sharon. How may I help you?”

She stepped forward , slow and deliberate. Her red-polished fingernail slid down the edge of her shirt, popping a button open. Her cleavage peeked through like it had something important to say.

Clinton looked away, trying to figure out what was happening.

“I said, how may I help you, Sharon?” His voice wasn’t so calm this time.

“Erhmm… I-I just… erhmm… the file. Yeah, the file.” She wasn’t sure of what she was saying. But her hands were sure—gliding over her hips, her gaze locked on his like she was daring him to come closer.

He was irritated.

“Don’t you like what you see?” she asked, biting her lower lip, stepping closer.

He wondered if he had hired a prostitute as his secretary?

“Sharon, this is a working environment, not a roadside. Please leave. This minute.”

She smirked. “Boss, you’d like what I taste like.”

Pardon?

“ look” she said while she gently bites her index finger

“ Look what ?” He asked

“ what the hot body can do”

“GET OUT!”

Her heel twisted as she stumbled backward, arms flailing for balance. Shock painted her face, her body trying to recover faster than her pride. She nearly hit the doorframe.

He watched her scramble, breath caught, posture broken. She didn’t say a word. The door slammed behind her.

Silence.

He has thick and dark hair. A sharp jawline framed his face, clean-shaven and sculpted like it had been carved with precision. His lips were full, the bottom one slightly pouty, the kind that made every lady want to bite it desperately.

Broad shoulders stretched beneath a fitted shirt, hinting at a body shaped by discipline—lean muscle, not bulky. He moved like someone who knew his effect, but didn’t need to flaunt it.

Who can resist a young man who is not just handsome but stinkingly wealthy?

Brian pushed open the office door without knocking. He dropped into the leather chair across from Clinton, stretched his legs out like he owned the place.

“Yo! How you doing?”

Clinton barely looked up from his laptop. “Brian, next time—call before you come by.”

Brian smirked, unbuttoning the top of his shirt like he was settling in for a lounge session.

“Yo man. You’re in an office, not a courtroom. Put yourself together. And maybe put your legs down?”Clinton sighed, rubbing his temple. “This is my office, but you act like it’s your living room.”

Brian shrugged. “I come in here anytime I want. You know that. Got any red wine stashed somewhere?”

Clinton looked at him, shook his head slowly, and let out a dry chuckle. “I’m not in the mood for all these today.”

Brian leaned forward, sensing his mood. “Yo, what’s wrong? You got issues with your girl again?”

Clinton’s jaw tightened. “Brian, she’s not my girl. You know we’re done. Don’t piss me off.”

Brian chuckled, unfazed. “You really wanna let go of a hot girl like Keisha ?”

Clinton snapped, “You’re not telling me what to do with my life. We’re not an item anymore. That’s on periodtttt.”

Brian raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Scrap that. But hey—I saw your new Lambo truck. Bro, it’s giving everything it should. I’m happy for you man.”

Clinton’s mood softened. He reached out and exchanged a playful handshake. “Thanks, man. That’s just a new toy. Nothing serious.”

Brian grinned. “I know, I know. But tonight—we’re hitting the club. Champagne, music, baddies and shii . You need this.”

Clinton hesitated, glancing at the stack of files on his desk. “Hmm… I don’t know if I’m up for that, bro.”

“What are you saying?” Brian leaned in. “Trust me, you don’t wanna miss it.”

Clinton stared at the files, then at Brian. He raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, fine. Fine. We’re going dirty tonight. Just had a load of work to finish. But yeah—regardless, we’re going dirty.”

He started packing up the papers, his energy shifting.

Brian clapped his hands. “Now you’re talking, man!”