The Lamborghini screeched to a halt just inches from the street vendor's cart.
"Are you blind!?" a man shouted, clutching a basket of mangoes that had nearly flown from his hands.
From behind the wheel stepped a tall, furious young woman in a sleeveless white blouse and high-waisted jeans. Her designer shades slid down slightly as she stepped out, giving the vendor a quick glance—not of apology, but irritation.
"You crossed the road like you own it!" she snapped.
The vendor backed off. "Na small mango I dey sell o. No vex, madam."
A small crowd had gathered. A man in a faded black T-shirt, sitting quietly on a low bench nearby, looked up. His name was *Kene*, and though he said nothing, his eyes locked on the woman as she stormed back into the car and banged the door shut.
"Rich people," someone muttered beside him.
The car didn't start. A loud, mechanical cough came from the engine.
Zara Adebayo swore under her breath. *Daddy's favourite toy just died on her.* She banged the steering wheel. Of all days, today had to be the one she got stuck in the middle of Lagos heat with zero battery and zero patience.
People started murmuring, staring. Her high and mighty pride felt small and exposed.
Zara opened the car door slowly, embarrassment creeping up her neck. She hated feeling vulnerable.
"Please," she called out, her voice quieter now, "does anyone here know a mechanic?"
Nobody moved at first.
Then Kene stood up.
"I can help."
She sized him up—tall, dark-skinned, maybe in his mid-20s, rough around the edges but somehow… clean. Like someone who'd seen hardship but hadn't let it define him. He wore secondhand clothes but stood like a soldier.
"You?" she asked, skeptical.
He simply nodded, walked over, and asked for the keys.
Fifteen minutes later, the engine hummed back to life. She stared at him in disbelief.
"You're not a mechanic."
"No. But I used to work with one," he replied calmly.
She noticed the quiet strength in his voice. Not arrogant. Just confident. Controlled.
"What's your name?"
"Kene. Kenechukwu."
He turned to leave, brushing his hands off on his jeans.
"Wait."
He paused.
Zara hesitated. Something inside her shifted. She didn't just need a mechanic today. She needed someone. A driver. A reliable one. Her last one had quit because she yelled too much. But this guy? He didn't flinch at her sharpness. He fixed her car and didn't even ask for money.
"You looking for a job?" she asked suddenly.
Kene blinked. "A job?"
"Driver. I need one. You have a license?"
"I do. But I'm not—"
"I'll pay weekly. Cash. Clean clothes. Food. You drive me wherever, and don't talk unless spoken to."
He looked at her, almost amused. "Is that a condition?"
She folded her arms. "It's a standard."
A long pause.
Then Kene said something she didn't expect: "Fine. When do I start?"
Zara handed him the keys.
"Now."
—
*Later that evening…*
Zara slumped into her couch, tossing her heels across the marble floor. Her phone buzzed with messages: friends asking about parties, her father asking if she'd "made herself useful yet," and her ex posting cryptic captions she pretended not to care about.
She ignored them all.
Her thoughts were on the boy with the quiet eyes.
She didn't know why she hired him. Something about the way he moved. The calm in the chaos. The fact that he didn't look at her like she was some spoiled brat, even when she acted like one.
Her world had always been money, clubs, fake smiles, and cold expectations. But when she sat in the car after Kene fixed it, she felt something she hadn't in months.
*Safe.*
And a little curious.
—
*Meanwhile…*
Kene sat on the floor of the small one-room apartment he shared with his younger sister, Amaka. She was studying by candlelight, her notebook pressed against her knees.
"Who gave you that shirt?" she asked, not looking up.
Kene glanced at the clean white polo Zara had left in the back seat for him.
"My new boss," he said.
Amaka turned, surprised. "You got a job?"
He nodded. "Driver. For one rich girl."
Her eyes widened. "Hope she's not wicked."
Kene smiled faintly. "She's... complicated."
Amaka laughed. "Just don't fall in love."
He said nothing.
But his mind replayed the way Zara had looked at him in the rearview mirror when he pulled into her mansion. Not fear. Not pride. Not even attraction.
Just... interest.
Like she hadn't decided what to make of him yet. And somehow, that was more dangerous than all the rest.
—
*The next morning…*
Zara waited at the top of the driveway, tapping her heels on the tiles. She wore a sharp cream jumpsuit and cat-eye sunglasses.
Kene pulled up in her Range Rover at exactly 7:00 a.m.
"Not bad," she said, stepping in. "You're punctual."
"Always," he replied.
They didn't talk much on the ride. But there was an odd silence between them—not awkward, but thick. She noticed the way he adjusted the mirror without a word. The way he drove—not fast, but deliberate, focused.
She looked at him sideways. There was a fresh scar near his jaw. Old burns on his fingers. Signs of a hard life.
But none of it made him small.
He drove like a man with purpose.
She didn't know what it was yet. But she intended to find out.
Because beneath the silence, Zara already knew something dangerous.
She hadn't hired him just because he was available.
She hired him... because he looked like a storm that had survived itself.
And part of her wanted to know what it felt like to stand in the rain with him.