A Dynasty of Deceit

Chapter Six: The Cost of Being Chosen

Zayn dropped the airtime card and ran without thinking. His heart hammered against his ribs like a warning bell, the plastic bag still swinging from his hand as he turned the corner just in time to see the tail lights of the black SUV vanish into the dusty road that snaked toward the outskirts of Ibadan. His feet stumbled and his mind was caught between instinct and terror because the scream still rang in his ears and he knew in his bones that they had found her, and not just her but them, their plans, their whispers, their quiet rebellion, and everything they had tried to bury in the shadows was now dragged into the light where monsters lived, so he ran back up to the flat, tearing through the narrow staircase to find the door kicked in.

Splinters of wood scattered like broken bones across the floor, Adanna’s bag still sitting on the mattress where she’d left it. The contents were spilled, an old photograph of her mother, a novel with dog-eared corners, the necklace he’d given her on their first kiss wrapped around a toothbrush, and her passport lying open, untouched, mocking him like a monument to freedom that came too late and in that moment, Zayn felt something inside him rupture. It was clarity, the kind of clarity that only comes when you realize the war you’ve been preparing for has already begun and you are not the one who declared it. He didn’t call anyone, didn’t run to the police because he knew the police were not his allies, not when the people hunting them had enough power to make governments kneel. So instead he disappeared again, vanishing into the underbelly of Ibadan with nothing but the burner phone in his pocket and a contact list filled with people who owed him favors, people who operated in shadows too thick for the Maduakos to trace, and within hours, he had new clothes, a stolen ID, and information that she had been taken to Lagos, at a private estate near Lekki owned not by the Maduakos directly but through a series of shell companies connected to a real estate conglomerate that conveniently shared its board members with the Ojukwus, where she is being held captive, and that told him everything he needed to know. This wasn’t just about scandal or optics anymore, this was a full-scale containment operation, the two most powerful families in Nigeria working together to silence the one variable they could not control.

Zayn knew they wouldn’t kill her, not while there was still value in using her as leverage, a pawn, a bargaining chip, but he also knew they wouldn’t hesitate to break her spirit, to rewire her memory until she no longer remembered what freedom tasted like, and that thought alone was enough to drown him in fire, so he moved fast, relentless, burning through contacts and bank accounts, securing transportation, assembling a team not of mercenaries or criminals, but of misfits like him. A former systems analyst who once hacked the CBN, a disgraced ex-pilot with a grudge against the Ojukwus, a girl named Kamsi who could make IDs and weapons appear from thin air, and together they formed a plan not to fight the dynasty, but to outsmart it because Zayn understood that the Maduakos and Ojukwus didn’t fear violence, they feared exposure, feared scandal, feared the truth becoming public, and so that was the plan, to extract Adanna and make their love, their story, their betrayal, so loud and undeniable that the world itself would become their protection. The rescue was a blur of motion and silence. Kamsi cloned the security firm’s access codes, the ex-pilot created a distraction at the gate with a false delivery, and Zayn, dressed as a maintenance worker, walked straight into the estate with nothing but a tool bag and a heart full of fury and when he found her, locked in a glass-walled room with security cameras and no light, her face bruised, her voice hoarse from screaming, she looked up and whispered, “You came,” and he replied, “Always,” and they didn’t kiss or cry or hold each other. They just ran, through hallways and hedges and darkness, until they were in the van, and the night silent once more.

They didn’t go into hiding again, not this time, because Zayn had realized something vital in that room. Hiding was just another form of surrender, and they had surrendered enough, so instead they went public not with names or addresses, but with truth, leaked recordings, anonymous blog posts, confidential wedding contracts, shell company documents were all released through whistleblower platforms and encrypted channels, sparking rumors and panic across elite circles, headlines speculating on the identity of a rogue billionaire heir exposing family corruption and abuse of tradition, and though Zayn never claimed the leaks, everyone in power knew exactly who was responsible and worse, they couldn’t prove it.

Alaric became furious but bound by reputation, called an emergency board meeting, and for the first time in decades, his control was questioned not because of the information alone, but because investors began pulling out, foreign partners began demanding transparency, and the illusion of Maduako invincibility began to crack and in the middle of it all stood Zayn, silent and still, watching from the shadows as his empire of revenge finally began to take shape.

But victories like his never came without cost, and it wasn’t long before the consequences came knocking, first in the form of Kelechi, who confronted him in a private car,“You used me,” and Zayn, unable to lie, simply said, “I had to,” and Kelechi, who had once called him a son, replied, “Then I hope it was worth it,” before walking away without looking back. Then came the media storm, anonymous sources claimed Adanna had been kidnapped, that she was under Stockholm Syndrome, that Zayn was a con artist, a bastard child, a terrorist in a suit and while none of it stuck legally, it poisoned public opinion, forcing them underground once more, this time not out of fear but exhaustion. They retreated to a safe house in Calabar where the sea whispered secrets and the air was thick with rain. There, for the first time, they stopped moving. They cooked meals together, read poetry, laughed at old Nollywood films, and made love not like fugitives but like people who had finally earned the right to just be, and in those moments, Zayn began to wonder if vengeance was still enough, if love alone could rebuild what hatred had carved out of him but Adanna, always more perceptive, saw the shift in his eyes and warned him, “Don’t lose your fire, Zayn. We’re not safe yet,” and he nodded, but the truth was, the fire had already changed. It was no longer just about burning the dynasty to the ground, it was about building something that could never be taken from them again, something that belonged only to them but just as they began to dream of permanence, the final blow came. A summons, hand-delivered by a courier in a grey uniform,it containrd a legal document bearing the signature of Chief Alaric Maduako himself, a cease and desist order, an accusation of defamation, and a formal DNA request attached to a court subpoena, demanding Zayn submit to a test to prove paternity or face criminal charges under the newly revised Data Protection and Identity Act and just like that, the war they thought they had escaped pulled them back in, not with guns or chains, but with paper and ink, and Zayn knew, without doubt, that this was the final stage of reckoning.