The walk back to the car feels heavier than I had expected.
I'm not crying. I'm not shaking. But there's a strange hollowness that's taken residence in my chest like someone emptied me out and forgot to refill the space with anything else.
Gloria is waiting for me when I get home. She doesn't ask questions just hands me a steaming bowl of efo riro soup and rice. She knows I haven't eaten all day.
"You don't have to say anything," she says, settling beside me on the couch. "But if you want to scream, I brought wine."
I smile, despite myself.
We eat in silence for a while. The TV hums in the background, showing some random telenovela where everyone's always crying and shouting and falling in love with their enemies. Too close to home.
Finally, I say, "He said he loved me."
Gloria nods slowly. "Do you believe him?"
"I believe he loved the version of me that made him feel safe. Worshipped. Forgiven." I pause. "But the real me? The woman who built an empire? The one who demands truth, who doesn't crumble quietly? He never saw her. Never wanted to."
She doesn't respond right away. She just refills my glass, then hers.
"You're stronger than you think," she says finally. "And you're not alone."
I believe her.
But it's still hard.
---
That night, I find myself in the nursery. Or what is supposed to be one.
Before all of this, I never imagined having a child. My life was work. Structure. Legacy. Love was a nice idea something other people chased while I built the future.
And now here I am, standing in a soft yellow room filled with untouched baby items from a time when I thought I knew what love looked like.
I run my fingers over a tiny pair of shoes. Still wrapped in plastic. Still smelling new.
A child is coming. Mine.
Not his.
At least… that's what I'm telling myself.
I press a hand to my belly. "You're not a mistake," I whisper. "You're the only real thing that came out of all this."
There's no kick. Not yet. But I feel something.
Hope, maybe.
Or the early heartbeat of healing.
---
The next day, I call a meeting with the board, only the members of staff have been aware of our predicament.
It's time.
I walk into the conference room with a different kind of power not the sharp-heeled, quick-tongued version of me they've always known. No. This version is quieter. Sharper. A woman who has walked through fire and come out with her soul intact.
I tell them everything.
About Kolade. About Nse. About the breach, the fraud, the betrayal from within.
I don't cry. I don't flinch. I just tell the truth.
There's silence when I'm done. Then murmurs. Then questions.
"But why go public?" one of them asks. "The scandal could destroy us."
I hold his gaze. "Covering it up already is."
Another chimes in. "You're not stepping down?"
"No. I'm stepping forward."
And I mean it.
Because maybe my business took a hit.
Maybe my heart did too.
But I'm still here.
And I'm not done fighting.