DON'T DOUBT LOVE) loving you no matter what

MAYA'S POV

Tahir's penthouse smelled like money—Italian leather, aged whiskey, and the faintest hint of his cologne.

I should've been impressed.

Instead, I wanted to break something.

"You knew," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "About Mum. About everything. And you let us hate you."

He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, Lagos glittering below him like a kingdom he owned. "Would you have believed me if I told you?"

The arrogance in his tone made my fingers curl into fists.

"Try me."

He turned, his Rolex glinting in the low light. "Your mother was the one who asked me to stay away."

And just like that, the world tilted.

AISHA'S POV

The letters burned in my hands.

Mum's handwriting. Mum's secrets.

"Tahir funded her treatments for years," Ryder admitted, his voice rough. "Even after your family cut ties with his."

I stared at the numbers scrawled on hospital letterheads—millions of naira, paid in silence.

"Why?"

Ryder hesitated. "Because your mother saved him first."

The penthouse elevator dinged.

Tahir stepped out, crisp white shirt rolled to his elbows, a fresh cut on his cheekbone.

"Victor's men are downstairs," he said, like announcing dinner guests.

Of course. Even danger bowed to his schedule.

TAHIR'S POV

Victor always did have terrible timing.

I poured a Macallan 25, the amber liquid catching the sunset. "Maya, take your sister to the safe room."

She didn't move. "We're not hiding while you play hero."

Admirable. Naïve.

"That bullet wound in your arm says otherwise," I countered, nodding at her bandage.

Her glare could've melted steel.

The intercom buzzed. Victor's voice, slick as oil: "Tahir, darling. Let's talk about the property you tried to sell."

I sipped my whiskey. "He'll never understand—some things aren't for sale."

Not the estate. Not the truth.

And definitely not her.

RYDER'S POV

Aisha's grip on my arm was vice-tight. "We can't let him face Victor alone."

I watched Tahir check his pistol with the same boredom most men reserved for tying their shoes.

"He's not alone," I muttered.

Because that's the hell of it—Tahir Nelson didn't need saving.

The bastard had planned for this.

His "penthouse" was a fortress. Panic room. Armed guards. Even the damn chandelier was bulletproof.

Aisha's nails dug in. "Why does he still help us? After everything?"

The answer was in Mum's letters.

But some truths hurt too much to say out loud.