I loved my job.

I loved the freedom it gave me, the permission to think, to create, to shape narratives instead of simply reacting to them. I loved the way we worked behind the scenes, taking complicated truths and arranging them into something the public could finally see clearly.

People liked to say the government was bad. And often, they weren’t wrong, but they weren’t always right either.

Working this close had taught me that truth was rarely clean. There were things the government did well, things that never made the news because history had already poisoned public trust. Our job was to correct that imbalance. To make people see that good work still happened, even inside broken systems.

Most days, I was proud of that.

This time… I wasn’t.

When those girls were kidnapped in Katsina, something in me broke quietly.

It wasn’t just the violence, it was the familiarity of it. The way the story followed the same old script. There was outrage online, hashtags bolding saying Bring Back Our Girls Again, a few press conferences, then silence. We still hadn’t recovered from Chibok, and the way our demand for those girls had been swallowed by bureaucracy.

What made it worse was knowing that some of the people responsible for “security decisions” didn’t even live in the country. Their children slept safely abroad while other people’s daughters paid the price.

So yes, I understood deeply why Ifeoluwa wanted no part in government optics.

But understanding didn’t change my job description.

I was supposed to get him.

By the time work ended, my head was heavy with conflict. I went into the restroom to switch up my look for my outing tonight. I applied lip gloss on my fading lipstick, put a light dust of powder on my face and swapped my earrings. 

It wasn’t supposed to be a date. I knew that.

But Prince Ifeoluwa was… literally royalty, and beyond that, something about him made it feel appropriate to always arrive fully on point.

I looked into the mirror, liked what I saw then stepped out of the restroom, and nearly collided with my boss.

He was standing right there.

Waiting.

“Good evening, sir,” I said, instinctively.

He looked at me like the evening had personally offended him.

“What exactly is good about it?”

I exhaled. “Sir, I’m trying. I’ve called. I’ve sent messages. On principle, he doesn’t want to do the interview.”

“And on principle,” my boss said sharply, “it’s your job to make him change his mind.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

“Set up a meeting,” he continued. “Go to his office. Take your ID. They won’t turn you away, you’re government-adjacent. You’ll find a way.”

He paused, then softened, just enough to show me we were on the same side.

“Besides,” he added, “aren’t you curious about him yourself? Imagine what landing this would do for you. You will travel with him to Katsina. You will have access. That’s networking, Grace.”

If only he knew.

If only he knew I didn’t need access to Prince Ifeoluwa. I already had his attention.

“I won’t give up, sir,” I said carefully. “I’ll keep trying.”

That seemed to satisfy him.

As he turned away, my phone buzzed.

Ifeoluwa:

How was your day?

I typed back quickly, said my goodbyes, and went to pick up my bag, assuming that he had arrived to pick me. However, before I reached the exit, another message came in.

Ifeoluwa:

I’m really sorry but something came up. There were lots of interviews today, and my father asked to see me. I have to go home. Can we take a rain check?

Disappointment settled quietly in my chest.

No problem at all, I replied. I understand.

I stepped outside the building.

A car was already waiting.

It was beautiful. Polished. Expensive in a way that didn’t scream for attention. Lagos had a way of humbling you daily with reminders of how much money existed just out of reach.

As I walked closer, a driver stepped out.

“Good evening, ma,” he said politely. “Prince asked me to take you home. Or wherever you need to go.”

I stopped.

“Really?,” I said. “He should not have bothered.”

He smiled. “He insists.”

I hesitated. This man’s kindness made me feel like I was always on the receiving side. Who taught him to be this thoughtful?

I got in.

The car moved.

My phone buzzed again.

Ifeoluwa:

I hope you’re not upset. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. I owe you a good evening.

I smiled faintly as I typed.

Me:

It’s fine. You’ve already done enough, you even sent someone to get me.

The reply came instantly.

Ifeoluwa:

I didn’t send anyone.

My heart stuttered.

I looked up at the driver. He met my eyes through the mirror and smiled again.

“Please,” I said slowly, “Prince Ifeoluwa did not send you. Who sent you?”

“Oh,” he replied casually. “Prince Adrian.”

My stomach dropped.

“Please stop the car,” I said immediately.

Instead of responding, he handed me a phone.

Adrian’s voice filled my ear.

“We didn’t kidnap you,” he said lightly. “I just wanted to offer you a ride.”

“Where to?” I asked, my voice tight.

“Home.”

“This is manipulation,” I snapped. “You lied. You let me believe—”

“Home is where I am,” he interrupted. “Why are you being difficult? Let me apologize properly. Let me treat you like a lady.”

I closed my eyes.

I was tired. This guy was impossible. I should have insisted that I wanted to be dropped off at the nearest bus stop but for some reason, I did not do that. Since I had already planned to see someone that evening, the universe had simply switched the cast, and it gave me a chance to give him a piece of my mind, and close the chapter of him in my life before it got a chance to begin.

“Fine,” I said eventually. “Take me to him.”

———————————————————————————————-—————————

As we drove into Adrian’s estate, I reached into my bag for my phone.

I hadn’t checked it since we left the office, mostly because I didn’t know how to explain who had sent the car. If Prince Ifeoluwa knew it was Adrian, it would irritate him, not out of jealousy, but because he already knew the kind of man Adrian was. And worse, he knew that I knew too.

There was a message waiting.

Ifeoluwa:

As long as you’re safe and okay, I won’t pressure you with a question you don’t want to answer now.

I hesitated, then replied.

Me:

I’m fine. A friend sent me a ride.

His response came almost immediately.

Ifeoluwa:

If you’re fine, then that’s okay. You’re a golden fish, everyone wants you.

I smiled despite myself.

He was the golden fish, whose attention made me feel chosen. Special. Desired.

So why was I allowing myself to be carried to Adrian’s place?

I pushed the thought away and typed back a simple thank you.

How is your dad? I added.

He’s well, he replied. I’m briefing him on the girls. We’re working on a welfare package for them before the government intervenes.

I barely had time to process that thought when the car slowed to a stop.

Adrian knocked on my window.

I sighed and stepped out.

He pulled me into a hug immediately.

My mind froze.

I shouldn’t be hugging him, I knew that. And yet, his shoulders were broad, solid, and smooth beneath the sleeveless vest he wore. His tan skin was so beautiful to touch, exuding easy strength. The kind of body that made your thoughts scatter before you could arrange them properly.

I liked him.

And I hated that I did.

When he finally released me, he smiled, and his smile told me he knew I had felt something.

“So you were just going to leave me like that?” he asked softly. “What do you think that does to me?”

“Adrian,” I said quickly, stepping back, “I’m going home. I only allowed the driver to bring me here out of respect. You can’t force yourself into someone’s life.”

He tilted his head. “Opposites attract.”

“No,” I replied. “Different standards don’t.”

He laughed and slid his arm around my shoulders anyway, guiding me toward the house. “Come on, baby. Let me take you in.”

“I can’t stay.”

“What are you afraid of?” he asked lightly. “Am I going to eat you?”

He moved closer, “I don’t bite. Except you want me to.”

I groaned. “Again with the innuendo. What is wrong with you?”

He just smiled and opened the front door.

“I’m not going into the house of a man I don’t know,” I said, stopping short.

“Wrong,” he replied calmly. “I’m a man you know, and don’t worry, we’re not alone. My house is always full.”

That gave me pause.

Against my better judgment, I followed him in.

Music thumped through the house. People lounged everywhere laughing, drinking, moving in and out of conversations like they belonged there. It felt like a party that had started long before I arrived and had no intention of ending.

As we entered, I noticed a woman seated across the room watching us. Her eyes stayed on me. Her expression tightened, sharp, displeased.

I leaned toward Adrian. “What is this?”

“Every other day is a party day,” he said casually. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“No,” I said immediately. “I’ll stay downstairs.”

“It’s noisy here,” he replied. “Upstairs is quiet. We can talk.”

Before I could argue further, he led me up. As soon as I sat, a waiter appeared with a glass.

“I don’t want juice,” I said. “Water is fine.”

“No, no,” Adrian waved him off. “This one is good for you.”

I frowned. “Why are you like this? You never ask what I want.”

“I know what’s good for you,” he said easily. “Just taste it.”

I was thirsty. So I did.

The drink was sweet,  orange juice, maybe, but something else lingered beneath it.

“This isn’t just juice,” I said. “There’s alcohol in it.”

He laughed. “How would you know? Do you drink?”

“No.”

“Exactly. So how do you know?”

“The smell,” I said.

“Ah,” he grinned. “It’s fine.”

I took another sip to be sure.

“You like it,” he said. “See? Nothing will happen to you.”

I set the glass down. “You’re not even pretending you’re not a bad boy.”

“What makes me bad?” he asked. “Because I enjoy life?”

He leaned back. “They say don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t do this, don’t do that. Where exactly is it written that we’ll be damned for enjoying ourselves?”

I didn’t answer.

“Do you eat smoky jollof?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said reluctantly.

“Exactly,” he smiled. “This is just that smokiness.”

He leaned closer. “Imagine a cigarette between your lips. Another world.”

“No,” I said firmly.

He shrugged. “Okay. Just drink.”

I hesitated. Then I drank again, because I had tasted the peppered turkey the waiter brought. It was delicious but very peppery.

“This is hot,” I said, fanning my mouth.

“Drink more,” he suggested.

I did.

Somewhere between the heat of the pepper and the sweetness of the drink, I noticed I was laughing more than I should have been.

It felt… unearned.

I couldn’t tell whether it was the alcohol or the mood, or how easy Adrian made everything seem. Conversations flowed without effort around him, as though nothing needed guarding.

“So how are you a prince?” I asked, smiling. “If your stepmother is the one related to Prince Ifeoluwa, then technically you’re not family.”

He grinned. “I’m a step-prince.”

I shook my head. “That’s not how reality works.”

He laughed.

I laughed too.

But even as the sound left my mouth, the room seemed to tilt. The music dulled, drifting farther away. My body felt heavier, less anchored to itself.

I leaned back before I realised I was doing it.

That was the last clear thought I remember.

——————————————————————————————————————————-

I woke slowly, unsure of where I was.

The room was dim, and unfamiliar. The bed beneath me was soft, too soft, and for a moment I wondered if I was still dreaming. I tried to roll over, to sit up, but my body felt delayed, like it was responding a second too late.

My elbow hit something hard.

A chair.

I lifted my head, and my eyes met Adrian’s.

I tried to speak. The words came out wrong, thick and slurred.

“Did you… did you drug me?”

He frowned, as though I’d insulted him. “Why would I do that?”

He gathered me into his arms before I could pull away. His body was warm, and he had removed the sleeveless vest. I noticed, dimly, that three buttons of my shirt were undone.

“Adrian,” I whispered. “What did you do to me?”

“Nothing,” he said calmly. “You’re just exhausted. You’ve had a long week. You need rest.”

“I want to go home.”

“This is home,” he replied easily.

A surge of panic cut through the fog. I shifted, checking myself, trying to make sure — trying to feel something that would confirm or deny my fear.

“You didn’t do anything to me?” I asked again.

His tone softened, almost wounded. “What do you take me for? A monster? I only wanted to take care of you. You like me. You held on to me when you arrived.”

He pulled me closer, my head against his chest. I tried to push him away, but my hand landed weakly against his body. I hated how comforting it felt.

When he leaned in again, I found my voice. “Adrian. Stop.”

“Why?” he murmured. “Why are you stopping me when you like it?”

His lips were close, too close.

The door opened.

Relief crashed through me so hard it almost hurt.

“What is wrong with you?” Adrian snapped at the woman who had walked in, the same one I’d noticed downstairs earlier, the one who had looked at me like I didn’t belong.

“Your phone has been ringing,” she said, facing me. “It’s disturbing everyone.”

“Let it ring.”

“No,” I said quickly. “I want my phone.”

She dropped my bag on the bed and left without a word.

“Don’t mind her,” Adrian said dismissively. “She’s stupid.”

The word landed hard.

Stupid.

That was exactly how I felt.

I forced myself upright. My legs trembled.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, guiding me back down gently. “Relax.”

Someone called his name from outside. Irritated, he left the room.

I reached for my bag with shaky hands.

Ten missed calls.

Three from my mother.

Two from Tolu.

Five from Ifeoluwa.

The time on my screen read 11:03 p.m.

I arrived here around six-thirty.

My chest tightened.

My phone rang again.

I picked up. “Ifeoluwa.”

“What’s wrong?” His voice was sharp with concern. “Why do you sound like this? Are you okay?”

“I’m not,” I whispered.

“Where are you?”

“I… I’m somewhere.”

“Send me your location,” he said immediately. “I’m coming to get you.”

“No,” I said quickly. “Please just send your driver. Don’t come by yourself.”

“If you don’t tell me where you are, I can’t help you.”

Tears spilled before I could stop them. “I’m ashamed.”

“Grace,” he said gently. “Send the location.”

I did.

The door opened.

“What are you doing?” Adrian demanded.

“Nothing,” I said.

He took the phone from my hand and placed it back in my bag. “You’re imagining things. You drank something and your body is reacting. I’m helping you.”

“Then why are my buttons open?”

“Because you were hot,” he said smoothly. “Check yourself, I haven’t touched you. Do you think I would force myself on a woman?”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, unsure why I was apologising.

He sighed. “I’m sorry too. You’re special, Grace. I don’t want to lose you.”

I felt trapped,  like everything was happening to me, not with me.

“Can I hold you?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Please.”

I didn’t have the strength to argue.

His hand rubbed slow circles on my back. My body betrayed me, relaxing despite my fear.

Someone came in with a cup of tea.

“This will help,” Adrian said.

“I don’t trust you,” I whispered.

“You’re breaking my heart,” he replied.

I drank it.

Sleep pulled me under again.

As he reached for my shirt, my phone vibrated from my bag. I reached for it. It was Ifeoluwa.

I answered.

“Grace”

Adrian took the phone and ended the call.

“You need to rest,” he said.

——————————————————————————————————————————-

Sleep pressed against my eyelids with a stubborn, almost physical force, dragging me toward it no matter how desperately I tried to stay awake. My body felt heavy, and unresponsive, as though it no longer belonged to me, and somewhere beyond the thick fog clouding my mind, raised voices began to bleed into my consciousness.

How long have I slept for? I didn’t know.

The voices were loud. Angry. Close enough that I could feel the vibration of them rather than fully understand the words at first.

A man spoke, sharp, irritated, and  unfamiliar. It wasn’t Adrian.

“You people do this every time. Party after party, noise without end. The whole estate is tired of it. I’m reporting you.”

Adrian’s laughter followed, easy and dismissive, the sound of someone who had never truly been challenged in his life.

“Report me to who?” he said, amusement curling lazily around each word. “Which authority wants to shut me down? Do you even know who I am?”

The other man scoffed, clearly unimpressed. “You and your nonsense. You this white boy, this is not your place.”

The laughter vanished.

“What do you mean it’s not my place?” Adrian snapped, his voice hardening. “My father is Nigerian. I’m as Nigerian as you are, maybe even more. I paid for this house and I’ll do whatever I want inside it.”

Something in my chest tightened painfully, a quiet warning I didn’t yet know how to name.

I reached instinctively for my phone.

My hand met empty space.

The haze thinned just enough for panic to surge through me. My heart began to pound as I searched the bed, the floor, the space beside me, then dragged my bag closer with trembling fingers. I rummaged through it blindly, growing more frantic with every second.

Nothing.

Oh God.

Footsteps echoed. A door slammed. The angry man was gone and the house seemed to shrink in on itself.

I started to hear voices again, near the entrance of the room.

It was a woman’s voice this time. “Time has gone, Adrian. Release this girl.”

“Mind your damn business.”

“I’m tired of your drama,” she shot back, unflinching. “If she hasn’t given you her consent, let her go.”

A bitter laugh answered her. “Am I holding a prisoner?” Adrian said. “Didn’t you see how she came here? Didn’t you see us hug?” His voice dipped, smug and confident. “She’s my girl. She wants me.”

My throat burned as though I had swallowed fire.

“There’s enough of me to go around,” he added casually, as though he were discussing nothing more serious than food or music.

A tear slid down my temple and disappeared into the pillow beneath my head.

How did I become this girl?

Was this how it happened, slowly, quietly, without a single dramatic moment to warn you? A trap that didn’t feel like one until you realized the doors had already closed.

The woman exhaled heavily. “I don’t want wahala.”

“I don’t pay you to question me,” Adrian snapped.

Then everything stopped.

The music didn’t fade.

It ended.

The sudden silence was so complete it felt violent. Adrian’s voice cut through it, sharp with irritation.

“Who turned off my music?”

No one answered.

But I felt it immediately, the shift in the air, the unmistakable weight of another presence entering the space. 

“Cousin,” Adrian said, his tone altering, defensive now. “What are you doing here?”

“Stop calling me that,” came Ifeoluwa’s voice, calm and warm at the same time. “We’re not related. Nothing connects us.”

“That’s your problem. We are associated through your Aunty.”

Ifeoluwa replied evenly. “I am not associated with you. Where is Grace?”

My heart lurched violently at the sound of my name.

I tried to sit up. I tried to stand.

My body refused me entirely.

“Did she tell you she was here?” Adrian scoffed. “Or are you just barging into my house?”

“Give me her phone,” I heard him say.

“She gave it to me,” Adrian whined.

“I won’t repeat myself.”

Something in Ifeoluwa’s voice caused the room to tighten, as though even the walls were listening. Adrian muttered something under his breath, then the door opened.

Light spilled into the room.

Ifeoluwa crossed the space quickly and dropped to his knees beside me. “Grace,” he said gently. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head, weak and disoriented. “I don’t know. I can’t stay awake. I took a drink. Something is wrong.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“Yes.”

Adrian appeared behind him. “She’s not going anywhere,” he said. “She drank something and her body reacted. I’m taking care of her.”

Ifeoluwa didn’t turn. “Can you walk?”

“No,” I whispered.

That was all he needed.

He lifted me effortlessly, holding me with a care that made my chest ache, and turned toward the door. Adrian cursed loudly behind us, but no one moved to stop him.

As we passed through the house, conversations died mid-sentence. Faces turned away, the space felt hollow, stripped of bravado now that the music was gone.

Outside, the night air hit my skin, cool and sharp, and my lungs expanded fully for the first time in hours.

At the car, the driver reached for me, but Ifeoluwa shook his head and placed me gently into the back seat himself.

“I don’t want your parents to see you like this,” he said quietly. “Can I take you to somewhere safe? My Aunty is there.”

I nodded. I really couldn’t go home like this.

“I’ll text my mum.”

“I’ve already handled it,” he said. “She knows you’re safe.”

I looked at him, emotion swelling painfully in my chest. “How are you… like this?”

He didn’t answer.

The door closed. The car pulled away.

And for the first time that night, I understood something clearly, even through the haze:

I was foolish to give another man a chance, when a man like Ifeoluwa had chosen me.

—————————————————————————————————————————-

Author’s Note

By now, it may be clear that Coming After You is more than a love story.

This is a story about choices.

About attraction versus discernment.

About what pulls us versus what protects us.

Grace’s journey isn’t meant to be watched from a distance, it’s meant to be felt. Many of us have stood where she stands, torn between what feels good and what is good.

I’ve shared more of the heart and symbolism behind this story in a short video, which I’d love for you to watch.

Click the link below to watch:

https://youtu.be/-vahFSNDQHQ?si=KjzvRxNjkaOzUG1-

Before you do, though, I’d really love to hear from you.

What did this episode stir in you?

And if you feel led to support the work we do, you may donate via –

1305932519

Providus Bank

Oaks of Righteousness

Thank you for reading, reflecting, and walking this journey with me.

Bolanle Oyindamola Jenrola