Amora Oronquo lived in a grand white mansion on Victoria Island, surrounded by guards, flowers, and a tall black gate that rarely opened for strangers. People noticed her wherever she went, not just because she was beautiful, but because she moved with quiet power. She was tall, light-skinned, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that almost never smiled. Her clothes were always designer, her outfits never repeated.
To outsiders, she looked untouchable, cold and proud. People whispered that she was heartless, that she had no family, no friends, no one she trusted. Since her husband Dyke died three years earlier, her life had been work, travel, and silence. She had no children. She came home to empty rooms and polished floors. That was the life she had accepted, until one rainy afternoon changed everything.
On a dark, stormy Thursday, Amora sat in the back of her black Range Rover while her driver, Caru, crawled through heavy Lagos traffic. Rain hammered the windshield, thunder rumbled in the distance, and the streets were full of people running for shelter. Amora checked her phone and saw a message from the board that her meeting had been moved to 5 p.m. She sighed and told Caru to use a slower route; she didn’t care how long it took. As they stopped at a…Read Full Story Here……………
