The door clicked shut behind him, sealing out the flashing cameras and chaos of the outside world. Demian exhaled deeply, his penthouse silent except for the hum of the AC and the distant echo of bass-heavy music.
"Maxon!" he called as he tossed his car keys into a silver bowl by the wall.
There was no reply—just the sound of gunshots and explosions echoing from the living room.
Demian stepped further in and found his younger brother sprawled across the leather couch in the living room, a PlayStation controller in hand, a bowl of plantain chips and chilled bottle water beside him, and Call of Duty blaring on the flat screen.
Maxon Lawal was twenty-three, tall like his brother but less intimidating. He had lighter skin, a boyish face, and wild, soft dreadlocks that refused to stay in one direction. Dressed in basketball shorts, a white tank top, and fuzzy slides, he looked nothing like the heir to a billionaire family name.
"I see you're doing what you do best," Demian said, folding his sleeves as he walked past.
Maxon didn't glance up. "Winning?"
"Wasting time," Demian muttered.
Maxon chuckled, pausing his game. "Hey, bro. Didn't know you would be home this early, did the world end or did you finally punch a paparazzi in the throat?"
. The mighty Demian Lawal, fashion god and camera-shy billionaire. You finally fired your driver?"
"I drove myself," Demian said, heading straight to the bar for a glass of sparkling water.
Maxon smirked. "That means something happened."
Demian paused. "What makes you think that?"
"Because you only drive when you want to clear your head."
"I need a shower," Demian muttered, ignoring the joke.
"Cool. I'll be here… saving the world one mission at a time."
Demian climbed the spiral staircase to the second floor, his footsteps echoing slightly. The master bedroom welcomed him with silence and the familiar scent of expensive wood polish and cologne. He walked into the bathroom, letting the warm water rinse away the chaos of the morning—but it couldn't wash away her face.
Isabella.
That name. That moment.
By the time he stepped out, dressed in a fresh black T-shirt and tailored sweatpants, his hair slightly damp, his thoughts were still looping in the same circle.
Downstairs, the scent of hot pizza hit his nose. Maxon had raided the kitchen again. Demian walked to the dining table where his brother had set down a large box of pepperoni pizza, two glasses, and a chilled bottle of Coke.
"Hungry?" Maxon offered, mouth already full.
Demian said nothing at first. He poured himself a glass, took a bite, and leaned back in the chair across from his brother.
Maxon gave him a side-eye. "You good?"
"I met someone," Demian finally said, his voice calm—but distant.
Maxon paused mid-chew. "You met someone? As in… a woman? A stranger? You actually talked to a civilian?"
Demian ignored the sarcasm. "At the mall."
Maxon dropped his slice dramatically. "This is already my favorite story. Continue."
"She was outside. Red backpack. Worn-out sneakers. Looked like she hadn't slept much. But she had a camera."
"Oh lord," Maxon muttered, sitting up.
"She took my photo."
"She what?"
Maxon blinked. "Wait, you let someone take a picture of you? Voluntarily?"
"I didn't notice until I heard the click. When I asked, she said it was instinct. That she's a photographer."
"And you didn't sue her?"
Demian rolled his eyes. "It wasn't like that. She wasn't paparazzi. Just… this girl. With a worn-out red backpack. Dusty sneakers. But she looked at me like I wasn't Demian Lawal, just… a guy standing in good light."
Maxon whistled low. "You're either in love or losing your mind."
Demian smirked. "She took one shot. It was perfect. Then I took a picture of her."
Maxon stood, walking closer. "Okay, now I know you're losing it."
"I tried to give her money."
"And?"
"She refused. Said she takes pictures because she feels them. Then she disappeared into the crowd."
Maxon stared at him. "Wait—so you're telling me, this mystery girl schooled you, humbled you, and then ghosted you… all before lunch?"
Demian laughed softly. "Pretty much."
"And you didn't even get her number?"
"yes I didn't ."
"Let me guess. You yelled, demanded her SD card, and banned her from Lagos. Maxon said
Demian shook his head no I didn't. "I looked at the photo. It was… perfect."
Maxon froze. "You mean, you liked a photo of yourself?"
Demian nodded slowly. "It didn't feel staged. It felt like… me."
Maxon leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Okay, who is she?"
"Her name is Isabella. She refused money. Said she takes pictures because she feels them, not because she's looking for tips. Then she vanished."
Maxon leaned on the counter, amused. "And now you're pacing the house, haunted by a girl who refused your money. This is the content I signed up for."
Demian turned his phone over in his palm. "I don't know why it's bothering me."
"Because she didn't want anything from you," Maxon said. "No clout. No cash. Just a moment."
Demian nodded, silent.
Maxon walked to the fridge, pulled out another drink, and cracked it open. "So what's next? You hunting her down?"
Demian's eyes narrowed. "Maybe."
Maxon laughed. "You? Mr. Untouchable? Doing a city-wide search for a poor photographer? That's a movie I'd pay to see."
"Hey she is not poor. She's not just a photographer," Demian murmured, pulling the image up on his camera again. "She's something else."
Maxon leaned over to look. His smile faded.
"Damn," he muttered. "She's beautiful. Real."
Demian's jaw tightened slightly. "I'm going to find her."
"Then what?" Maxon asked.
Demian looked out the window again. "I don't know yet."
But deep down, he did know.
He just wasn't ready to admit it.
Maxon blinked. "Bro… are you in love?"
Demian didn't answer.
He was staring at the image again on his camera screen, one hand resting beside his untouched slice of pizza.
Isabella. The
girl who didn't want anything from him. Who didn't even pause to bask in his attention.
She simply… disappeared.
And left him haunted.