The city buzzed with its usual chaos—cars honking, people shouting, and the sun casting a golden filter over everything. Isabella tightened her worn red backpack against her shoulders as she weaved through the crowd outside the Lagos Island mall. Her sneakers were dusty, her camera secondhand, but her eyes—sharp, focused, alive—missed nothing.
The Lagos sun poured down like liquid fire, baking the streets and lighting up every window in gold. Isabella navigated the crowd outside the bustling Lagos Island mall, her worn-out sneakers skimming puddles from a morning rain. The heavy delivery bag on her back pulled at her shoulders, but she kept her head high, eyes scanning everything.
She wasn't just working. She was observing. Capturing.
Today was just another delivery shift. She worked part-time for a courier company, taking whatever jobs she could get. But deep down, photography was her escape. Her lens saw beauty where the world saw struggle.
Her secondhand Canon camera hung at her side like a trusted friend. It was scratched, missing a few buttons—but it still worked, and that was enough. Every time she lifted it to her eye, the world transformed. She didn't see noise. She saw stories and memories.
Just as she reached the entrance, something shifted.
A sleek matte-black BMW i8 rolled to a smooth stop by the curb, drawing a quiet hush from the surrounding crowd. The door lifted open, and out stepped a man who carried presence like armor.
A Tall striking man,Impeccably dressed in an all-black ensemble. Clean fade haircut. His skin gleamed like polished mahogany under the sun. He had that kind of face—sculpted jaw, sharp cheekbones, a subtle beard that outlined his rich chocolate skin perfectly. He wore sunglasses, but even they couldn't hide his aura. Cameras flashed. Whispers flew it is Demian people said.
His sunglasses hid his eyes, but his expression said enough—he wasn't here for attention.
But he had it anyway.
It was Demian Lawal—the Demian Lawal. Model. Billionaire. Private. Elusive. And absolutely uninterested in the world around him.
Even Isabella, who didn't care much for celebrities, knew his name. Billionaire. International model. Mysterious as a ghost. Rumors said he hated interviews and never stayed long in public. And yet, here he was—walking with the quiet confidence of a man who knew everyone was watching but didn't care.
And for just a second, Isabella's world stood still.
He paused by the car, checking his wristwatch. The sun hit him from the side, casting a gentle glow across his jawline. His brows furrowed slightly, lost in thought.
But something about the moment felt too perfect. The light. His pose. The tension in his jaw. Isabella instinctively lifted her camera. She didn't even think
Instinctively, she raised her camera. Her fingers knew the angle before her mind caught up.
Click.
One shot.
Just one.
But it was perfect.
And then he turned.
Their eyes locked.
Isabella's heart slammed into her ribs. Demian took a slow step forward, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Did you just take a picture of me?" His voice was low and clear, with the kind of tone that could freeze time.
"You think because I'm in the spotlight, I'm public property?" he cut in.....
Walking toward her.
She swallowed hard. "I—I didn't mean to. It was… just instinct. I'm a photographer."
"A photographer?" His brows arched above the frame of his sunglasses. "Freelancer?"
"Something like that," she replied quietly, suddenly aware of how rough her clothes looked next to his crisp designer outfit.
People were watching now. Isabella clutched her camera, heartbeat racing. "I wasn't trying to invade your privacy. It was just… a beautiful shot."
He stepped closer, and she caught the scent of expensive cologne—earthy, clean, impossible to ignore.
Demian paused in front of her, close enough to make her knees weak. "Beautiful, huh?"
"Let me see it," he said.
She hesitated.
Then, slowly, she turned the screen toward him.
He studied it.
For a moment, his expression didn't change. But then… something flickered in his eyes. A softness. A memory. Maybe even a piece of himself he hadn't seen in a long time.
"This is good," he murmured. "Too good."
"Thank you," she whispered.
Without warning, he took the camera gently from her and pointed it at her.
"What are you doing?"
"Returning the favor."
Click.
He handed it back.
She looked at the screen.
There she was—caught in that moment of surprise, a gentle breeze pushing her braids back, light dancing in her wide eyes.
Isabella had never seen herself that way before. Like she mattered.
Demian nodded slightly, as if that was all he needed. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black wallet.
He looked up at her. "What's your name?"
"Isabella."
"Isabella," he repeated, as if testing how it felt on his tongue.
"Now we're even."
"Here," he said, drawing out a bundle of crisp naira notes. "For the photo. Or the moment."
She blinked, stunned. "I don't want your money."
He smirked. "I didn't ask if you wanted it."
She shook her head. "I take pictures because I feel them. Not because I'm looking for a tip."
He looked like he wanted to argue, but then she took a quick step back, nervous from the attention gathering around them.
"I have a delivery to make now," she mumbled.
"Hey,hey,wait—" he called, stepping forward again.
But she was already gone.
He turned sharply, scanning the crowd. No sign of the red sling bag. No glimpse of her braids. She'd vanished into the sea of faces like she'd never been there.
Demian stood still for a long moment, the money still in his hand.
For a man used to being chased, begged, and adored… he wasn't sure how to react to being walked away from.
He stared at the camera screen again, at the photo of the girl with fire in her eyes and freedom in her smile.
"Isabella," he muttered.
And for the first time in years, Demian Lawal was curious.