I named my Employee of the Year award after him.

Not officially, of course. HR would’ve had a stroke. But in my head—and sometimes, on the sticky note tucked inside my planner—it read: For Benson Enoh. For when he finally notices you.

I adjust my blazer in the bathroom mirror on the twenty-second floor of Trive Towers, smoothing invisible creases like my life depends on it. Navy blue. Sharp cut. Lagos heat be damned. If I’m going to be invisible, I’ll at least be unforgettable while doing it.

“Ada, you’re doing too much,” I mutter to my reflection.

My reflection rolls her eyes back at me.

Three years. That’s how long I’ve worked at Trive. Three years of staying late when everyone else fled Third Mainland traffic, three years of volunteering for tasks no one wanted, three years of perfect reports and quiet excellence. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t linger. I didn’t embarrass myself. I only strategized.

My phone vibrates against the sink.

MOM: Have you seen the new list I sent? This one is better. The men are more serious.

I groan softly and lock my phone without replying. If I open it, I’ll spiral. Last week’s “list” included a widower with three children and a man who asked if I could cook egusi soup without oil. I’m twenty-four, not desperate. At least, not in the way she thinks.

I step out of the bathroom and into the open-plan office, where the air hums with pre-presentation nerves and the soft clacking of keyboards. Glass walls everywhere. Power on display. Trive doesn’t just look successful—it looks expensive.

Lovelyn is perched on my desk, chewing gum and scrolling through her phone like she owns the place.

“You look like you’re about to defend a thesis,” she says, glancing up. “Or seduce someone.”

“Why not both?” I drop my bag and power on my laptop. “If this presentation doesn’t get me promoted, I’ll fake my death and start fresh in Ibadan.”

Lovelyn snorts. “Relax. You’ve eaten this project raw. If they don’t promote you, it’s because the devil is real and he’s on the board.”

I smile despite myself. Lovelyn has that effect. She’s my anchor. My chosen family. The only person who knows the full extent of my… fixation.

She leans closer. “Is he here?”

I don’t have to ask who he is.

“Yes,” I say, too quickly. Then, correcting myself, “I mean, I think so. His car was downstairs.”

Lovelyn grins. “God forbid a woman should dream.”

Before I can respond, the office doors slide open, and the atmosphere shifts—subtle but unmistakable. Conversations dim. Chairs straighten.

Benson Enoh walks in.

He doesn’t announce himself. He never does. He doesn’t need to. Tall, composed, dark suit like it was sewn onto him by destiny itself. His expression is neutral, bordering on unreadable, and somehow that makes people want his approval even more.

I’ve watched this man for three years and still don’t have him figured out.

He nods at a few executives, murmurs a greeting, then disappears into the boardroom. Not once does he look in my direction.

Good, I tell myself. Focus. This is about work.

The presentation starts at ten sharp. By ten thirty, I’m in my element.

The screen behind me glows with data I know like muscle memory. My voice is steady. Confident. I answer questions without fumbling, pivot when challenged, and hold my ground without arrogance. The room listens.

Even him.

I don’t look at Benson directly—not until the end. But I feel it. His attention, finally anchored on me. Measuring. Assessing.

When I finish, there’s a pause. A heartbeat. Then nods. Murmurs. Approval.

“Excellent work,” the COO says. “This project exceeded expectations.”

Relief floods me, warm and dizzying. Then Benson speaks.

“Miss Thompson.”

My spine straightens like I’ve been called to the principal’s office.

“Yes, sir.”

He studies me for a moment—really studies me—and for the first time in three years, I don’t feel like background noise.

“You demonstrated leadership,” he says. “Clarity. Vision. That’s not easy to come by.”

It’s not a smile, but something softer flickers in his eyes.

“Well done.”

That’s it. That’s all. But it feels like everything.

The meeting wraps up shortly after. As people file out, Lovelyn grabs my arm.

“You did it,” she whispers fiercely. “You ate.”

I laugh, breathless. “Don’t jinx it.”

By noon, the email comes through.

SUBJECT: Promotion Update

Congratulations, Ada Thompson. Effective immediately, you will be stepping into the role of Project Manager.

I stare at the screen, heart pounding. Three years. Strategy rewarded.

Cheers erupt around me as Lovelyn squeals loud enough to alert security. Someone claps me on the back. Someone else promises drinks.

And then—like the universe refusing to let me have anything in peace—my phone rings.

My mother.

I step into an empty conference room and answer, already tired.

“Ada,” she says, breathless with excitement. “I heard good news!”

“How—”

“Mrs. Okeke from church saw your name on LinkedIn. Project Manager! God is faithful.”

I smile despite myself. “Thank you, Mom.”

“And now that your career is settled,” she continues smoothly, “we can focus on the other thing.”

Here we go.

“I sent you another list. This one includes Cole Ade. He owns three companies.”

I close my eyes. “Mother—”

“You cannot be working under men forever. A woman must be chosen.”

I hang up before I say something I can’t take back. When I step back into the office, I nearly collide with Benson himself.

“Sorry,” I blurt.

He pauses. Looks at me. Up close, he smells like clean soap and quiet authority.

“No harm done,” he says. Then, after a beat, “Congratulations on your promotion.”

My heart stumbles.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I expect great things from you,” he adds, voice low. Intent.

And just like that, as he walks away, I realize something has shifted.

He didn’t just notice me, he acknowledged me!