Arike:Yoruba demon

Jadelola Adebayo.
She wasn't royalty. She wasn't billionaire-born. But she was brilliant with her hands, her designs slipping across Lagos society like silk - literally.
She told herself it was only business. She told herself she would present the sketches, bow politely, and leave. But destiny has a way of rearranging careful plans.
Because somewhere in the palace, descending from his own convoy with the slow arrogance of a man who had never been denied, was Prince Damilola Damien Adediran.
And when his path collided with hers, Lagos itself seemed to pause.
The city would remember their story.
The blogs would feast on whispers of it.
But in this moment, the world had no idea.
All that existed was the dangerous pull between a woman who thought herself safe within marriage, and the Prince who had already chosen her - the one he would name Arike.
She scowled, though her pulse betrayed her. "I told you before. I'm married. I don't belong to you."

He stepped closer, closing the distance in unhurried strides until her back grazed the wall. His hand lifted, not touching, just hovering by her cheek. "Say it again, Arike. Louder this time. Maybe then I'll believe you."

Her breath caught. "You're shameless."

"Mm." His grin widened, vulgar and beautiful all at once. "Shameless enough to imagine what your lips taste like when you're angry. Shameless enough to want to hear you gasp my name the way you're gasping now."

"Stop." Her palms pressed against his chest. Firm muscle beneath the fabric. Too warm. Too alive.

He groaned, deep and rough, the sound vibrating under her touch. "Every time you touch me, Arike, you make it worse. Do you know that?"

"I'm not-" she stammered, but he cut her off, voice dipping lower.

"You think I don't see the way your pulse jumps when I look at you? The way you bite your lip when you're trying to hold back? Don't lie to me, ìfé mi. Your body betrays you