NOVPUBThe morning light poured gently through the sheer curtains of the penthouse suite at The George Hotel, Ikoyi, Lagos . The elegance of the space was matched only by its occupant: Alexander Blackwell, seated in a chair of deep mahogany leather, dressed in a tailored black suit that blended effortlessly with the shadows. The room hummed with quiet luxury—from the custom Persian rug beneath his feet to the whisper of a distant fountain outside his balcony. Silence reigned, yet every object, every breath, every pause felt deliberate. Calculated. Like everything else in Alexander’s world.
Sebastian, his ever-present butler, stood a few feet away. Polished as always, his hands behind his back, wearing a composed expression that had served him well over the years. He had seen wars waged from boardrooms and watched empires crumble over brunch. Yet, nothing ever rattled him—except, perhaps, the man seated before him.
Alexander’s voice broke the silence. "What of Evelyn?"
Sebastian nodded slowly. "She is doing well, sir. The shares are moving as expected. There have been a few hiccups—some predictable resistance from other holders—but overall, it is proceeding exactly as planned."
Alexander’s gaze lingered on a small glass figurine on the coffee table, his tone unreadable. "Good."
A moment passed. Then, Alexander looked up again, his eyes darker than usual.
"What about the other matter? Down there. Is he ready?"
Sebastian’s expression shifted. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, and his voice lowered. "Yes. He is in place already. Once she is done selling the shares completely, he will begin."
Alexander gave a small, near-imperceptible nod.
Though the court ruling weeks prior had made global headlines—an aggressive decision that sought to dismantle Alexander’s hold over his American market shares—many assumed he would retreat. But Alexander Blackwell did not retreat. He recalibrated. And now, his fingers moved like a maestro conducting an unseen orchestra.
There were three stages to his plan. Three precise, calculated layers.
Sebastian closed his eyes briefly, recalling the moment the entire plot was formed. It had come to Alexander in one sitting. Not a week of deliberation, no war-room strategy sessions. One conversation. One blueprint. One mind.
The first move had been Evelyn. The court had ordered them to liquidate the shares within ninety days. But in its arrogance, the court never specified to whom the shares had to be sold. So, before the gavel had even cooled, Blackwell Investments had entered a strategic partnership with a rising foreign firm—a company funded by an overzealous Saudi prince desperate to expand his nation’s economic footprint.
The prince had been more than eager, more than thrilled to offer a purchase price even a dollar above market value—a calculated overbid to edge out competition and secure his country’s presence in one of the most influential investment platforms on the planet.
It was a textbook trap — only it wasn’t Nathaniel Rockefeller who sprung it. He had been tanking the companies, sowing doubt, and quietly buying up shares, thinking he’d control the board once the dust settled. But Alexander had been watching. Calculating. And just when Nathaniel thought he held all the cards, Alexander flipped the table. He let the chaos unfold — then stepped in at the perfect moment. Demand surged. Supply evaporated. Prices soared. The short-sellers panicked, scrambling to recover. Nathaniel’s strategy had worked — just not for him. It had handed Alexander exactly what he wanted.
And by law—the same law they once twisted in their favor—any public bidding above the minimum threshold had to be considered. The prince’s overbidding caused a frenzy, and other bidders began submitting even higher offers. The irony? The court couldn’t intervene, not without breaching its own conditions.
The share price stabilized at nearly ten dollars above previous market value. Alexander had turned their win into a pyrrhic victory.
But that wasn’t the true brilliance of the move.
No, the real play lay in what came next.
The prince, in his ambition and national pride, would spend upwards of four hundred to five hundred billion dollars by the time the dust settled. An amount vast enough to raise eyebrows even in Riyadh.
And then came the next act.
Saudi Arabia was undergoing sweeping economic transformations. With oil expansion projects planned across the next weeks and months and infrastructure requiring deep financing, even a kingdom of wealth could find itself momentarily overstretched.
That’s when the Blackwells would strike again.
With billions now made liquid from the share sales, Alexander would offer to co-finance major projects within the kingdom. Under the guise of friendship. Of goodwill. Of partnership.
"The prince looks outward," Sebastian thought, watching his master, "but Alexander... Alexander will look inward."
Like a slow, encroaching fog, Blackwell Investments would embed itself into the very veins of Saudi commerce. Into their banks, their construction firms, their telecoms, their ports. By the time the prince looked back, it would be too late.
Because Alexander Blackwell did not do partnerships.
Not with law firms. Not with rivals. And not with sovereign states.
Saudi Arabia was just another line in a very long ledger.
The second layer of the plan was brilliant in its own right. But the third? The third was madness. Genius. Complexity wrapped in obscurity. And it was not Alexander who handled it.
It was Him.
This plan was veiled in more layers than the others. The only clear directive? That by the end of it, Blackwell Investments would pay zero taxes on the share sales.
Zero.
No capital gains. No transfer tax. No overseas levies. Not even inheritance exposure.
A structure so complicated it had to run through a shell company inside another shell, inside a tax-neutral zone, using a financial instrument not even taught in Ivy League schools.
It would be buried under charitable funds, art donations, and heritage trusts.
"The blood would be washed with silk," Sebastian thought, marveling at the cruelty. "Every drop of ink on those contracts a dagger to the world’s conscience."
That was the kind of mind Alexander had.
And the world would applaud.
The final stage? Oil shorting. Ruthless. Indiscriminate. The very essence of financial warfare.
Alexander had issued the order himself: once the money came in, there would be no pause, no delay. Every analyst, every strategist, every risk manager at Blackwell Investments had received the same internal memo. Simple. Direct.
Short The Oil.
The firm would move to exploit price collapses in underdeveloped oil markets, benefiting from insider hedges and regional unrest. There would be losers. There would be blood.
But for now, Alexander sat back.
He had delegated. He had built the machine.
And he trusted his machine.
Sebastian watched him in silence. Despite all the chaos unfolding in boardrooms, the lawsuits, the threats, the journalists clawing for truth, Alexander remained... still.
His eyes were elsewhere now.
What Alexander had once referred to as a "test of human nature."
He observed the subject intently. Someone ordinary. Someone unaware.
"The true games," Alexander had once said, "are not played in courtrooms or stock exchanges. They are played in the human heart."
Sebastian had never asked who the subject was. He did not need to. He had served his master long enough to know:
Everything had a reason.
And everyone had a role.
Even if they didn’t yet know it.
Then for the next chapter show
"We’re from the Nigeria Police Force," the man said coolly, badge flashing. "We’re here to arrest him."
The words hit the room like a dropped thunderbolt.
In that instant, a jolt shot through all four boys’ bodies.
They all stiffened, instincts clashing with adrenaline, but none more than Kunle—who stood rooted in place, his heart pounding like war drums.
Only one thought cut through his stunned silence.
"Ehn? Arrest me? For what? Me?"
His brain scrambled, struggling to process. The room echoed around him like he wasn’t even there anymore.
But while Kunle stood frozen in shock, his three friends—more seasoned, more experienced with these kinds of dealings—reacted on impulse.
Samuel laughed first, almost too casually. "Police?" he said, chuckling as he strolled forward, hands open, acting like this was all a comedy sketch. "What did we do again now, or did you just miss the house?"
"Officer, I hope you didn’t come to collect our noodles," Chijioke added, grinning, already drifting sideways.
While their mouths moved, their legs did the work.
As Samuel approached the officers, his right foot subtly pushed a phone toward the shadows under the couch. Another one—Flex—arched his body as though stretching, using his heel to roll a second phone behind a pile of clothes. Chijioke shifted near the corner of the bed, sweeping a blinking device beneath it with the side of his foot.
Samuel clapped his hands. "Alright then, what happened? Who are you looking for?"
One of the officers folded his arms. "No time for all this rubbish. We’re looking for someone. His name is Kunle. He just needs to come to the station to answer some questions."
The atmosphere thinned like smoke. Kunle’s breathing quickened.
Samuel, without skipping a beat, shrugged. "Ah. Kunle isn’t here."
The cops stared in disbelief.
"You are lying," one officer snapped, voice rising. "Who is Kunle?!"
"Officer!" Flex exclaimed, "Why would I lie to the police? Kunle isn’t here. He went to buy something from Mama Sekinat’s store just now. He might come back soon."
Another joined in, voice just as smooth. "He didn’t even tell us what he went to buy. It might be a soft drink."
The officers exchanged glances.
"Are you boys sure you’re not lying? You know it’s a crime to lie to a police officer," one said coldly, eyes narrowing. "If we find out, we’ll carry all of you."
"Lie? Us?" Chijioke said, hand to chest like he was offended. "God forbid, officer. None of us is Kunle."
"I’m Flex," Flex added quickly.
"Samuel," Samuel said with a grin.
"Chijioke," the last supplied.
Their voices rang in succession. But Kunle… Kunle said nothing.
He just stood, back near the window, his fingers twitching slightly.
One officer’s gaze swept the room. Then it landed squarely on him.
"And you?" he asked sharply.
Kunle’s mouth twitched. His lips parted into a forced smile. His voice, when it came, was thin.
"M-me? I’m not Kunle my name is j-john."
Samuel opened his mouth to speak, but the officer gave him a look that shut him up instantly.
The officer nodded slowly. "Okay. We’ll leave our number. When Kunle comes, just call us. We just want to ask him some questions."
"No problem sir," Samuel said, reaching forward to take the card. "We will call."
The officers left, heavy boots echoing down the corridor.
Samuel locked the door tight.
Silence.
Then all heads turned to Kunle.
"Guy, what did you do?" Chijioke asked. "Why are the police looking for you?"
"I don’t know," Kunle whispered. "What is all this?"
He was sweating now, the panic written on his face. "I swear I didn’t do anything."
Flex shook his head. "This place is hot now. We need to get you out. Use the window, go through the back."
Kunle nodded quickly and moved to the window. He lifted one leg out, half in, half out.
Then the door BURST open again—BANG!
"THAT’S HIM!" one officer roared. "GRAB HIM!"
Kunle didn’t even scream—his breath just left his lungs. Hands grabbed him by the waist, shirt, legs—he thrashed, screaming, "NO! LEAVE ME! I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!!"
They dragged him through the tight hallway of the face-me-I-face-you compound. Screaming. Shouting. Metal buckets flew, someone dropped a pot of rice. Doors slammed open.
Old Pa Adeyemi, the landlord, rushed out, wrapper flying.
"AHHH! KUNLE?! No! Not Kunle! You’re taking the wrong person! It’s those three boys I always warn—it’s them!"
The three boys froze.
"Wait, what is this man saying?" Flex muttered.
"Your mouth will get someone killed," Chijioke said, glaring at the landlord.
"What are you talking about, Baba?" Samuel snapped.
"Don’t take the wrong child!" the landlord yelled.
Then Sandra appeared, barefoot, wrapper barely tied, screaming. "KUNLE!!!"
She pushed through the crowd, eyes wide. "Where are you taking him?!"
"Babe!" Kunle shouted, blood on his lip now from struggling. "Tell them! Tell them I didn’t do anything!"
"Leave him alone!" Sandra shouted, punching one of the officers. "He didn’t do anything!!"
"Madam step back or we’ll arrest you too!" one officer barked.
"Are you mad?! Leave my man!" she screamed, tears flooding her cheeks.
The crowd swelled. Phones came out. Neighbors shouted. Kids cried. Pots fell. One woman started praying in tongues.
And in the middle of it, Kunle’s voice rose one last time.
"JUST HELP ME TAKE CARE OF MY MOTHER!!"
Then—slam.
The door of the police van shut.
Sandra beat the vehicle with her fists, screaming his name as it pulled away. The van drove off, its siren silent but its presence deafening. All that remained behind was dust, confusion, and the eyes of the street staring, wide and unblinking.
This was the spark. The shift. The beginning.An arrest wrapped in laughter, lies, and panic…soon to snowball into something far beyond what anyone imagined.
And Alexander’s observation of human nature… had just begun.
