Three months later, the Lagos sun greeted Zaria like an old friend.
The heat clung to her skin. The smell of roasted corn, exhaust fumes, and sea salt drifted through the air as she stepped off the plane with Amara nestled in her arms. Darius walked beside them, bags slung over his shoulder, shielding both mother and daughter from the curious gaze of airport onlookers.
She was no longer just Zaria Okonkwo.
She was Zaria Amara Okonkwo—mother, CEO, survivor, leader.
And she was home.
Okonkwo Industries had changed in her absence.
Not just in name—but in spirit.
The headquarters now had a mural in the main lobby: a portrait of Nnenna, Zaria's late mother, smiling in bold strokes of red, gold, and brown. Beneath the image, the words:
"Where she stood, we stand."
Zaria's first day back was marked by a press conference. But this time, she didn't wear borrowed confidence. She stepped onto the podium in a simple, flowing Ankara gown, baby Amara swaddled on her back, and spoke not just to the cameras—but to every girl watching from the dusty corners of Nigeria, from classrooms, from markets, from places the world rarely looked.
"I was once told that I had no name. No future. No worth. But the same soil that was meant to bury me became the ground I grew from. I stand here not just as a leader—but as proof that women—African women—can rise. Can rule. Can mother and manage. Can carry both a nation and a child in the same breath."
The applause rang out long after she left the stage.
In the weeks that followed, Zaria moved differently.
She balanced board meetings with breastfeeding schedules.
She closed million-dollar deals in the morning and read bedtime stories at night.
She launched the Amara Foundation for Young Mothers—a non-profit focused on helping pregnant teenagers and single mums complete their education and start businesses.
She even forgave Kemi—quietly, privately. Not because the pain had vanished, but because healing demanded it.
Tari sent a photo of a book he published, dedicating a chapter to "the strongest girl I ever knew."
Even Ayo, now stripped of power and living in exile in Dubai, sent an email with a single sentence:
"I underestimated you."
She never replied.
On the day of Amara's naming ceremony, they held a celebration in Surulere.
Zaria stood in the same compound where she and her mother once slept under leaking zinc roofing. Now the walls were painted, the roof redone. Music played from rented speakers. Aunties danced. Children ate jollof rice with greasy fingers. Old neighbours took turns cuddling Amara.
Darius held Zaria's waist as they stood by the door, watching it all.
"Look at what we've built," he whispered.
She leaned into him, smiling. "From nothing."
"No," he said, kissing her forehead. "From everything you carried."
As the sun dipped behind the buildings, Zaria lifted her daughter into the air.
Amara giggled, face lit with joy.
And Zaria knew, deep in her bones, that the story was only just beginning.
Because she had carried the billionaire's baby…
But now?
Now she carried the future.