While executives in glass towers recalculated, or labels refreshed dashboards and assistants sent "urgent follow-ups," Dayo was nowhere near a boardroom.
He was at the airport.
Night flights always carried a different kind of energy softer, less chaotic, more intimate. The terminal lights reflected off polished floors as travelers moved in steady streams toward departure gates. Security lines hummed. Announcements echoed overhead.
And in the middle of it, Deborah was vibrating with excitement.
"Finally!" she almost shouted, spinning once in place before Sharon gently caught her by the shoulder. "We're actually going!"
Janet laughed beside her, trying to act composed but failing miserably. "You've said that five times already."
"I don't care!" Deborah replied. "It's Nigeria!"
Dayo stood a few steps behind them, watching.
For a moment, the industry didn't exist.
Not the calls. Not the pressure. Not Michael. Not the shadows.
Just this.
