She hoped to catch a big fish, but ended up catching a billionaire—twist of fate

“Okay, maybe two. One for me, one for Mama.”

She cast the net into the sea with a dramatic spin that almost made her lose balance.

“Ah!” she shouted, steadying herself. “If I fall into the water today, I will just relocate permanently.”

She stood still, watching the ripples, waiting, hoping, dreaming.

Back in the village, the girls were still talking.

“Do you think she will ever change?”

“Change to what? Wig and gossip? She is too stubborn.”

Another girl, quieter than the rest, spoke softly.

“But she is brave.”

They all looked at her. She shrugged.

“Not everybody can ignore what people say like that.”

Silence.

Then one scoffed.

“Brave or not, fish cannot marry her.”

If Fumi’s world was noise, salt, and survival, Henry Yelli’s world was silence, glass, and control.

His mansion in Lagos did not just stand tall. It announced itself. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls reflected the skyline like a mirror of power. Italian marble floors stretched endlessly, polished so perfectly you could almost see your future in them, if you had one. Gold accent lighting glowed softly, as if even the electricity in the house had been trained to behave.

This was not a house.

This was a statement.

And right in the center of it sat Henry Yelli—calm, composed, expensive.

He leaned back on a cream leather sofa, dressed in a perfectly tailored dark outfit that looked as if it had its own bank account. A glass of wine rested in his hand, untouched for several minutes, not because he forgot, but because his mind was elsewhere—always working, always calculating, always building.

Across from him stood his assistant, tablet in hand, already sweating slightly because working for Henry required both intelligence and emotional strength.

“Sir,” the assistant began carefully, “the quarterly report from the coastal suppliers just came in.”

Henry did not look up.

“And?”

“They exceeded projections by thirty percent.”

Now, that caught his attention. He raised an eyebrow slowly.

“Thirty percent?” he repeated.

“Yes, sir. The island fishermen. Very consistent supply. High quality too.”

Henry finally sipped his wine.

“Hm.”

A pause.

Then he stood up—not rushed, not dramatic. Just decided.

“Prepare the yacht.”

The assistant blinked.

“Sir?”

“I want to see them personally.”

Henry looked at him. That look—the one that made people remember their job description immediately.

“Yes. Personally.”

The assistant straightened.

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Immediately, sir.”

As he rushed out, Henry muttered under his breath,