Story Description for Bride for Hire:Blurb:She needed ₦500,000 to save her auntie. He needed a fake wife to stay in Canada.Chinaza Okafor said yes to a 48-hour fake marriage she thought would be easy. Wear white, smile, take pictures, sign an NDA, walk away.But when Canada Immigration calls, lies get messy. When family pressure hits, pretending gets harder. And when the lines between fake and real start blurring… walking away might cost her more than money.A fast, emotional Nigerian romance about survival, pride, and falling for the one person you swore you’d never want.

BEHIND THE SCENE:THE LECTURER’S SECRETCHAPTER 1: The 180 That Wasn’t HersThe CBT centre in Eastern Nigeria smelled like burnt plastic and panic. Ada Okoro’s slippers stuck to the floor as she pushed through the crowd of 2026 JAMB candidates. Some were screaming. Some were praying. One boy was vomiting behind the water tank. Results had dropped at 11:00 AM. It was now 11:03 AM and futures were already dying. Her phone shook in her hand. 3% battery. She’d been up since 4 AM, refreshing the JAMB portal on her mother’s small Itel phone. The network was so bad she had to climb the mango tree in their compound to get one bar. A neighbour’s goat ate her Chemistry textbook while she was up there. CANDIDATE: OKORO, ADA CHIOMA REG NO: 202561234567BAUTME SCORE:Loading. Loading. Loading. God, please. Her mother sold her last two wrappers. ₦15,000. Her father sold the goat that was meant for Christmas. ₦40,000. The pastor said fasting works. She fasted for 7 days. Water only. She fainted in Physics class on day 5. UTME SCORE: 180 The number hit her chest like a physical punch. 180. One. Eight. Zero. Medicine & Surgery at Federal University of Eastern Nigeria needed 320 minimum. Cut-off last year was 328. Her lesson teacher, Mr. Jude, said “Ada, if you don’t score 330, don’t even call me.” Her thumb hovered over the power button. If she turned it off, maybe 180 would disappear. Maybe she could wake up and it would be 380. “Ada?” She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her tongue was sandpaper. “Ada Chioma Okoro?” The voice was closer. Deep. Educated. Expensive. She looked up slowly. Dr. Kene Obi stood there in a charcoal grey suit, not his usual lab coat. FUEN’s youngest Anatomy lecturer. Thirty years old. First class from Cambridge. Son of Chief Obi Obi, the oil magnate who owned half of Eastern Nigeria. The kind of man whose face was on billboards for leadership awards he bought. Students moved around him like water around a rock. Nobody wanted to touch trouble. “Dr. Obi,” she croaked. Her voice sounded twelve. His eyes went to her phone. He didn’t need to read it. The horror on her face told him everything. “180,” he said softly. Not a question. A diagnosis. The word sounded different in his mouth. Final. Like a death certificate. “Let me see.” He held out his hand. Long fingers. Gold watch. No wedding ring. She shouldn’t. Her mother said never give your phone to a man. But her legs weren’t working. Her brain wasn’t working. She placed the phone in his palm like an offering. He scrolled. Tapped. His face showed nothing. “Hmm. Interesting.” “What?” Hope was a dangerous drug. She took a hit anyway. “Server glitch. We’ve been seeing them all morning. Especially with… certain candidates.” His eyes did a slow journey from her cracked slippers to her faded church blouse. “Candidates from quota states. Candidates whose fathers aren’t commissioners.” The words were ice water down her back. “Are you saying JAMB marked me down because I’m poor?” “I’m saying FUEN has a limited number of Medicine slots. And powerful people have children too.” He handed her phone back. Their fingers brushed. His were cold. “Children who score 140 but need 320.” Her stomach turned. “That’s illegal.” “So is hope, sometimes.” He pulled out his own tablet. Sleek. Silver. The Apple logo glowed. “What was your real score supposed to be, Miss Okoro?” The question cracked her open. “328. I calculated it. My mock scores. My CBT practice. English 85, Physics 80, Biology 83, Chemistry 80. Total 328.” “328,” he repeated. Like he was tasting wine. “The exact cut-off for FUEN Medicine last year. Ambitious.” “I’m not ambitious. I’m desperate.” The truth fell out before she could stop it. “My mother has hypertension. The hospital in our village has one doctor for 20,000 people. Last month a boy died of appendix because the doctor was in Lagos. I told my mother I would come back. I would be their doctor.” Something flickered in Dr. Kene’s eyes. Pity? Amusement? She couldn’t tell. “And now?” “Now I’m a failure.” The tears came. Hot. Shameful. “My father will look at me and see ₦55,000 burnt. My mother will take more BP drugs. The village will say ‘we told you girls shouldn’t do science’.” He was quiet for a long time. The CBT centre noise faded. It was just her, him, and the number 180 glowing between them. “I can fix it,” he said finally. The world stopped. “What?”