A DESPERATE DEAL

The bank letter shook in Ada’s hands so hard the words blurred. FINAL NOTICE. AUCTION IN 7 DAYS. Her mother’s house. The small yellow house in Surulere with the mango tree her father planted before he died. The house with the blue gate that still had her childhood height marks scratched into the wall with a nail. Age 6. Age 9. Age 14. Ada is now 24 and broke. “Mom, please don’t cry,” Ada whispered as she knelt on the cracked tiles and held her mother’s frail hands. Her mother’s skin was paper-thin from chemo, her wrapper loose around her shrinking body. The small sitting room smelled of menthol and old medicine. Her mother just shook her head, tears sliding down her sunken cheeks. “My Ada. I’m sorry I’m a burden to you. If your father was here” “A burden? Never.” Ada’s voice broke and she pressed her forehead against her mother’s knees. “You raised me alone after Dad died. You sold your mama’s gold, you sold your jewelry for my school fees. You stayed up to sew my school uniform when there was no light. I will sell everything before I let them take this house. I swear on Dad’s grave.” Her mother cried harder, her thin shoulders shaking. Ada held her until she fell into a weak sleep on the old sofa. Then Ada carried her tiny mother like a child to the bedroom, covered her with the faded Ankara blanket, and went back to the sitting room. That night, Ada didn’t sleep. She sat at the small plastic table with one flickering yellow bulb that buzzed like a mosquito. The wall clock ticked loudly. 11:17 PM. 12:44 AM. 1:30 AM. She opened her old laptop. The battery was bad, it only worked when plugged in. She applied for 23 jobs. Customer service in Lekki. Waitress in Yaba. Cleaner in a hotel on the Island. Supermarket cashier. Receptionist. Nanny. She typed until her fingers hurt. All rejected. Automated emails. “We regret informing you No experience, Overqualified Position filled She called 11 loan apps. Her voice was already hoarse from crying. All said the same thing. “Madam, your credit score is too low, you have no collateral.” One man on the phone laughed, “50 million? Sister, go and meet a rich man.” At 2:07 AM her phone buzzed. An unknown number. Her heart jumped so hard she nearly dropped the phone. Maybe a job? Maybe the bank changed its mind? “Hello? Hello, good evening ma!” she answered, too fast, too desperate. “Miss Ada Johnson?” A female voice, crisp and professional. “This is Sarah, Mr. Damian Cole’s executive assistant. Mr. Cole wants to see you tomorrow, 9AM. Cole Towers, 45th floor, Victoria Island. Don’t be late. Come with your CV.” Click. The call ended before Ada could ask why. Damian Cole. The name hit her like ice water poured down her back. Billionaire, 35, CEO of Cole Group. The man who bought 3 companies before breakfast and fired 200 people with one cold email. Her ex-boss used to say his name like a prayer “If Damian Cole touches your business, you are made or you are dead.” Why would he want her? She was nobody. Just a second-class graduate from UNILAG, a former secretary who got fired 2 months ago for slapping her boss, Mr. Ade, when he locked the office door and tried to put his hand under her skirt. She had slapped him and he had shouted, “You will never work in this Lagos again!” She couldn’t sleep after that call. She kept thinking: What if this is a scam? What if it’s a trafficking thing? What if he wants something dirty? She checked his picture on Google sharp jaw, cold eyes, always in black or navy suit. He never smiled in photos. But what choice did she have? In 7 days, men with hammers and police would come to her mother’s house. They would pull down the mango tree. They would throw her sick mother on the street. At 6AM she woke her mother, gave her pap and drugs, and left. At 8AM she was on 3 buses to Victoria Island. Danfo to Oshodi, another to Obalende, then a keke. Her navy blouse was ironed 3 times, but it was still old. Her only good shoes, black court shoes from her NYSC, pinched her feet until she couldn’t feel her toes. She clutched her CV inside a clear file like it was a shield. 9:03 AM. Cole Towers, 45th Floor. The elevator was all glass. As it shot up, Lagos spread below her like gold and smoke and chaos. Cars like ants. Her stomach dropped to her feet. She was sweating. The receptionist didn’t smile. A tall girl with red lips. She looked at Ada from head to toe. “ID. He’s waiting. He hates latecomers.” The office doors were double. Black and polished. Like the man inside. So big she needed two hands to push. She knocked. Her knuckles hurt. “Come in.” His voice was deep, no warmth. Just command. Damian Cole didn’t stand. He was behind a desk bigger than her whole kitchen. 35, sharp navy suit, no tie. Hair perfect. Jaw sharp enough to cut. And eyes, dark brown eyes that looked through you like glass. He was more handsome in person, which made him more scary. He gestured to the chair with one finger. “Sit.” Ada sat. The chair was soft leather, it swallowed her. Her legs were shaking so bad she pressed her knees together and held the chair arm to stop shaking. “I read your file,” he said. He didn’t look at any papers. He looked directly at her, as if he had memorized everything. “Father, Johnson Johnson, dead 10 years ago, heart attack. Mother, Funke Johnson, 58, stage 2 breast cancer, LUTH. 50 million naira debt from hospital and mortgage. You, Ada, 24, UNILAG English graduate. Fired for ‘insubordination’ 2 months ago because you refused to sleep with your boss, Mr. Adeyemi of Ade Logistics. You live in Surulere. You have 7 days before your house is auctioned.” Ada’s face burned red with shame. How did he know everything? “Sir, that’s private, “I …” He cut her off with one hand. Just one small movement and she went quiet. “I have a problem,” he said, leaning back. “My grandfather is dying. 89 years old. Lung cancer. His last wish is to see me married, with a wife. At dinner every Sunday. For pictures. He keeps asking. He built this company and I owe him peace before he dies.” He leaned forward then, his cologne hit her. Cedar and something expensive and clean. “I don’t do love. I don’t do weddings. I don’t lie. I do contracts. And business.” He slid a folder across the huge desk. The sound was loud in the quiet room. The AC was so cold. MARRIAGE CONTRACT PARTY A: DAMIAN COLE PARTY B: ADA JOHNSON DURATION: 12 MONTHS PAYMENT: 50,000,000 NAIRA Ada couldn’t breathe. The numbers swam to 50 million. That was exactly her debt. To the last kobo how? “You want me to marry you?” Her voice was barely a whisper. Her throat was dry. “On paper,” Damian said flatly, with no emotion. “You show up, you smile, you wear the ring, you play the perfect wife for my grandfather and for the media in return, I pay your debt. Today. Full amount. Plus 2 million monthly allowance for you, and your mother’s chemo at our private hospital in Ikoyi, best doctors.” The room went quiet only the sound of Lagos traffic 45 floors below and her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Ada looked at the contract 12 pages, thick. Then she looked at him at his cold, beautiful face that showed nothing. 50 million. Her mother’s house. Her mother’s chemo. Her mother’s life. It was everything. “What’s the catch?” she whispered. Because men like him don’t give gifts there is always a catch. “Why me? You can get any woman, any model” Damian’s mouth twitched not a smile, more like a scar. “Because you have nothing to lose, and you hate me already. That makes you honest, I don’t want a gold digger who will fall in love and want more. I want someone desperate who will follow rules.” He pushed a black expensive pen toward her. Mont Blanc. “Rule 1: No feelings. No love. No touching unless it’s for show, for my grandfather or for cameras. Rule 2: No one can know this is fake. Not your mother, not my staff, not your friends. If my grandfather finds out, deal is void and you pay back every kobo. Rule 3: When I say jump, you ask how high. You are my wife on paper and you act like it. You live in my house on Banana Island. You attend events with me.” He stared at her shaking hand. “Sign, Miss Johnson. Or walk out that door and watch the bank take everything in 7 days. Your choice.” Ada’s hand hovered over the paper. The pen felt heavy. Her mother’s face flashed in her head. The mango tree her father planted. The debt collectors who came last week and shouted at her mother. The hospital that called yesterday about unpaid bills and said they would stop chemo. Her heart was breaking into pieces. She was 24 and she was about to sell herself. But her hand was steady. Because love doesn’t pay hospital bills. Pride doesn’t pay hospital bills. She signed. Ada Johnson. The ink looked like blood on the white paper. Damian took the contract for the first time, something flickered in his cold eyes. Relief? Regret? Guilt? She couldn’t tell. It was gone in one second. “Congratulations, Mrs. Cole,” he said, his voice a little lower. Dinner is Sunday at 7PM at my grandfather’s house in Ikoyi. Don't be late. The driver will come to pick you by 6PM. Sarah will send you clothes and Ada He looked at her cheap shoes and old blouse. “Burn that blouse.” As Ada walked out, her legs felt like jelly the elevator going down was faster. Too fast. Her phone buzzed in her old bag. Alert: 50,000,000 NAIRA CREDITED TO YOUR ACCOUNT. FROM COLE GROUP HOLDINGS. She stopped in the middle of the shiny lobby. People in suits walked past her. Stared at the screen. Her hands started shaking again. She had just sold her life for 50 million naira. And she wasn’t sure who she hated more. Him for buying her or herself for saying yes so quickly