A DESPERATE DEAL

chapter 3: His Rules, My Hell

The contract sat on Ada’s small kitchen table like a bomb.

12 pages. White paper, black ink. Stapled.

50 million naira.

Mrs. Cole.

12 months.

No love, no feelings, nio other men.

Her mother slept in the next room. For the first time in three months, she slept without groaning from pain, without clutching her wrapper to her chest. The hospital bill was paid, because Reddington Hospital in Ikoyi had called and said a private ambulance was coming. Because Ada had sold herself yesterday at 9:07 AM on the 45th floor of Cole Towers.

Ada hadn’t slept at all.

At 3:12 AM she got up and made tea. Lipton, with too much sugar, the way her father used to like it. The kitchen was quiet. The small yellow house in Surulere was quiet, except for the old fridge humming. She kept looking at her ring finger empty, pale, with a small line where she used to wear a cheap silver ring from her university days. But in 4 days, there would be a ring there a diamond. A lie she would have to wear and smile about.

She opened the contract again and read Rule 3 for the tenth time: No dating other men. I don’t share what’s mine, even on paper.

What’s his? She was now what’s his, like his car, like his G-Wagon.

Her phone buzzed on the table and made her jump. 6:45 AM. The screen was bright in the dark kitchen.

Damian: The driver will pick you up at 7:30. Wear something decent. No jeans, no excuses. My office. Breakfast.

Decent. Right. What did decent mean to a billionaire? She almost laughed, but it sounded like a sob.

She opened her wardrobe. It was small, wooden, with one door that didn’t close properly. 3 blouses, 1 black skirt from her NYSC, and a pair of black trousers that were starting to fade at the knees. Everything from her old job at the small law firm in Ikeja where she earned 70k a month and was fired. She chose the navy blue blouse. The one that made her look like she belonged somewhere, not like a girl from Surulere who was drowning in debt. She paired it with the black trousers and her only heels, the black court shoes that pinched her toes so much she had a blister on her small toe. She ironed the blouse twice, even though her hands were shaking.

She looked in the small mirror on the wall. Dark circles under her eyes. Lips dry. But she tried to tie her natural hair into a neat bun, like the receptionist at Cole Towers.

The driver was already downstairs at 7:28 AM. A black Prado SUV tinted silent. The driver was a big man in black with a face that never smiled. He didn’t speak to her, he just opened the back door. The car didn’t play music, even though the air inside smelled expensive like Damian. Cedar and cold and clean. She sat at the edge of the seat, afraid to crease the leather.

Cole Towers again. The same glass elevator that made her stomach drop.

“Good morning, Mrs. Cole,” the receptionist said. Young girl, perfect makeup, red lips. She said it with a small, knowing smile.

Mrs. Cole. The name hit her like a slap again. Every time someone said it, her heart jumped. Because she was not Mrs. Cole. She was Ada Johnson who lived in a yellow house and made tea at 3 AM.

The elevator was empty. Ada watched the floors go up. 10... 20... 35... 45. Her stomach dropped with it. Her palms were sweating.

His secretary, Sarah, didn’t smile either. “He’s waiting and he hates lateness. Go in.”

The office doors were open today.

Damian’s office was different in the morning light. Less like a cage, more like a glass prison. The sun came through the huge windows and made the whole city of Lagos glitter gold. He stood by the window, coffee in hand, looking at Lagos below like he owned it. Which, in a way, he did. He didn’t turn when she entered.

“Good morning,” Ada said quietly, her voice small.

He didn’t answer for 10 seconds. 10 long seconds where she just stood there like a schoolgirl being punished.

“Rule 4,” he said finally, still not looking at her.

Ada froze. Her bag almost slipped from her hand. “There were only 3 rules yesterday, sir.”

“Now there’s 4.” He finally turned.

He looked different. Dark circles under his eyes like he hadn’t slept either. White shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing strong forearms with veins. No suit jacket. He looked less CEO, more human. More dangerous, because human Damian was harder to hate than cold CEO Damian.

“You will have breakfast with me. Every weekday. 7 AM. My office.”

“Why?” The word came out before she could stop it. Too loud, too rude.

Damian’s mouth twitched not a smile. “Because my personal assistant quit after I yelled at her yesterday. And I don’t eat alone. It’s bad for digestion. My grandfather says so.”

That was it? Not “to monitor you”, not “to torture you”? Just because he didn't like eating alone?

Breakfast arrived on a silver tray 2 minutes later. A lady in uniform pushed it in. Two plates. Eggs, toast, sliced avocado, fresh fruit, and coffee. Black, no sugar just like him.

They ate in silence for 10 minutes. The only sound was cutlery against porcelain and Lagos far below, honking and living. Ada ate small bites. She was not hungry, but she was afraid if she didn’t eat, he would add Rule 5 about wasting food.

Then his phone rang. Loud on the glass table. The screen lit up. Amara love with a red heart.

Ada is like glass. Amara. The woman in all the gossip blogs. The “it girl”, Lagos socialite, daughter of a former minister. The one he was supposed to marry according to BellaNaija. The beautiful one, with long hair and skin like honey.

Damian’s face changed instantly. Softer his hard jaw relaxed. He picked up the phone and turned slightly away from Ada.

“Babe? What? No, I told you Sunday dinner is with Grandpa I know, I know Yes. I’ll make it up to you, dinner, just us. At Zaza tonight? 8PM?”

Babe. Zaza tonight. Just us.

Ada stared at her eggs. Suddenly they tasted like paper. She put her fork down. Her throat hurt like she wanted to cry but she had no tears left. Of course he had a girlfriend. Of course billionaires like him don’t do contracts because they have no one. They do contracts to hide someone else or to protect someone else.

He hung up and looked at Ada like he remembered she existed. Like he remembered there was a stranger in his office eating his food.

“Don’t get ideas, Mrs. Cole,” he said, his voice cold again. “This is business. What you heard is none of your concern, amara is complicated.”

Ada nodded quickly. She looked down at her lap. “Yes, sir. I understand business."

Her voice was steady, but her hands were shaking under the table.

Because for 10 minutes, watching him drink coffee and frown at his emails, she had almost forgotten this was fake. She had almost thought, this is just breakfast with a man. A very handsome, very cold man, but just breakfast. And for a second she had felt almost safe. The AC, the quiet, the good food.

Stupid Ada. Stupid girl from Surulere.

“Rule 5,” Damian said suddenly, putting his coffee cup down with a sharp clink.

Ada closed her eyes she knew what was coming.

“No falling for me, Mrs. Cole.”

The words hung in the air. Heavy, arrogant, cold. Like a warning and an insult at the same time.

He said it like it was a joke, but his eyes were not joking. He was dead serious.

Ada felt her face burn with shame. Did she look that obvious? Did she look like one of those cheap girls who would fall for him after one breakfast?

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” she said, her voice ice. She stood up, her chair scraping loudly. “Is that all? I have to go check on my mother, the real one, in Surulere not your grandfather in Ikoyi.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise? Hurt? But he just waved his hand.

“You’re dismissed. Be back tomorrow at 7AM sharp. And Ads wear better shoes. You’re limping.”

As she walked out, her blistered feet screaming in her pinching heels, she heard him mutter behind her, low, almost to himself

“Hell.”

She didn’t know if he meant her, or himself. Or this whole situation they had put themselves in.

That night, her mother asked while stirring soup in their small kitchen, the soup that now had meat because Ada could finally afford it, “How was work today, dear? Is your new boss kind?”

Ada forced a smile, a big smile that hurt her cheeks. She stirred the soup with her mother.

“Fine, Mom, work is fine. My boss is strict but he pays well. Very well.”

The lie tasted like coffee. Black and bitter and expensive.

And Rule 1 on page 1 of the contract that was still sitting on her table said: No one can know this is fake not even your mother.

She went to bed at 11PM. She set the alarm for 6:00 AM.

Because hell started at 7AM. Every weekday. With coffee, black, no sugar.