The Billionaire’s Contract Bride

MORNING ROUTINE

At 6:30 AM, the alarm woke Amara out of a very light sleep that almost approached being asleep. She had only managed to sleep for some two hours after she finally crawled into bed, since she was anxious about a meeting in the future which kept her mind busy.

She rapped her phone until her phone became silent, then sat there a minute and stared at the water stain on her ceiling that was in the shape of the map of Africa. It was suitable, she said to herself, since she always heard her grandmother tell them that their ancestors were keeping an eye on them. She now could do with all the assistance she could get.

Up, she said to herself, and swung her legs on the side of the bed. Move.

The apartment was chilly, so she turned on the heat to spend less money, and she took the hoodie she had worn yesterday, retrieved it from the floor, threw it around her tank top, and headed to the kitchen. The eviction notice, which mocks her with its official letterhead and legal words. One of the few things that she would not sacrifice was the use of the coffee maker, so she turned it face down and turned on the machine. She wanted coffee in case she was going to leave.

The old coffee machine was hissing and sputtering and Amara was nursing her eyes with the careful look of a nurse, on what was in her fridge. Eggs: four left. Bread: half a loaf, somewhat stale, although that might be toasted. Milk: sufficient cereal and coffee. Butter: almost nothing left. The vegetable basket had a bell pepper that was almost wilting and an onion which is not in the best condition.

She could make it work. She always made it work.

Amara broke two eggs in a bowl, stirred them with a fork, and put them in her pan which was the only non-stick one. The odor of butter melting was well known in the small kitchen and was homely. As the eggs were cooking, she put two pieces of bread in the toaster and poured herself a strong cup of coffee that would peel the paint.

Mama?

Amara glanced around and saw the frozen pajamas of sleepy-haired Zara standing in the doorway of the kitchen, with her curls standing in queer directions. She was the prettiest thing Amara had ever seen even half-waking and half-dishevelled.

Good morning, baby. You’re up early.

Zara smeared her eyes with her fists. I heard you moving around. Sorry, sweetie. I was trying to be quiet. Amara served the scrambled eggs and toast, and placed them on two different dishes, the Dora the Explorer one on Zara, the chipped blue one on herself. Come eat breakfast.

Zara got up on either of the two chairs at their small table, her feet dangling a few inches above the ground. She got her plastic fork--the one which she had borrowed so cheaply at the dollar store--and literally jabbed her eggs with it.

What’s wrong? Amara inquired and was sitting opposite her with her portion which was also small.

Jenny has squeezed yogurt things. Those in the tubes with the cartoon characters.

Amara’s chest tightened. Jenny Whitmore whose mother drove a Range Rover and picked her up from Lululemon to school. Jenny, who was likely as likely to have had a refrigerator lined with all child-market snacks known to man.

Well we have got eggs, Amara said, and you know we got eggs. Eggs are protein. They help you grow strong. She flexed her arm like a joke. See? Egg muscles.

Zara smiled and giggled, as Amara wanted him to, and bit into it. Egg muscles are silly, Mama. Silly but mighty. Amara is drinking her coffee, looking at her daughter eat. What do you have to do at school today?

Art class! It is a watercolor painting, Ms. Rodriguez, We are going to paint, Zara said. I will be working on a princess in a castle painting. A Nigerian princess, as you said to me.

That sounds beautiful, baby. Amara’s heart swelled. She had ensured that Zara understood her origin, knew about Nigerian queens and warriors, despite all these factors, including poverty and, inability to remain with a father. I can’t wait to see it.

Is it possible to put it on the refrigerator? Absolutely. Front and center.

They sat and dined in happy quietness for a few minutes, the morning noises of their house permeating the thin walls. Mrs. Chen upstairs is already screaming at her teenager in Mandarin. The baby neighbor Johnsons were starting their morning crying. There was a radio playing bachata music somewhere.

It was a cottage, this edifice, it was a district but it had been my home for three years. The idea of abandoning it and moving Zara another time made Amara feel like her stomach had churned.

Mama? Zara’s voice was small. Are we going to move again?

The cup of coffee Amara was holding came to a halt halfway to her lips. What makes you ask that?

I overheard you talking with Mama Bunmi there yesterday. You said something about the rent. The gray eyes, his eyes, those of Zara, fixed on her mother with a certain intensity that was even terrifying in a five-year-old child. The mom told Jenny that when human beings are unable to afford rent, they are forced to relocate.

Cursed by the mother of Jenny and her mouth as loud as a bell at school.

Her mom needed to mind her own business, Jenny, Amara said, and instantly regretted it. We may--yes, sweetie, we may have to change. Yet not because of something bad. Simply because... at times, people require new beginnings.

It wasn't technically a lie. This disaster would require them to get a new beginning.

Will I have to change schools?

Zara nearly broke down in fear. It was already the second school change in the short life of the child, and it was more difficult than the first one. She had finally found friends at PS 234, had at last settled.

I don't know yet, baby. I am doing it, Amara crossed the table to squeeze Zara by the hand. Whatever the case, we are going to be there. That’s what matters, right?

Zara said yes, and she did not seem to believe. She scraped her eggs about her plate, her former interest of the day being really dark to the eye.

Amara wanted to scream. She longed to feel outraged at the unjustness of this world that her intelligent and beautiful daughter had to consider the problem of homelessness before the loss of her first tooth. She would have been pleased to see Ethan Reed and to set him to view what he had missed and forsaken. But she didn’t. She finished off her coffee, wiped out the dishes, and became the good and efficient mom her daughter required.

“Okay, honey. Time to get ready for school. Clean your teeth, as I select your clothes.

Zara left her chair and headed to the bathroom with the kind of concerns that a child is not supposed to possess.

Amara looked at the few clothes that she possessed in Zara’s closet which was simply a rack behind a curtain. The majority of the Zara clothing was either clearance Target or hand-downs from Mama Bunmi church associates. She picked a purple sweater which was slightly oversized and a pair of jeans which were nearly too small. Zara was blossoming at a rapid rate, like a beautiful flower, and it is what her name, in Yoruba, signifies.

Zara Amara Benson. She combined the names of both the past and the present for her daughter. There was no name in the birth certificate where the name of Ethan Reed was to be.

At times, Amara in her low moments asked herself how life would have been had she made more attempts to inform him. She could have come to his office, demanded a hearing, and would not have been shoved aside.

Then she recalled the passage which had brought it all to a close:

“This isn’t working. We want different things. It’s better to end it now. Don’t contact me again.”

It was cold, clinical, final.

That was the man she was about to inform that she was pregnant with his child. It was the man who did not return her calls when she dialed three times, desperate, scared, and lonely.

No. She had made the right choice. Zara could not have a worse father than one who had proved that he could walk away without turning a shoulder.

“I’m ready!” With toothpaste on the corner of her mouth, and her hair still knotty, Zara said, emerging from the bathroom.

Almost, Amara said, wiping the toothpaste off the cheeks of Zara with her thumb and attempting to fix her hair with a spray-can and a wide-tooth comb. Zara fussed and grumbled, though Amara continued until the curls came in two orderly puffs tied together with purple elastics.

Beautiful, Amara said, and turned Zara in front of the corridor mirror.

Zara examined herself in the mirror and replied, Jenny with her gilded plaits, which take hours. Amara responded, You have beautiful natural hair which takes five minutes and looks equally pretty. She kissed Zara’s head. “Different isn’t worse, baby. It’s just different.”

It was the other teaching that she wanted to keep. The other means of safeguarding her daughter against the very world that criticizes her on all aspects; the hair, clothes, single motherhood, and the fact that she does not have a father.

They took the backpack of Zara, which was in good condition, though somewhat tattered, and walked into the cold November morning. It took 15 minutes to walk to the restaurant of Mama Bunmi. Zara was now familiar with all its cracks on the sidewalk, with all its corner stores, with the faces of folk on stoops taking coffee and seeing the neighborhood wake up.

“Morning, Miss Amara!” Mr. Patterson summoned out of his news-stand. “Morning, little Zara!”

“Good morning!” Zara replied, waved, and smiled.

This was what they would lose by moving out of the neighborhood; they would lose the community, the familiar faces, the sense of belonging although it was just a few blocks in Brooklyn.

The restaurant of Mama Bunmi was located on the first floor of a brown building on Fulton Street, and the sign was in bright yellow to indicate the restaurant; it was the Bunmi sign. As Amara opened the door, she smelled the cooking plantains and spices, and there were brass cymbals.

“There are my girls!” Well, Mama Bunmi said, as she emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron with Yoruba designs on it. She was sixty-eight, yet she had the spring and strength of half her years. Her grey-streaked hair was twisted in a vivid headscarf, and her smile could warm the coldest heart.

Zara ran off to her great-grandmother and received a hug that would have made everything safer.

“How are you this morning?” Mama Bunmi questioned and gazed at the face of Zara. “Did you eat breakfast?”

“Egg muscles!” The smallest arms, said Zara, and, as you know, I flex.

Amara looked over Zara and Mama Bunmi changed her face to a more concerned one. She had a lot to see, as she always does.

Zara, throw your knapsack into the back room. Mama Bunmi said. See what there is in that blue container, fresh chin-chin cookies. You can have three for school.”

Zara smiled and she ran away, and the two women were left to themselves in the silent early morning of the restaurant.

You have a weary face, Mama Bunmi, you do, said Mama Bunmi.

Good morning, Grandma, to you, too.

“Don’t call me Grandma. How long have you last slept over four hours? Mama Bunmi went behind the counter pouring Amara a cup of strong Nigerian tea she had brewed all day. “Sit. Talk to me.”

Amara sat on a stool and drank the tea thankfully. The restaurant was not yet open in another hour and the well-known surroundings were that of a refuge, with pictures on the walls of Lagos, a menu board of jollof rice, and egusi soup and suya, the smell of home cooking that never went away.

I am to have a meeting today, Amara replied to herself. “Maybe a job opportunity.”

“That’s good news. Why are you dressed like it was a funeral?

Because it was with Reed Global Hotels.

Mama Bunmi wipes no more. “Ethan’s company.”

“His VP wants to meet with me. He tells me it is a business opportunity. Amara stared at her tea.

"I don't know what this means. Ethan does not know or does he? I have a bank account of 247 and an eviction notice on my counter and so I am going. "Good."

Amara's head snapped up. "Good?"

You believe that I am not aware of how bad things are? The voice of Mama Bunmi was tender yet straining. You believe that I am not able to see my granddaughter losing weight since you are the one feeding her most of the food? You think I do not see you three months behind on rent?

"I will pay you back --"

"I don't want your money, child. I would have you quit wallowing in pride. Mama Bunmi stood and walked around the counter and touched Amara by placing one finger on her chin. "That man owes you. It is not that you have been between us--that is your business. He owes his daughter. And in case this meeting is a means to render Zara what she deserves, go into it with your head held up high.

"What if he knows about her?"

"Then he knows. And it is five years overdue."

What should he do should he attempts to steal her from my hands?

She had never spoken out loud about the fear that had been torturing her nightmares.

Mama Bunmi's face hardened. No judge would leave a child to a father who did not even know she was alive due to his cowardice in answering a phone call. Have you written those efforts to communicate with him?

Amara nodded. She held on to everything - call logs, messages that have not yet passed through, dates and times when the woman has tried to reach out to him.

"Then you have nothing to fear. But Amara, Mama Bunmi toned down her voice. Perhaps, it is time Zara gets acquainted with her father. Not for him, but for her."

"He left me like garbage."

"He is also her father. She enquires of him, more than you know.

The words hit like a blow. "She does?"

"All the time. She questions herself why she does not have a daddy. I inform her that his daddy is somewhere out there, but that you love her two parents. Mama Bunmi took the hand of Amara. "But she is growing older. Then those questions will become more difficult.

Zara came storming into the room with her backpack and three cookies in a napkin. "Ready, Mama!"

Amara wiped the tears from her eyes and smiled. "Let's go, baby." She kissed Mama Bunmi on the cheek to show her gratitude and she grabbed Zara by the hand and they walked the remaining five blocks together towards PS 234. They walked in silence. Zara hummed a Disney tune. The thoughts of Amara flew away to the afternoon.

When Amara reached the school gates she went on her knees and was at the same level as Zara, and pulled her collar up and her hair down.

Amara said, I love you to the bottom of my heart, which was a regular thing. And round about all the stars, Zara said, and embraced Amara. There was a moment of embracing. Amara attempted to recall the emotion, the scent of strawberry hair gel, the naivety, the little burden of this baby that was her entire universe.

"Have a good day, sweet girl." "You too, Mama." Zara withdrew, her eyes analytically examining her mother. No, do not be scared of your meeting. You are the bravest mum I have ever known.

"How did you know I was scared?" When worried your forehead wrinkles. Zara patted Amara's cheek. "But you can do this, Mama." Amara stood and looked at her daughter running into the school yard through the gates and joining a group of girls around the jungle playground. She was tough, flexible and so pretty that it was painful to look at her occasionally.

The school bell rang. Like a little disorderly wave of children ran to the door. Zara had made another turn to wave. Amara waved him farewell and stood there until Zara had disappeared within.

She checked her phone: 8:47 AM. There were 5 hours and 13 minutes before she met Marcus Williams. She still had 5 hours 13 minutes before she would once again enter the world of Ethan Reed. She re-read the message written by Marcus in her email on the possibility that it could have been altered. It hadn't. It was yet another indeterminate business prospect, the same costly restaurant, the same terrible time, which seemed too forcible to be accidental.

There was a message that appeared: her bank account had been updated. 247.63. The same. No miracles. No windfall. Just plain reality.

Amara walked out of the school and began to walk to the subway station with her head in the clouds about her meeting at Marea. There was a little spot on the lapel of the black pantsuit she had purchased to use in interviews. The navy dress was too casual. The grey blazer was—

Her phone rang. The number was unknown. She almost didn't answer. And months she had responded to every call, in the hope that she might have a job, a miracle, anything.

"Hello?" "Ms. Benson?" A professional voice was used by a man. This is Rothstein of Rothstein and Associates. This is a phone call about a meeting at the Reed Global Hotels that has been cancelled today in the afternoon.

Amara felt a cold in her blood. A lawyer. She knew that a lawyer had been dispatched. David said, "I know you will see Marcus Williams at two PM, and you see I have not noticed how panicky you are. I want to assure you that you will be present and you know that this is a private business conversation.

"I… yes. I’ll be there." "Excellent. Mr. Williams is looking forward to a conversation with you. Morning, Ms. Benson, have a good morning.

He put down the phone before she could put forth any of the numerous questions in her head. A lawyer. Calling to confirm. The words such as confidential. What was this meeting about? Why then would she suddenly feel that her life would be changed in a direction that she never thought of?