Dark Obsession: The Billionaire's Possession

Two Months Later

Episode 13: Two Months Later

Two months after the wedding, I stood in the kitchen and burned toast. Again.

Adrian walked in, tie loosened, and stole the black piece from my hand.

"You’re trying to kill me before our first anniversary," he said, but he was smiling.

"I’m trying to make breakfast. There’s a difference," I said, and he kissed my forehead like I was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

We had fallen into a rhythm. Messy, loud, and ours.

My book was almost done. The last chapter was open on my laptop. The title was still Contracts and Second Chances. Adrian read every draft. He highlighted the parts where the heroine was stubborn and wrote in the margins: This is you.

His company was stable again. The board stopped calling him at 2am. He started coming home for dinner.

Amara’s mom moved in with us for "just two weeks" and it had been six. She taught me how to make jollof that didn’t taste like tomato water. She also taught Adrian how to pray properly. He pretended to complain.

Life was quiet. Safe.

And then the email came.

Subject: We’d like to publish your manuscript.

I read it three times. My hands were shaking.

"Adrian," I called. He came running like the house was on fire.

"What? What happened?"

I turned the laptop to him. "They want it. A real publisher."

He didn’t say anything. He just picked me up and spun me around until I was dizzy and laughing.

"You did it," he whispered into my hair. "You did it without the contract."

That night we didn’t celebrate with champagne. We celebrated with tea. Amara’s mom made puff-puff. Adrian fell asleep on the couch with my head on his chest and my laptop open beside us.

The next morning, Adrian left early for a meeting.

"Big day," he said, kissing me. "Proud of you."

I waved him off and went back to editing.

At 3pm, my phone rang.

"Miss Amara? This is the hospital. Your husband was in an accident."

The floor disappeared under me.

I got to the ER in 20 minutes that felt like 20 years.

He was sitting up. Bandage on his head. Arm in a sling. But his eyes found mine immediately.

"Hey," he said. Like I was the one who needed calming down.

"Don’t you ever scare me like that again," I said, and then I was crying into his hospital gown.

"It was just a fender bender," he lied. "Some guy ran a red light. I’m fine. Grumpy, but fine."

The doctor said concussion. Two weeks rest. No stress.

For two weeks, I was his nurse. Bad nurse. I brought him tea and stole the blankets and read him the worst parts of my book so he’d critique them.

On the last night, he held my hand in the dark.

"When I was in the ambulance," he said, "I wasn’t scared of dying. I was scared of not getting to grow old with you."

I couldn’t talk. I just nodded.

"We’re good, right?" he asked. "You and me. No contracts. No pretending."

"Just us," I whispered. "Just us."

We went home the next day. Slow.