The Billionaire's Fake Wife

The eviction notice was pink. Ada Okeke stared at it, her fingers trembling as the Lagos heat turned the small Yaba apartment into an oven. Three days. She had three days to find ₦800,000 or she and her mother would be on the streets. "Mama, I’ll figure it out," Ada whispered, tucking the paper under her pillow as her mother coughed from the other room. The cancer was eating Mama alive, and the new chemotherapy drugs cost ₦450,000 per cycle. Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. "Miss Ada Okeke?" A crisp female voice. "This is Barrister Funmi from Udoka Group. Mr. Kenechukwu Udoka requests your presence at Eko Atlantic Tower. Penthouse floor. One hour." Ada frowned. "Udoka Group? The billionaire CEO? I think you have the wrong—" "₦50 million," the lawyer cut in. "Mr. Udoka is prepared to pay you ₦50 million cash for one year of your time. Be here in one hour, or the offer expires." The line went dead. Fifty. Million. Naira. Ada’s knees nearly gave out. That was chemo for five years. A new house. A future. But Udoka Group didn’t hand out millions for nothing. --- The Eko Atlantic penthouse was colder than an Igbobi mortuary. Ada stood in her only good dress, ₦3,500 from Balogun Market, while a man who looked like he was carved from dark granite and expensive suits watched her from behind a glass desk. "Kenechukwu Udoka," he said. His voice was deep, controlled. Like every word cost money. "You’re late by four minutes." "Your lawyer didn’t say what the job was," Ada shot back, chin up. She wouldn’t let this rich man see her desperation. "I don’t do illegal things." Kene’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. "I need a wife." Ada blinked. "Sorry, what?" "A fake wife," Kene clarified, sliding a folder across the desk. "My father, Chief Udoka, is dying. His will states I inherit Udoka Group only if I’m married before my 30th birthday. That’s in 29 days." He stood, all 6’2 of him, and Ada fought the urge to step back. The scar on his left eyebrow made him look dangerous. "Your job is simple," he continued. "Marry me. Attend galas. Smile for the cameras. Make my father believe I’m settled. In return, you get ₦50 million upfront, a ₦5 million monthly allowance, and I pay your mother’s medical bills. All of them." Ada’s heart slammed against her ribs. This was insane. This was her miracle. "Why me?" she whispered. "You could have any Lagos girl. Models. Heiresses." Kene’s dark eyes swept over her, from her short natural hair to her worn shoes. "Because you’re desperate enough to agree, and clean enough to pass my background check. You have no social media scandals. No ex-boyfriends who’ll sell stories. You’re a final-year UNILAG student who waitresses at night. Invisible." Invisible. The word stung. "And what do I get if I say no?" Ada asked. "Your mother dies in three months," Kene said flatly. "The hospital called me before you. She collapsed this morning. You can’t afford the surgery she needs next week." The air left Ada’s lungs. He knew. He knew everything. "One year," Kene said, misreading her silence. "Sign the contract. Play the role. At the end of the year, we divorce quietly. You keep the money. You never see me again." It sounded too easy. It sounded like a trap. But then Mama coughed again in Ada’s memory, wet and weak. Ada picked up the pen. "Where do I sign, Mr. Udoka?" Kene’s eyes flashed with something—triumph? Relief? "Call me Kene. Wife."