LOVE WASN'T IN THE CONTRACT

Chapter One The Diagnosis The first thing Amara noticed was the silence. Her mother had never been a quiet woman. Even when she was tired, there was always something. A song playing softly from her phone. The sound of pots clattering in the kitchen. Her voice calling Amara from the other room to ask where she had kept something that was, more often than not, right in front of her. But that morning, the house was completely silent. Amara stood at the front door with her university bag hanging from one shoulder, staring at the empty living room. “Mum?” Nothing. She frowned. “Mum?” Still nothing. Her eyes moved toward the hallway. She dropped her bag on the couch and hurried toward her mother's bedroom. The door was slightly open. “Mum?” She pushed it open. And stopped. Her mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand pressed against her chest and the other gripping the bedsheet. Her face looked pale. “Jesus!” Amara rushed to her. “Mum, what happened?” “I’m fine,” her mother whispered. “You don't look fine.” “I just feel a little weak.” “A little weak?” Amara repeated, her voice rising. “You can barely sit properly.” Her mother attempted a smile. “I'm okay, Amara.” “No. We're going to the hospital.” “I have work.” “You're not going anywhere.” “Amara—” “Mum.” The firmness in her voice made her mother stop. Amara grabbed her phone. “We're going.” --- Three hours later, Amara sat outside the doctor's office with her hands tightly clasped together. Her university lecture had started almost two hours ago. She hadn't even remembered to call anyone. Her phone kept vibrating inside her bag. Probably her course mate wondering why she hadn't shown up. She ignored it. Her eyes remained fixed on the doctor's door. The door finally opened. “Mrs. Adeyemi?” Amara immediately stood. “Yes.” “Are you her daughter?” “Yes.” The doctor nodded. “Please, come in.” Something about his expression made Amara's stomach tighten. She entered the room. Her mother was sitting on the examination bed. She looked smaller than she had that morning. More fragile. Amara sat beside her. The doctor pulled out a chair. “I've gone through the test results.” Amara waited. Her mother looked at the floor. “There is a problem with your mother's heart.” Amara's breath caught. “What kind of problem?” The doctor explained the condition carefully. Amara listened. She tried to understand every word. But eventually, all she heard was: Treatment. Medication. Further tests. Possible procedure. And then— “How much will everything cost?” The doctor hesitated. That hesitation scared her more than anything he'd said before. “Approximately…” He gave her the amount. Amara stared at him. For a few seconds, she couldn't speak. That was more money than she had ever had. More than her mother had. More than anyone in their family could easily produce. Her mother reached for her hand. “Amara.” She turned toward her. “Don't worry.” Her mother smiled weakly. “We'll figure it out.” Amara looked at her. How? How were they supposed to figure it out? She was a university student. Her mother was a single parent who had spent years struggling to keep food on the table and school fees paid. There was no wealthy relative waiting to rescue them. No savings account filled with millions. No miracle. Amara squeezed her mother's hand. “I'll find the money.” Her mother frowned. “Amara—” “I'll find it.” “Don't put this pressure on yourself.” “I said I'll find it.” Her voice cracked. She quickly looked away. She refused to cry. Not here. Not in front of her mother. --- That evening, Amara sat alone on a bench outside the hospital. The sky was already dark. Cars moved along the road while people walked in and out of the hospital entrance. Everyone seemed to be living normal lives. Meanwhile, hers had changed in a single afternoon. She opened her phone. Her bank balance stared back at her. She laughed bitterly. “That's not even enough for the first payment.” She locked the phone. Maybe she could get a job. Maybe she could ask her lecturers for help. Maybe she could borrow. Maybe— Her phone rang. It was her best friend, Nia. “Hello?” “Amara! Where have you been? You missed class.” “I'm at the hospital.” Silence. “What happened?” Amara swallowed. “My mum is sick.” “Oh my God.” “They said she needs treatment.” “Is she okay?” “She will be.” Amara looked through the hospital window. “I just need money.” “How much?” Amara hesitated before telling her. There was silence again. Then Nia whispered, “Amara…” “I know.” “That is a lot.” “I know.” “What are you going to do?” Amara looked down at her hands. “I don't know.” For the first time that day, her voice broke. “I really don't know.” --- By the time Amara returned to her mother's room, her mother was asleep. She stood in the doorway for a moment. The woman in that hospital bed was everything she had. Her mother had worked herself exhausted to make sure Amara never felt like she was missing anything. She had paid school fees when she couldn't afford them. She had skipped meals and claimed she wasn't hungry. She had smiled through problems Amara didn't even know existed. Now it was Amara's turn. She walked to the bedside and gently pulled the blanket higher. “Mum?” Her mother didn't wake. Amara sat beside her. “I'll save you.” She whispered the words so softly that even she almost didn't hear them. “I don't care what I have to do.” She looked at her mother's sleeping face. “I'll save you.” --- The next morning, Amara returned to university. She sat through lectures with her notebook open but barely wrote anything. Her mind was somewhere else. Every few minutes, she checked her phone. Every call from the hospital made her heart stop. Every message from her mother made her breathe again. At lunchtime, she walked toward the cafeteria with Nia. “You need to eat,” Nia said. “I'm not hungry.” “You haven't eaten since yesterday.” “I said I'm fine.” “You're not fine.” Amara stopped walking. Neither of them spoke. Then Nia gently touched her arm. “We'll figure something out.” Amara nodded. She wanted to believe her. She really did. But deep down, she knew something. They were running out of options. And they were running out of time. --- That evening, as Amara walked out of the university gate, a black car pulled up beside her. She ignored it. The window slowly lowered. “Miss Adeyemi?” Amara stopped. A woman sitting in the back seat looked at her. She was elegantly dressed, with perfectly styled hair and an expression that was impossible to read. “Yes?” “My name is Mrs. Williams.” Amara frowned. “Do I know you?” “No.” The woman opened the car door. “I believe you have been having financial difficulties because of your mother's illness.” Amara's heart began to pound. “How do you know about my mother?” The woman didn't answer immediately. Instead, she looked directly into Amara's eyes. “My family may be able to help you.” Amara stared at her. “Why?” Mrs. Williams gave a small smile. “Because we have a proposition for you.” Amara didn't move. “What proposition?” The woman's smile disappeared. “We would like you to marry my son.” Amara's entire body went still. For a moment, she thought she had heard incorrectly. “What?” “You heard me.” Amara took a step backward. “You're joking.” “I assure you, I'm not.” “Why would your son want to marry me?” “He doesn't.” The answer came so calmly that it frightened her. “He doesn't want a wife.” Amara stared at her. “Then why me?” Mrs. Williams reached into her handbag and pulled out a small envelope. She held it toward Amara. “Because we believe you may be willing to accept our terms.” Amara didn't take it. “What terms?” Mrs. Williams looked at her. “We pay for your mother's treatment.” Amara's heart skipped. “In exchange…” She paused. “You become my son's wife.” The world seemed to go quiet around Amara. She stared at the envelope. Then at the woman. Then back at the envelope. She should have walked away. She knew that. But one thought kept echoing in her mind. Her mother's hospital bill. And for the first time since the diagnosis, Amara wondered just how much she was willing to sacrifice to save the person she loved most.