Chapter 8: Becoming Mrs Hills
1282 Words
The Hills estate did not look like a home, It looked like a statement. The gates alone were taller than the apartment building Sumayah had lived in for three years.
Black iron bars curved into intricate designs, opening slowly as Omarion’s car approached.
Beyond them stretched a long, winding driveway lined with perfectly trimmed hedges and fountains that glittered under the late afternoon sun.
Sumayah sat in the passenger seat, hands folded tightly in her lap.
This was real.
The public announcement happened few hours ago. The engagement ring, a flawless diamond that felt heavier than it looked that now rested on her finger. Social media had dissected her outfit, her background, her entire existence.
And now she was moving into her husband’s mansion.
Her husband. The word felt foreign.
Omarion drove in silence, one hand steady on the steering wheel, expression unreadable. If he was nervous, he hid it well.
“You don’t have to look like you’re being transported to prison,” he said lightly.
She didn’t laugh. “I’m moving into a stranger’s house.”
“You’re moving into your husband’s house.”
“That doesn’t make it better.” She said.
A faint smirk touched his lips, but it faded quickly.
The car came to a smooth stop in front of the grand entrance.
The house rose before her, white stone walls, tall columns, glass balconies reflecting the sky.
It was breathtaking and intimidating.
A line of staffs stood at the grand entrance as they stepped out of the car.
A house manager, two maids, a chef, security personnel.
All watching her and ready to be introduced.
“This is Mrs. Hills,” Omarion said calmly.
The title hit her like a wave.
“Welcome home, ma’am,” the house manager said with a polite nod.
Home.
Sumayah swallowed, smiled “Thank you.”
Others give a warm smile that looks so welcoming.
She followed Omarion inside.
The interior was just as overwhelming, marble floors, high ceilings, art pieces that probably cost more than her entire education. Everything was pristine, controlled, and carefully curated.
It was Cold.
“You’ll get used to it,” Omarion said, noticing her expression.
“I’m not sure I want to.”
He glanced at her. “You prefer small spaces.”
“I prefer spaces that feel like human being live in.”
He didn’t respond to that.
Instead, he led her upstairs.
“There are four guest suites,” he said. “You can choose whichever you like.”
“Guest suite?” she repeated.
He paused at the end of the hallway. “We agreed on separate rooms.”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Of course.”
For a brief second, something unreadable passed through his eyes.
Was it a disappointment?
No. That wouldn’t make sense.
“This one has the best view,” he said, opening a door and turning on the light.
The room was larger than her entire apartment. Soft gray walls. A king-sized bed. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. A private bathroom bigger than any space she had ever owned.
It’s beautiful,” she admitted softly.
“It’s yours.”
The finality in his voice unsettled her.
She set her small suitcase down near the bed, she had packed just in case he wanted her home after the announcement and she was absolutely correct.
Her suitcase looked absurdly tiny in the massive room.
“Your other things will arrive tomorrow,” he said “I had my assistant arrange the move.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know but I wanted to.” He said
Silence stretched between them.
For the first time since this arrangement began, they were alone without cameras or contracts between them.
Just two people standing in a bedroom that wasn’t meant to be shared but felt dangerously close to it.
“There are rules,” she said suddenly, needing to fill the space.
He crossed his arms lightly. “Go on.”
“No unannounced guests.”
“Agreed.”
“No bringing… anyone here.”
His expression hardened slightly. “There won’t be anyone.”
She studied him carefully. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Something about the firmness in his voice made her chest tighten.
“Good,” she said quietly.
He walked toward the door. “Dinning will be set soon, We’ll eat together, the staffs expects it.”
“But it’s past midnight and I’m tired,” she continue, “can we have breakfast tomorrow instead.”
He walked back to her, she moved back as he walk closer. Her back hitting the wall.
Omarion looked at her, noticing her beautiful face, down to her collar bone. Her boobs standing perfectly in the dress he got her.
He finally spoke after thinking wildly. “Just a little bite won’t hurt, it’s just for the staffs.”
She swallowed hard as she could feel his breath close to her. “Of course.”
“And Sumayah?”
She looked up.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m right here, in every step we take.”
He walked away while shutting the door behind him.
Dinner felt fake, staged and so uncomfortable for her.
They sat at opposite ends of a long dining table that could easily seat twelve. Candles flickered softly between them, casting warm light across polished silverware.
“Do we have to sit this far apart?” she asked dryly.
Omarion glanced down the length of the table. “We can adjust.”
He stood and moved to the seat beside her instead.
The proximity made her hyper-aware of everything, his scent, the warmth of his arm brushing lightly against hers as he reached for his glass of wine.
“Media training starts tomorrow,” he said calmly. “You’ll need to be prepared.”
“For what?” She asked look confused.
“For questions. For scrutiny. For people trying to provoke you.”
“I didn’t sign up for humiliation.”
“You signed up for strategy,” he corrected gently.
She sighed.
The chef placed plates in front of them, carefully arranged, elegant, expensive.
Sumayah stared at the food. “I used to skip dinner to save money.”
Omarion’s fork paused mid-air.
“What?” he asked.
“In college,” she said lightly, as though it didn’t matter. “Sometimes lunch too.”
He watched her closely.
“You won’t ever have to do that again,” he said quietly.
The sincerity in his tone surprised her.
“I’m not marrying you for luxury,” she replied.
“I know.”
The air shifted again, less transactional, more personal.
She looked at him then. Really looked at him.
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t performing.
For the first time, he looked like a man carrying something heavier than pride.
“You hate this,” she said softly.
“Hate what?”
“Needing me.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“I don’t hate needing you,” he said after a moment. “I hate being cornered.”
That honesty settled between them like fragile glass.
A soft buzz interrupted the moment.
Omarion checked his phone.
His expression darkened instantly.
“What is it?” she asked.
He turned the screen toward her.
A news alert flashed across it.
BLACKWOOD HOLDINGS CHALLENGES VALIDITY OF HILLS ENGAGEMENT – CALLS IT A ‘BUSINESS FRAUD.’
Sumayah’s heart dropped.
“They’re saying this marriage is fake,” she whispered.
Omarion’s eyes hardened into something cold and dangerous.
“Then we’ll just have to make it look real.”
The way he said it sent a chill down her spine.
- Writer
