Mrs Adewale.
536 Words
The top floor of Adewale Tower reeked of leather, money, and air so cold it bit at Amara’s skin.
Her heels clicked against marble that probably cost more than a month of her father’s dialysis. She didn’t look down. If she looked down, she’d see her hands shaking. And she couldn’t afford to look weak. Not here. Not to _him_.
Damien Adewale didn’t look up when she entered.
He stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, watching Lagos burn gold in the sunset. Hands in his pockets. Posture relaxed. Like he owned the skyline too.
“You’re five minutes early,” he said without turning.
His voice was low, precise. The kind of voice that didn’t need to be raised to make people obey.
“I don’t waste time when my father’s life is on the line,” Amara shot back. Her voice was steady. Barely.
That made him turn.
His eyes were dark. Cold. Assessing her like a spreadsheet. Not a person.
“Good,” he said. “I hate liars. I hate cowards. You’re neither.”
He walked back to the desk and tapped the contract. Once. Twice.
“Read it. Sign it. The medical fund opens by midnight. The ₦10 million hits your account after the marriage is registered.”
Amara picked up the document. 22 pages.
NDAs. Confidentiality clauses. Morality clauses. Rules about where she could go, who she could speak to, what she couldn’t post online. Her stomach twisted.
“This says I can’t tell anyone it’s fake,” she said.
“It’s not fake to the public,” Damien corrected smoothly. “To them, you’re Mrs. Adewale. To me, you’re an employee with benefits.”
“And if I refuse?”
The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
Damien didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The threat from earlier hung between them like a blade.
Amara closed her eyes for one second.
She saw Room 204. Saw her father’s frail hand gripping hers, whispering, _“Don’t worry, pikin. God will provide.”_
God had sent her a devil in a three-piece suit instead.
Her hand moved before her brain could stop it.
She signed.
The pen felt heavier than iron.
Damien took the contract, scanned the signature, and gave one curt nod.
“Welcome to the arrangement, Mrs. Adewale. The press release goes out tomorrow morning. Try not to embarrass me.”
He turned to leave, then paused.
“One rule, Miss Okoro. In public, you play the part. In private, you stay out of my way. Break that rule…”
He let the sentence hang. Dangerous. Deliberate.
“…and the deal ends.”
The elevator doors slid shut behind her with a soft _ding_.
Amara leaned against the wall and exhaled for the first time in an hour. Her legs felt numb.
She’d just sold her name. Her freedom. Her future.
The hardest part wasn’t signing the contract.
It was the way Damien’s eyes lingered on her mouth for half a second before he looked away.
Like he was remembering why he’d said _‘no touching.’_
And Amara had a terrible feeling that one year wouldn’t be long enough to keep that promise.
[To Be Continued…]
- Writer
