The hospital corridor reeked of antiseptic and death.
Amara Okoro’s fingers trembled as she crushed the medical report. The ink bled where her tears hit.
“Acute kidney failure. Dialysis required immediately.”*
“Estimated cost: ₦4,200,000.”
Room 204. Her father lay there, breathing through an oxygen mask. The man who worked 20 years of night shifts so she could graduate first-class in Accounting.
And her account balance read: ₦17,500.
47 job applications. 47 rejections.
_“No experience.”_
_“Come back when you have connections.”_
She was out of time. Out of options. Out of hope.
Her phone buzzed as she stepped outside. Unknown number.
“Miss Okoro? Mr. Adewale’s office. He wants to see you tonight at 8 PM. A business proposal. It can solve your problems.”
Damien Adewale.
The name hit her like ice water.
Lagos’s youngest billionaire. Ruthless. Cold. The man her father spat at and called _“the devil in a three-piece suit.”_
Why her? Why now?
She didn’t have a choice. For her father, she’d walk into hell.
---
At 8 PM sharp, Amara stood on the 40th floor of Adewale Tower. Glass, steel, and power surrounded her.
Damien didn’t rise when she entered. He didn’t smile. He just slid a thick contract across the desk. His eyes were like ice.
“Marry me. For one year.”
Amara blinked. “What?”
“Publicly, you’re my wife. Privately, we don’t touch. In return, I pay your father’s medical bills. I give you ₦10 million.”
Her breath caught. “And what do _you_ get?”
Damien’s jaw clenched. He leaned forward, voice low and dangerous.
“My grandfather is dying. He wants to see me married before he goes. Refuse me…”
He paused. Let the silence crush her.
“…and I’ll make sure no hospital in Lagos touches your father.”
The room tilted.
This wasn’t a proposal.
It was a death sentence with a wedding ring.
“24 hours, Miss Okoro,” he said, standing up. “Decide before I change my mind.”
Amara stared at the contract. At his cold eyes. At the life of the only man she had left.
She had one day to sell herself to the devil.
[To Be Continued…]