THE MEETING
1067 Words
The café air carried the faint bite of espresso and polished wood. Aria pushed through the glass door at exactly 1:58 p.m. She had changed into a simple black blazer over the white blouse from yesterday, hair still pulled back, no makeup beyond a swipe of lip balm. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screamed she was walking into a trap she had set for herself.
The hostess gave her a quick nod and led her past the main seating to the corner booth. Floor-to-ceiling frosted glass shielded it from the rest of the room. Private. Expensive. The kind of space people used when they didn’t want witnesses.
Ethan was already there.
He sat with his back to the wall, one arm resting on the table, the other loose at his side. Dark suit jacket draped over the chair behind him, sleeves of his white shirt rolled once. No tie. Collar open. He looked up as she approached, gray eyes steady, no flicker of surprise.
She slid into the opposite seat without waiting.
“Punctual,” he said.
“Habit.” She set her bag beside her. “You?”
“Same.”
A waiter appeared with two black coffees already poured. No menu. No small talk. He left as quietly as he came.
Ethan pushed a slim leather folder across the table. “Contract. Final version.”
She opened it. The pages smelled faintly of printer ink. Same clauses she had read last night. One year. No intimacy. No emotional attachment. Public affection only when required for appearances. Divorce after the term. Ten million wired on completion, plus a non-disclosure agreement that could bankrupt her twice over if she broke it.
She flipped to the signature page. Her name was already typed below his.
She looked up. “You sign first.”
He took the pen from his pocket. Clicked it once. Signed in quick, precise strokes. The scar on his ring finger caught the light as he moved—thin white line, slightly curved, running from knuckle to joint.
Her breath hitched. Just for a second.
She knew that scar.
Twelve years ago. Garage fire. Smoke thick enough to choke. A boy—sixteen maybe—had yanked her out by the wrist before the beams collapsed. His hand had been bleeding then. The same cut. The same shape.
She forced her gaze back to the paper.
Ethan slid the folder to her side. “Your turn.”
She picked up the pen. The barrel felt cool against her palm. She signed. Sharp, deliberate letters. Aria Kane.
When she looked up again, he was watching her. Not the contract. Her.
“Done,” she said.
“Done.”
Silence settled between them like dust.
She leaned back. “Rules. Read them out loud.”
He raised one brow. “You want confirmation?”
“I want clarity.”
He exhaled through his nose. Took the folder back. Flipped to the relevant section.
“Clause four: Parties agree to maintain separate residences except for required public appearances. Clause five: No physical intimacy beyond hand-holding, arm-linking, or similar gestures necessary for optics. Clause six: No emotional involvement. No declarations of affection. No private contact outside agreed events. Clause seven: Marriage dissolves after three hundred and sixty-five days. Mutual non-disclosure. Penalty for breach: full forfeiture of compensation and potential legal action.”
He closed the folder. “Clear?”
“Crystal.”
She studied him. The way he held himself—shoulders square, jaw set, but no tension in the fingers wrapped around his coffee cup. Controlled. Always controlled.
“Why me?” she asked again.
He took a slow sip. “You’re capable. Discreet. No visible attachments. No history that would complicate media scrutiny.”
She let the lie hang there.
“And the money?” she pressed.
“Ten million. Half upfront after the ceremony. Half at the end.”
She nodded once. “Wedding?”
“Three days. Civil. My lawyer will handle the paperwork. Small venue. No guests beyond necessary witnesses.”
She traced the rim of her cup with her thumb. “Public affection. Define necessary.”
“Hand on the small of your back. Arm around waist for photos. Brief cheek kiss if the cameras demand it.”
Her stomach tightened. Not disgust. Something warmer. Unwanted.
“And after the year?”
“You walk away. Richer. Free.”
She met his eyes. “You think it’s that easy?”
His mouth curved—just the smallest fraction. “Nothing worth having is easy.”
The scar on his finger caught the light again as he set his cup down.
She stared at it. Memory flashed: smoke stinging her eyes, strong grip on her wrist, a voice cutting through the roar of flames. “Move. Now.”
Same voice? Deeper now. Calmer. But the same quiet command.
She swallowed. Pushed the thought away.
“Anything else?” she asked.
He leaned forward slightly. “One more thing.”
She waited.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “I’ll know.”
Her pulse kicked. “Mutual.”
He studied her for a long beat. Then he stood.
“I’ll send the location and time tomorrow morning. Dress appropriately. Black car will pick you up.”
She rose too. “I can get myself there.”
His gaze flicked to her bag, then back to her face. “Humor me.”
She didn’t argue.
He stepped around the table. Close enough that she caught the faint scent of his cologne—cedar, something sharp underneath. Clean. Expensive.
He paused beside her. Looked down.
“See you in three days, Aria.”
She didn’t answer.
He walked out first. The glass door swung shut behind him.
She stood there a moment longer. Heart beating too fast for a simple signature.
She looked at her own hand. The scar on her palm—thin white line from the same night.
Then she thought of his ring finger.
Same cut. Same curve.
She exhaled slowly.
Three days.
Three days until she married the boy who had pulled her from the fire.
And three days until she started burning his world down.
She picked up her bag and left the booth.
The waiter was already clearing the cups.
Outside, the Lagos sun hit her face hard.
She didn’t look back.
But she felt his eyes on her anyway.
- Writer
