Bound by Duty, Freed by Love

In love on paper🥰

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The office smelled of coffee, printer ink, and fresh legal pads. Tricia Ume sat with her back straight, clutching her purse as if it could anchor her to reality. Across from her sat Anthony Okwu—clean-cut, brilliant-eyed, and far too confident for someone who had just suggested they get married.

She replayed his words in her head, trying to make sense of them.

“You need a visa, and I need a wife—temporarily,” he’d said. “It’s not romantic. It’s just...practical.”

Tricia narrowed her eyes. “Marriage isn’t something you just do for convenience, Anthony.”

“You’d be surprised how many people do,” he said, folding his hands together over a sleek file folder. “We both have something to gain. I need to appear ‘settled’ for the board to approve the European expansion. You need permanent residency. We can help each other. No strings.”

She gave a short laugh. “That’s a lot of strings disguised as none.”

“We draft a prenup. We live together for appearances, attend a few events. One year. Then we get divorced and go our separate ways.”

It sounded easy. Too easy. But Tricia knew her time was running out. Her modeling agency had dropped her three months ago after a client falsely accused her of breach of contract. Without a job offer or sponsor, her visa would expire in weeks. She’d already sold her car and was working freelance gigs just to keep her studio apartment. Nigeria felt like a distant past—her mother’s disappointed voice, the overbearing pressure to succeed, and the suffocating idea of returning as a failure. She couldn’t go back.

Anthony pushed the folder toward her. “Think about it.”

She stared down at the document. Her name and his, typed in bold.

“This is crazy,” she whispered.

“But it’ll work,” he replied.

Tricia took the file home. She spent the night staring at her ceiling, the fan spinning with mechanical detachment, much like the proposal itself. It was madness, but also a lifeline. And for a girl who had come to Lagos with two suitcases and a head full of dreams, lifelines were not to be ignored.

She signed the next morning.

The ceremony was quick, done in a courthouse with a borrowed white dress and a witness who didn’t care for names. There were no flowers, no kisses, no promises whispered under an altar—just paperwork and a flash of cameras for legal proof.

She moved into Anthony’s high-rise apartment the next day. He had cleared the guest room for her. “You’ll have your space. I’ll have mine,” he said. “We’re roommates. Nothing more.”

The rules were simple: Attend at least two corporate events a month. Pretend to be happily married in public. Do not interfere with each other’s private lives. And above all—do not fall in love.

For the first few weeks, they were polite strangers. Tricia spent her days attending modeling auditions and freelance shoots. Anthony left for work early and came home late, always impeccably dressed, always immersed in his phone. They shared a fridge but not dinners. Laughed once or twice, never together.

Then came the night of the blackout.

Tricia was in the kitchen reheating leftover jollof rice when the power snapped off, plunging the apartment into darkness. She cursed under her breath, fumbling for her phone. She walked into the living room and found Anthony sitting on the floor, candles lit, a bottle of wine between them.

“You drink during power outages?” she asked.

“It’s tradition,” he said, handing her a glass.

She sat across from him. For the first time, they weren’t lawyer and model, contract husband and paper wife. They were two people stuck in a moment. The candles cast soft shadows over his face. She noticed the weariness under his eyes, the tired edge in his posture.

“Rough day?” she asked.

He nodded. “Board is pushing. Investors want results. And everyone wants to know about ‘my lovely wife.’”

Tricia snorted. “Am I lovely enough for them?”

“You’re perfect,” he said, not smiling.

She blinked.

“On paper,” he added, and the tension broke into laughter.

From that night, something shifted. It began subtly—mornings when he’d ask if she wanted coffee, evenings when she’d leave a plate for him in the microwave. They started watching news together on Sundays, bickering over who controlled the remote. When he caught a cold, she brought him soup. When her audition went terribly, he told her, “They’d be stupid not to hire you.”

She didn’t know when her heart began to betray the contract. Maybe it was the way he ran a hand through his hair when frustrated. Maybe it was how he’d glance at her during company events like she was the only thing in the room. Or the quiet smiles he saved only for her when they danced, arm in arm, pretending for others but unsure who they were fooling anymore.

By the fourth month, the lines were blurry.

“Do you ever think about...what happens after this?” she asked one night, curled on the couch beside him.

Anthony was silent for a long moment. “You mean the divorce?”

“Yes.”

He exhaled. “I try not to.”

Tricia stared at the screen, pretending to be interested in the movie. But all she could think about was the expiration date hanging over their hearts.

One evening, during a gala for his firm’s anniversary, Tricia stood in the hallway outside the ballroom, her hands trembling. A client had cornered her with a flirtatious remark, and the humiliation stung.

Anthony found her minutes later. “Hey, what happened?”

She looked up, eyes wet. “I don’t belong here. I’m just someone you hired to play a part.”

He cupped her face gently. “Don’t ever say that.”

“But it’s true.”

“No,” he whispered. “You’re the only thing that makes this fake life feel real.”

They kissed. Slowly. Carefully. Then again, like they’d been holding their breath for months.

That night, Tricia didn’t sleep in the guest room. And when the sun poured in through the blinds, she woke up wrapped in his arms, their bodies tangled like secrets that refused to be buried.

They didn’t talk about what it meant. They didn’t rewrite the contract or draw new boundaries. They simply moved forward—closer, warmer, together.

But the clock was ticking.

One year.

It was always meant to end.

Eight months in, Tricia was offered a modeling contract in Johannesburg—her biggest yet. It came with sponsorship and permanent residency. She didn’t need the marriage anymore.

She told Anthony over dinner.

“That’s amazing,” he said, smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

She nodded, unsure why her heart ached.

“So this changes things,” she said quietly.

“I guess it does,” he replied.

They didn’t speak much after that. The silence was familiar but different now—sadder, heavier. Like two people standing on a bridge that was about to collapse and pretending it was still stable.

The twelfth month came with a court date. They sat beside each other, hands folded, hearts bruised.

“This is a mutual separation?” the judge asked.

Anthony looked at Tricia. Her eyes were glassy, but she nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “Mutual.”

The papers were stamped. The deal was over. The lifeline had been cut.

Tricia moved out that evening. She left a note on the kitchen counter.

"Thank you—for everything. I didn’t fall in love with the contract. I fell in love with you."

She didn’t expect a reply.

Weeks passed. She packed for Johannesburg. The new life was promising—better pay, steady gigs, freedom. But her heart hadn’t caught up with her suitcase.

Then one morning, she opened her inbox to find a legal document.

She gasped.

It was a marriage certificate—again.

But it wasn’t a duplicate of the old one. This one was new. It had today’s date. And under “purpose,” someone had written: For love, not paperwork.

She turned to find Anthony standing in her doorway, holding a small velvet box.

“I was wrong,” he said. “This started on paper. But I want it to end in forever.”

She cried. He stepped forward.

“Tricia Ume,” he said, his voice trembling, “will you marry me—no clauses, no contracts, just love?”

She didn’t answer with words. She kissed him.

And this time, it was real.