24

The envelope on my father’s desk was from GCB Bank. Thick. Expensive paper. The kind they only use when they’re about to destroy your life in writing. FINAL NOTICE was stamped across the front in red ink. I didn’t need to open it. I knew what it said. Addo & Sons Construction. Defaulted. Seizure scheduled. 48 hours. In 48 hours, everything my father built with concrete and blood would belong to strangers. And in 72 hours, Korle-Bu Teaching Hospital would pull the plug on his treatment because I couldn’t pay the 800,000 cedis we owed. I pressed my palms to my eyes until I saw stars. I was 27 years old, CEO of a dying company, and I had exactly 4,200 cedis in my personal account. Not enough for groceries. Definitely not enough to save a man’s life. My phone buzzed on the desk. Unknown number. The message was one line. _My office. 3pm. Kofi Mensah._ For three seconds, I couldn’t breathe. Kofi Mensah. The name alone made my teeth clench. Kofi Mensah hadn’t said a word to me in four years. Not since that day in our final year at University of Ghana, Legon. Not since I stood up in our Business Strategy class and told the entire room that his capstone project was “brilliant code written by a man who’s never been loved, so he wouldn’t know what human connection looks like.” The class went dead silent. Professor Aryee adjusted his glasses. Kofi stared at me for ten full seconds. His face didn’t change. He didn’t defend himself. He just closed his laptop, picked up his bag, and walked out. He never looked at me again. And now he was summoning me. Like I was his employee. Like the last four years didn’t happen. I almost texted back _Go to hell._ But desperate women don’t have the luxury of pride. So at 2:55pm, I was in the elevator of Mensah Towers, East Legon. The building was ridiculous. Glass and steel, 20 floors high, with his company logo glowing on the top like a crown. MensahTech. The app everyone in Ghana used to pay bills, send money, buy data. The app that made him a billionaire at 26. The receptionist didn’t ask my name. She just smiled. “Mr. Mensah is expecting you, Miss Addo. 20th floor.” Of course he was expecting me. Kofi Mensah expected the world to adjust to him. The elevator opened directly into his office. No hallway. No waiting room. Just floor-to-ceiling windows showing all of Accra, and a desk the size of a small car. And him. He was standing by the window, back to me, hands in his pockets. Wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my entire university tuition. His hair was cut close, neat. His shoulders were broader than I remembered from school. He didn’t turn around when I entered. “You’re late,” he said. His voice was exactly the same. Deep. Calm. Like nothing ever touched him. “It’s 3:01pm.” “Traffic on Liberation Road,” I said automatically. Then I caught myself. Why was I explaining myself to him? “Why am I here, Kofi?” Now he turned. And God help me, he was worse in person. University Kofi was sharp, intense, a little socially awkward. This Kofi was a weapon. Cold eyes. Jawline that could cut glass. The kind of face that made women forget their names. The kind of man who knew it. He didn’t smile. He never smiled back in school either. He walked to his desk and sat down. Didn’t offer me a chair. “I’ll be direct,” he said. “I don’t have time to waste, and neither do you.” He slid a black folder across the polished desk. “I need a wife.” The words landed between us like a bomb. I stared at him. Then I stared at the folder. Then I laughed. It came out broken, hysterical. “I’m sorry, what?” “A wife,” he repeated, like he was explaining a software update. “For six months. Contractual. Performance based.” I walked forward and picked up the folder before I could stop myself. The paper inside was thick. Legal. My name was already typed on the first page. _NANA ESI ADDO_ _Contract of Marriage: Mensah & Addo_ “You’ve lost your mind,” I whispered. “My grandmother is dying,” he said. No emotion. Just fact. “Nana Yaa Mensah. She has stage four pancreatic cancer. Six months left, maybe less.” Despite everything, my chest hurt. Nana Yaa was famous in Accra. Old money. Philanthropist. She ran the Mensah Foundation that built schools and hospitals all over Ghana. My father had done three contracts for her in the 90s. He always said she was the only client who paid on time and brought you lunch. “She changed her will last month,” Kofi continued. “The foundation — worth two billion cedis — goes to me only if I’m married within 30 days of her diagnosis. If I’m not, the entire amount goes to the Ministry of Health. I lose control of my family’s legacy.” Two billion cedis. The number didn’t even feel real. “And you think I care?” I said. My voice was shaking. “What does this have to do with me?” He leaned back in his chair. Studied me like I was a bug under glass. “You are 2.3 million cedis in personal debt. Your company owes GCB Bank 6.1 million cedis. Your father’s medical bills at Korle-Bu are 800,000 cedis, unpaid since last month. The bank forecloses Friday at 9am. The hospital stops treatment Friday at 12pm.” The air left my lungs. “You investigated me.” “I investigate everyone I do business with,” he said. “You’re perfect for this role, Miss Addo.” “Role?” He opened the folder and turned it to face me. There it was. Clause after clause. _Term: Six (6) Months_ _Compensation: Ten Million Ghana Cedis (GHS 10,000,000)_ _Payment Schedule: GHS 2,000,000 upon signing, GHS 8,000,000 upon successful completion_ Ten million cedis. I gripped the edge of his desk. The room tilted. “Marry me,” he said. “Live in my house in East Legon. Pretend to be in love for my grandmother. Follow the rules. After six months, we file for divorce. You walk away with ten million cedis. I keep my inheritance.” My hands were numb. “Why me? There are a hundred women in Accra who would kill for this.” “There are,” he agreed. “But they would want more. They would fall in love with me, or with the money. They would leak to the press. They would try to trap me with a pregnancy. You won’t.” “Why not?” His eyes met mine. Cold. Sure. “Because you hate me, Nana. You’ve hated me since the day you humiliated me in front of our entire class. You won’t sleep with me. You won’t catch feelings. You’ll treat this like a business transaction, because that’s all you’re capable of.” The words hit lower than any slap. Because part of me knew he was right. I did hate him. I hated how he made me feel stupid and small and angry, all at once. I hated that I’d thought about that day in class at least once a month for four years. I hated that he was still the most infuriating, intelligent, gorgeous man I’d ever met. “You’re wrong,” I said, but my voice was weak. “Am I?” He stood up. Walked around the desk until he was in front of me. Too close. I could smell his cologne. Something expensive and clean. “Your father dies in three days if you don’t get that money. I’m offering you a way out. All you have to do is say yes.” He pulled a pen from his inside pocket. Mont Blanc. Gold. Heavy. He held it out to me. “The rules are simple,” he said. “Rule #1: No emotions. This is not real. Rule #2: No press, no social media, no friends know the truth. Rule #3: You sleep in the guest bedroom. We are never intimate. Rule #4: You make Nana Yaa believe we are in love. If she suspects it’s fake, the contract is void and you owe me the two million advance back.” Two million cedis upfront. I could pay the hospital today. Stop the foreclosure tomorrow. I thought of my father. Of his hands, rough from 40 years of construction work. Of him teaching me to read blueprints when I was eight. Of him telling me, _Nana, never let a man buy you. Your name is worth more._ But what was my name worth if he died? “What if I say no?” I asked. My throat was raw. Kofi’s expression didn’t change. “Then I call Ama Boateng. She’s a lawyer. Divorced. 31. She’s been waiting for my call. Or I call Efua Paintsil. 24. i********: model. She already sent me her terms.” He checked his watch. A Patek Philippe. “It’s 3:17pm. I need an answer by 5pm. After that, the offer expires.” The pen was still in his hand. Waiting. Ten million cedis. Six months of my life. Six months of pretending to be Mrs. Kofi Mensah. Six months of living in a house with the man I’d spent four years trying to forget. Six months, and my father lives. I reached out and took the pen. His fingers brushed mine for half a second. Just a touch. But it went through me like electric current. I jerked back. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes flicked to my hand, then back to my face. But he said nothing. I flipped to the last page of the contract. There was a blank line. With my name typed underneath. _Nana Esi Addo_ I pressed the pen to the paper. My hand was shaking so badly I could barely write. _Kofi_, I thought. _I hope you rot for this._ I signed my name. When I looked up, he was watching me. For the first time, his expression wasn’t blank. There was something there. Satisfaction? Victory? Regret? I couldn’t tell. With Kofi, I never could. “Congratulations, Mrs. Mensah,” he said quietly. “We get married in three days.” He took the contract from me. Our fingers didn’t touch this time. “Go home and pack,” he said. “My driver will pick you up at 8am tomorrow. You’re moving into East Legon.” Just like that. My life wasn’t mine anymore. I walked out of his office without saying another word. I didn’t look back. But I felt his eyes on me all the way to the elevator. Only when the doors closed did I let myself collapse against the wall and cry. Ten million cedis. I’d just sold myself to Kofi Mensah. And the worst part? A small, ugly part of me was excited.