The Billionaire's Unwanted Bride

THE FITTING

Something happened at the corner of his mouth.

Not quite a smile. Something in the neighbourhood of one. A smile’s cousin, visiting briefly.

“The risk,” he said, composing himself, “is that if they identify the false information as planted, they’ll know we have access to the account and move their communications.”

“Which is why the false strategy needs to be built on real information,” I said. “Real case law. Real arguments. Things a competent lawyer would genuinely consider. It just needs to be the second-best strategy rather than the best one.” I tapped my pen on the notepad. “Valentina is exceptional. She’ll see through anything amateur. But she won’t be looking for deception — she’ll be looking for confirmation that she already has us figured out.”

“Arrogance,” Zion said.

“Competence that has never been seriously challenged,” I corrected. “Which in my experience is more dangerous and considerably easier to use.”

He looked at me for a moment. “How long will it take you to build the false strategy?”

“Four days.” I paused. “I’ll need full access to all the case documents, the will, the challenge filing, and every piece of correspondence between your father’s estate and Emeka’s lawyers.”

“You have it.”

“I’ll also need someone I can trust to review the false document and confirm it reads as genuinely as the real one.”

“Mr. Eze,” he said immediately.

“Mr. Eze,” I agreed.

He stood. Returned to the whiteboard. Added two lines in his tight, precise handwriting.

I opened my notepad and began writing.

We worked in silence for approximately four minutes before the door opened and Adaeze’s head appeared in the gap with the cheerful disregard for atmosphere that was her particular superpower.

“Good morning!” She looked between us with bright, unsubtle curiosity. “You’re both here very early.”

“Yes,” Zion said, without turning from the board.

“Working very closely together.”

“Adaeze.”

“I’m just observing.”

“Leave.”

“I brought chin chin.” She held up a container. “From Mummy. She said Amara looked like she hadn’t eaten properly in three days.” She set the container on the table, beamed at me, and disappeared before Zion could respond.

I looked at the chin chin.

Looked at the door.

“Your family,” I said, “has a very particular approach to professional boundaries.”

“I am aware,” Zion said tiredly.

I opened the container.

It was very good chin chin.

Chief Mrs. Okonkwo, I decided, expressed love through food and intelligence operations in roughly equal measure.

I ate three pieces and got back to work.

What neither Amara nor Zion knows yet: the email account has a secondary notification setting that alerts a third address whenever someone logs in. That address belongs to Phillip Adaora. He received the login notification at seven forty-two this morning. He is now aware that someone has accessed the account. He has not told Emeka or Valentina yet. He is thinking. And Phillip Adaora thinking quietly is considerably more dangerous than either of them being loud.

Mrs. Fashola called on a Wednesday to remind me about the wedding dress fitting.

I was in the middle of constructing what I had privately titled The Beautiful Lie — the false legal strategy designed to walk Valentina Morrow confidently into a wall — and I stared at Mrs. Fashola’s name on my phone screen for a full four seconds before I remembered that she did not know that I knew.

This was the most exhausting part of the whole operation. Not the legal work. Not the late nights. Not even the weight of everything I was carrying.

It was the performance.

Smiling at Mrs. Fashola. Answering her calls. Responding to her cheerful messages about material samples and floral arrangements while knowing that every detail I shared was being filed in a report sent to the man trying to destroy my husband.

My husband. I noticed I had started thinking of him that way.

I rolled my eyes, snorted, and turned back to what I was doing.

“Mrs. Fashola,” I answered warmly. “Yes, I hadn’t forgotten.”

“Wonderful! The designer is ready for you at two o’clock. Victoria Island. I’ll send the address.” She paused. “Should I inform Mr. Okonkwo’s office of your schedule for the afternoon?”

“No need,” I said pleasantly. “I’ll handle that myself.”

I hung up and immediately sent Zion a message: Dress fitting 2pm. She’ll be there. I’ll give her something useful to report.

His response came in forty seconds: What are you planning.

Not a question. This was a thing I had noticed about Zion — when he was genuinely concerned, his punctuation disappeared.

Nothing dangerous, just a little misdirection. I’ll tell her the wedding is moving to a different venue. Somewhere Emeka’s people will spend the next two weeks preparing to disrupt. I typed back.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

You’re enjoying this.

I smiled at my phone. I’m a lawyer. We call it strategy.

His response was a single word: Careful.

Which, from Zion Okonkwo, I was beginning to understand was the closest thing to please don’t get hurt that he currently knew how to say.

The bridal designer — her name was Kemi Adeyemi-Cole, and she sewed bridal dreams in a Victoria Island studio where the air was heavy with the scent of fabric and wanting. I had seen her gowns once, glossy on magazine pages, and I tucked the memory away in the part of my mind reserved for things meant for other kinds of lives — lives that did not look like mine.

My life had gone differently than what I had planned, and I’m not about to back out now.