My Husband Under Contract

The Ivorian interlude

Chapter 3 – The Ivorian Interlude

The wedding preparations were moving fast.

In the Ndiaye house, there was only one subject: the date, the outfits, the guest list, the food, the orchestra.

Ndeye, more determined than ever, supervised everything down to the smallest detail. She checked fabrics, quotes, menus, rings, as if each item could erase the “sin” of her son. She wanted everything perfect. She wanted the Ndiaye name to shine. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could suggest a crack in the respectable image she had built for years.

Mame-Diarra, for her part, was glowing. She moved through the house like a queen already crowned, a permanent smile on her lips. She was floating, convinced she had finally obtained what she had wanted since childhood: Omar.

Omar now called her more often. He took her to elegant restaurants in Dakar. He bought her carefully chosen gifts.

But there was something in his eyes.

A distance. An absence.

Mame-Diarra was not naïve. She could see that his eyes did not light up when he looked at her. She felt every silence between them, every kiss placed on her cheek with the restraint of a brother, not the passion of a fiancé. But in truth, it did not matter to her.

She was going to become an Ndiaye.

And for her, that was worth more than love. It was a position, a name, security, power. Everything this marriage represented was more important than a simple “I love you.”

Ndeye, eager to erase the “scandal” before it could explode, wanted the wedding celebrated as quickly as possible. The closer the date felt, the more she believed she was taking back control over her son’s destiny.

Mame-Diarra, however, dreamed big.

She talked about dresses imported from Turkey, satin outfits, hand-embroidered veils. She wanted Nigerian decorators, flowers from Morocco, a wedding worthy of royalty. She wanted Dakar to remember it.

This taste for grandeur, which sometimes irritated Ndeye, had an unexpected effect on Omar. The more Mame-Diarra wanted luxury, the more complicated the organization became. Quotes took longer. Decisions were delayed.

And the wedding date kept being pushed back.

That delay, that breathing space, felt to Omar like oxygen in a corridor that was slowly closing.

One morning, as the house buzzed with talk of fabrics and caterers, Babacar received an urgent call from the Ivorian branch of N’DIAYE & FAMILY. Serious financial problems were threatening a major project in Abidjan. They needed someone they trusted on the ground.

Babacar could not go himself. After a moment of reflection, there was only one logical choice: Omar.

When the news was announced, Ndeye immediately opposed it.

“Omar cannot leave now,” she protested. “We are preparing his wedding!”

But it was not the wedding that truly frightened her.

It was fear.

Fear that in Abidjan, far from her eyes, her son would taste freedom again. Fear that he would move even further away from the path she had chosen for him. Fear, above all, that he might meet someone.

Babacar was firm.

“If he doesn’t go, I will send Aïda instead,” he said, speaking of his eldest daughter.

That name was unbearable to Ndeye. The idea that Aziza’s daughter could take a strategic place in the family empire instead of Omar was unthinkable. So she swallowed her objections and gave in.

Omar, on the other hand, received the mission like a gift from heaven.

Two weeks in Abidjan.

Two weeks away from his mother’s watchful eyes. Away from wedding plans, fittings, forced smiles, and constant pretending.

He promised to behave professionally…

but deep down, he knew this trip would be more than work.

He arrived in Abidjan on a Saturday afternoon. The humid heat wrapped around him as soon as he left the airport. Horns, street vendors, colorful taxis, voices everywhere — chaotic and alive. A company driver greeted him with a warm smile.

That same evening, he met old friends for spicy attiéké-fish in a noisy local maquis. Music, laughter, jokes — Omar found himself laughing too, truly, without fear.

Later, the night carried them into a lively party, lights mixing with the heavy beats of coupé-décalé. In the crowd, Omar felt something he had not felt in a long time.

Freedom.

On Monday morning, he became the CEO again.

Fresh, focused, perfectly dressed, he arrived at the Plateau offices of N’DIAYE & FAMILY. Glass walls, modern buildings, a young dynamic team. The staff welcomed him with respect.

After the welcome meeting, they introduced the financial director.

“Mr. Ndiaye, this is Mrs. Christelle Adjovi.”

She entered with quiet elegance. Beautiful without excess. Poised, in a perfectly tailored suit. Intelligent eyes. Calm gestures.

Daughter of a wealthy Ivorian family, educated in London — it showed in her presence, her voice.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ndiaye. We will work well together, I’m sure.”

She was assigned to explain the company’s financial situation to him. Minutes later, they sat together, files spread across the desk.

But it was not the numbers that came first.

From the first moments, something passed between them. A silent connection. An easy understanding. Their exchanges flowed naturally. Christelle was clear, efficient. Omar found himself speaking to her with an ease he had not felt with a woman in a long time.

No panic. No pressure.

Just… calm.

Not desire.

But a peaceful energy. As if, for the first time in months, he did not have to pretend.

Abidjan might not be just a business trip.

It might be a pause.

Or the beginning of a turning point.