Terms & Conditions of Us

Zina Okoye had mastered three skills in her twenty-eight years on Earth: faking politeness, surviving office politics, and dodging small talk before 10 a.m. But none of those talents prepared her for the message that flashed across her screen at 8:46 a.m.: > “Can I see you in my office? — Ifeoma.” She groaned audibly. It wasn’t even nine o’clock, and her week was already plotting her downfall. She pushed her chair back, grabbed her tablet like it could protect her from whatever awaited, and walked across the open-floor office of ViVá PR, Abuja’s most elite public relations firm. As she passed the other desks, she caught the eyes of her least favorite coworker, Bella—who looked up from her French tips long enough to smirk like she knew something. Typical. Zina adjusted her high-waisted slacks and knocked once before opening the glass door to Ifeoma’s office. The founder and queen bee of ViVá sat poised behind a modern desk, wearing a peach pantsuit and a smile that never quite reached her eyes. “Zina, good morning. Sit.” Zina did, silently calculating whether this was going to end in a promotion or a PR disaster. Ifeoma folded her arms and launched in. “You’ve heard of Damilare Akande, yes?” Zina gave a dry chuckle. “You mean the tech mogul turned meme king? The one who told CNN Africa that women distract male coders? No, never heard of him.” Ifeoma didn’t blink. “He’s our new client.” Zina stared. “You’re joking.” “I never joke about money.” “I thought ViVá had standards.” “We do. And he’s paying top naira to fix his image, and we’ve been retained for a full rebrand. That includes shaping a softer, more grounded public persona. Which leads me to why you’re here.” Zina already didn’t like where this was going. “He needs a girlfriend,” Ifeoma said, like it was the most normal sentence in the world. Zina blinked once. Then twice. “I’m sorry—come again?” “Publicly, Zina. Not privately. A relationship that makes headlines. Softens the edges. Changes the narrative. You two show up at events together, post a few curated photos, give just enough chemistry to make the blogs lose their minds. Then, quietly… you part ways. Mutual respect. No drama.” Zina sat back in her seat. “You want me to fake date Abuja’s most cancelled billionaire?” “He’s not cancelled. He’s… paused.” Zina laughed—loudly. “Let me guess. His reputation is bad, but he’s rich enough that we’re pretending it doesn’t matter.” Ifeoma’s lips twitched. “Exactly.” “No,” Zina said. “No way. I do PR, not performance art.” “Zina, listen—he requested you.” Zina froze. “Excuse me?” “He read your profile. Said you weren’t the typical socialite type. Thought your edge and authenticity would sell the story better.” Zina narrowed her eyes. “So because I don’t bleach my skin and quote Bible verses on i********:, I’m now the believable girlfriend?” “Basically.” Zina rose. “This is ridiculous.” Ifeoma rose, too. “And your promotion is on the line.” That made Zina pause. She’d been angling for the senior exec slot for months—grinding through back-to-back launches, cleaning up messes left by younger staff, and pretending Bella didn’t piss her off daily. This Damilare stunt? It could be her shortcut to the top. “You’re serious,” Zina said. “Completely. It’s three months. Appear with him, act in love, keep the gossip juicy but PG. The firm gets its biggest win, and you get to write your own ticket afterward.” Zina sighed. “And if I say no?” “Then Bella becomes the face of this campaign.” Zina winced like she’d been slapped. Bella would butcher it and somehow still come out smelling like vanilla. “I’ll think about it,” she muttered. “You have until 6 p.m. today. You’re meeting him at Eros Lounge. Dress well. He’s very… specific.” Zina turned and walked out of the office, every step laced with silent curses. Of all the ways her Monday could’ve gone, this was bottom-tier Nollywood. --- 6:12 PM – Eros Lounge, Wuse II The restaurant screamed wealth in hushed tones. Dark marble floors, warm ambient lighting, soft jazz floating through the air. The kind of place where the water costs more than Zina’s rent. She stepped through the gold-framed doors wearing a black silk dress that clung to her like second skin and heels she only wore to intimidate. Her curls were swept up, her eyes lined sharply, and her heart was doing backflips under all that calm. Then she saw him. Seated at a corner table like a prince who didn’t care for crowns, Damilare Akande looked unfairly edible. Tall, broad shoulders under a dark grey blazer, a simple black shirt unbuttoned just low enough to hint at sin. His beard was trimmed, his watch sleek, and his eyes— They landed on her with full awareness. Zina’s steps faltered for half a second. He stood as she approached, giving her a slow, appreciative once-over. “Zina.” “Damilare.” His lips curled slightly. “Nice to meet you in the flesh.” “Same. Now let’s get this circus over with.” He chuckled, gesturing to the seat across from him. She sat, crossing her legs and folding her arms. “You’re direct,” he said. “I hate small talk.” “Good. So do I.” He poured her a glass of still water without asking. She ignored the fact that the gesture made something shift low in her belly. “So,” he began, resting his arms on the table. “I’ll be honest. This isn’t my first choice either. But I trust Ifeoma. And I like control.” “Same,” Zina replied. “Which is why I need full boundaries, clear expectations, and an airtight timeline.” Damilare raised an eyebrow. “You’re a negotiator.” “I’m a woman. In PR. In Abuja. I don’t play games I can’t win.” He leaned back, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Alright then. Terms.” Zina pulled her tablet from her clutch and opened her Notes app. “Three-month arrangement. Public appearances only. No s*x, no touching beyond what’s necessary for the cameras, and no personal entanglements. We keep it clean.” He watched her carefully. “What happens if people dig?” “They will. That’s my job to handle. Yours is to smile, play nice, and not say anything sexist to journalists.” He grinned. “You’re still salty about that interview?” “It was a mess.” “I was baited.” “You were arrogant.” He laughed, the sound low and genuine. “Maybe. But I’m trying to be less so.” “Start by not looking at me like you own the air I breathe.” He tilted his head. “What if I want to?” Zina blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. There was something in his voice now—lower, slower. “I don’t like being toyed with,” she said quietly. “And I don’t like pretending. But here we are.” They stared at each other for a beat too long. Something unspoken simmered between them—potential, danger, tension. Zina cleared her throat. “Do we have a deal or not?” Damilare leaned forward, elbows on the table. “One condition.” “Of course.” “We kiss. Tonight. Once. At the valet. Just to start the story off.” Zina’s brows shot up. “That’s not in the agreement.” He smiled. “Then renegotiate.” Her heart pounded. She hated that she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “Fine. One kiss. But if you touch my ass, I’ll ruin your entire career.” “I wouldn’t dare,” he murmured. But his eyes told a different story. --- By the time they left the restaurant, the paparazzi had already been tipped off. Two discreet clicks sounded as they stepped outside—just enough to sell the narrative. And when Damilare’s hand settled on her lower back and he leaned in, brushing his lips softly—too softly—against hers, Zina didn’t pull away. She didn’t lean in either. But her body... remembered. And when they broke apart, his voice was a whisper at her temple. “This is going to be fun.”