Chapter 6: Fitting the Mask
622 Words
The boutique was closed to the public.
Chidinma stood on a raised platform in front of three full-length mirrors, wearing a wedding dress that cost more than her mother's annual salary, while two women circled her like surgeons preparing for operation.
"Lift your arms slightly, dear."
"The hem needs to come up half an inch."
"Should we take in the waist?"
Zainab sat in a velvet chair nearby, scrolling through her tablet. "No. It's perfect as is. We want elegant, not desperate."
The lead designer—a thin woman named Colette with a French accent and sharp eyes—stepped back to assess. "She has good posture. Good bone structure. The dress works."
Chidinma stared at her reflection.
The gown was white—pure white, which felt like a lie—with delicate lace sleeves and a cathedral train. Modest neckline. No cleavage, no drama. Exactly the kind of dress a gospel singer would choose.
That was the point.
Everything was the point.
"How does it feel?" Zainab asked.
Like a costume. Like a trap.
"It's fine," Chidinma said.
"You're supposed to say it's beautiful."
"It's beautiful."
"Try to mean it. You'll be saying that a lot to reporters."
Colette began pinning the hem. Chidinma forced herself to stand still, to breathe, to not scream.
"We'll need to practice your smile," Zainab said, not looking up from her tablet.
"My smile is fine."
"Your smile says 'I'm being held hostage.' We need 'I'm the happiest woman in Lagos.'"
"I'm not an actress."
"You are now."
The door to the boutique opened. Chidinma glanced over—and froze.
Obiora walked in, flanked by two men in dark suits. He wore a gray three-piece, looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine, and his presence filled the space immediately.
The designers stopped working. Even Colette straightened.
"Mr. Kalu," Zainab stood. "You're early."
"Finished my meeting early. Thought I'd check on progress." His eyes found Chidinma on the platform. He stopped walking.
Just... stopped.
And stared.
Chidinma's skin prickled under his gaze. She wanted to cross her arms, to hide, but the designers were still pinning fabric and she couldn't move.
"Well?" Zainab prompted.
Obiora blinked, as if coming out of a trance. "It's... good."
"Good?" Colette looked offended. "Monsieur, this is a masterpiece."
"It's perfect," he corrected, still looking at Chidinma. "She's perfect."
Something in his voice made Chidinma's pulse quicken. Not fear. Something worse.
"Can I get down now?" she asked tightly.
"Almost done, dear," Colette murmured, adjusting a pin.
Obiora walked closer, stopped at the base of the platform. Now he was looking up at her, and she was looking down, and the power dynamic felt briefly reversed.
"You look like a bride," he said quietly.
"That's the idea."
"No, I mean—" He paused, searching for words. "You look like someone's bride. Someone who loves you."
The room went very quiet.
Chidinma met his eyes. "I'm someone's bride. Yours. For a year. That's the contract."
His jaw tightened. "Right. The contract."
He turned to Zainab. "Make sure the photographers get this angle. The front page should be her coming down the church aisle. Backlight from the windows. Soft focus."
"Already planned," Zainab said.
"Good." He glanced back at Chidinma one more time. "I'll see you at dinner."
Then he left, his men trailing behind him like shadows.
Chidinma exhaled.
Colette resumed pinning. "He is in love with you already, that one."
"He's not."
"I have dressed thirty-two brides, chérie. I know the look."
Zainab snorted. "That wasn't love. That was possession."
Chidinma said nothing.
But later, alone in her room, she couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at her.
Like she was something precious.
Like she was his.
- Writer
