Chapter 5: The Arrangement
1129 Words
The car arrived for her three days later.
Not the black Mercedes. A white Range Rover with tinted windows and a different driver—a woman this time, professional, with kind eyes that somehow made the whole thing worse.
"Miss Eze. I'm Zainab. Mr. Kalu's attorney. I'll be helping you with the transition."
Transition. Like she was changing jobs, not lives.
Chidinma's suitcase sat at her feet—one suitcase, because she'd refused to pack more. This wasn't permanent. This was a role. A year-long performance.
Her mother stood in the doorway, face tight with worry and prayers.
"You don't have to do this," Mama said for the hundredth time.
"I do."
"Chi—"
"Mama, please." Chidinma kissed her mother's cheek. "I'll call you every day. I promise."
Emeka appeared behind their mother, guilt written across every inch of him. He'd barely spoken since his release. Barely eaten. Just wandered the apartment like a ghost haunting the scene of his crime.
"Chi, I'll find a way to fix this—"
"It's already fixed." She tried to smile. Failed. "Just... be better. Okay?"
He nodded, tears streaming.
She got in the car.
Zainab drove in silence for the first ten minutes. Then:
"You can ask questions. I won't judge."
Chidinma stared out the window. "What's she like?"
"Who?"
"The woman he was with before me."
Zainab's lips twitched. "There wasn't one."
"He's thirty-two and he's never—"
"Oh, there have been women. Just no one serious. Obiora doesn't do serious." A pause. "Until now, apparently."
"This isn't serious. It's a contract."
"Sure." Zainab's tone suggested she didn't believe that.
They pulled into the estate. Same gates. Same wealth. But this time, Chidinma wasn't a visitor.
This time, she was staying.
Zainab led her inside, through hallways she half-remembered, to a wing of the house she hadn't seen before. She opened a door.
"Your room."
Chidinma stepped inside and forgot to breathe.
It was... beautiful.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden. A bed so large it could sleep four people. Walk-in closet already filled with clothes she hadn't chosen. Bathroom with a tub that looked like a small pool.
"The closet was stocked based on your measurements," Zainab explained. "If anything doesn't fit or you don't like the style, just let me know. There's also a stylist on call."
"I don't need a stylist."
"You do now." Zainab's voice was gentle but firm. "You're going to be in front of cameras, Chi. A lot of them. Looking the part is half the job."
Chidinma's stomach turned.
"Where's his room?"
"Other side of the house. Completely separate wing. You won't run into him unless you want to."
Small mercies.
"Dinner is at seven," Zainab continued. "He expects you to join him. At least in the beginning, until you're settled."
"I don't want to have dinner with him."
"I know. Do it anyway." Zainab softened. "Look, I know this is... a lot. But Obiora's not cruel. He'll keep his word. You do your part, you'll walk away clean."
"Will I?"
Zainab didn't answer that.
* * *
Chidinma unpacked slowly, refusing to let the room seduce her with its comfort.
She set up her Bible on the nightstand. Her journal. The small framed photo of her and her mother. Tiny anchors to remind her who she was.
At 6:45, she changed into one of the dresses from the closet—simple, modest, navy blue. It fit perfectly. She hated that it fit perfectly.
At 7:00, a knock.
The elegant housekeeper from before. "Miss Eze. Dinner is ready."
Chidinma followed her to a dining room she hadn't seen yet—long table, enough seats for twenty, but only two places set. Far apart, one at each end.
Obiora was already seated. He stood when she entered.
"Chidinma."
"Mr. Kalu."
"Obiora."
"Mr. Kalu."
He almost smiled. Almost. "Sit."
She sat at the far end. A ridiculous distance for a conversation.
Staff appeared with food—jollof rice, grilled fish, plantain, vegetables arranged like art. She wasn't hungry, but she picked up her fork.
"You settled in?" he asked.
"Yes."
"The room is acceptable?"
"It's fine."
"If you need anything—"
"I don't."
Silence.
He ate. She pretended to.
"We need to discuss the wedding," he said eventually.
"What about it?"
"Your preferences. Colors, flowers, whatever it is women care about."
"I don't care."
"You should. The press will."
She set down her fork. "You want it to look real, pick whatever you want. I'll show up and smile."
He studied her across the expanse of table. "You're angry."
"I'm practical."
"You're angry," he repeated. "That's fine. Be angry. But don't sabotage this out of spite."
"I gave my word. I'll keep it."
"Good."
More silence.
Then, quietly: "Why gospel music?"
She looked up. "What?"
"Your music. Why gospel? Why not... I don't know, Afrobeat, R&B, something that pays better?"
"It's not about money."
"Everything's about money."
"Not for everyone."
He leaned back. "So what's it about?"
She almost didn't answer. But something in his expression—genuine curiosity, not mockery—made her speak.
"When I sing, I remember I'm more than what's happening to me. I remember I'm loved. Known. Held." She met his eyes. "I remember I'm not alone."
Obiora was quiet for a long time.
"Must be nice," he finally said.
"It is."
"To believe in something."
"You don't?"
He smiled, but it was empty. "I believe in leverage. In power. In things I can see and measure."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is."
He stood, and she tensed, but he just picked up his glass.
"The wedding is in eleven days. Zainab will coordinate with your pastor. Dress fittings start tomorrow. Guest list is being finalized. The press will be there, so..." He paused. "Practice looking like you don't hate me."
"I don't hate you."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I don't know you well enough to hate you," she clarified.
"Fair."
He walked toward the door, then stopped.
"Chidinma."
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For doing this."
She blinked. She hadn't expected that.
"I'm not doing it for you."
"I know. But still." He looked at her, and for just a second, the mask slipped. She saw something underneath—something tired. "Thank you."
Then he was gone.
Chidinma sat alone in that enormous dining room, staring at food she couldn't eat, and wondered what she'd gotten herself into.
* * *
That night, in her beautiful prison of a room, she opened her Bible.
Psalm 23.
"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me."
She read it aloud. Once. Twice. A third time.
Then she knelt beside the bed and prayed.
Not for escape.
For endurance.
- Writer
