Episode 3:The first rule
1370 Words
The air in Damian Carter’s office smelled like money. Leather chairs, cold glass, and that faint hint of his cologne that made my stomach flip in ways I wasn’t supposed to notice.
I sat across from him, my hands folded tightly in my lap so he wouldn’t see them shake.
On the table between us was the contract. Thirty pages. Bound in black. ₦50 million written in bold on page 2.
“Sign here.” His voice cut through the silence.
Damian Carter. 32. CEO of Carter Group. Worth 4 billion dollars. And the coldest man I’d ever met.
He didn’t look at me like a person. He looked at me like a problem that needed solving.
“Read it again,” I said, stalling. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
He sighed, leaned back in his chair. The suit he wore probably cost more than my rent for a year. “Section 4, Clause B. You will reside in my penthouse for the duration of 12 months. You will attend all public events as my wife. You will not speak to the press. You will not have relationships with other men. You will not fall in love with me.”
That last part made my throat dry.
“Why the no falling in love rule?” I tried to joke. It came out wrong.
For the first time, his eyes actually met mine. Gray. Sharp. Empty. “Because it complicates things, Miss Adele. And I don’t do complications.”
Miss Adele. Like we were strangers. Which we were, 3 days ago.
Three days ago my sister called me crying. Hospital bills. ₦48 million. Cancer. Stage 3. And the bank had already said no to the loan.
Three days ago Damian’s assistant showed up at my job with an offer. “Mr. Carter needs a wife. For business reasons. You fit the profile.”
Desperate people don’t ask questions.
I picked up the pen. Mont Blanc. Heavy.
“Once I sign this, there’s no going back,” I said quietly.
“There never was,” he replied.
I signed. Adele Morgan.
The moment the ink touched the paper, something in the room shifted. Like I’d just sold a piece of myself and bought a cage with it.
Damian stood immediately. No congratulations. No handshake. Business done.
“Good,” he said. “Pack a bag. Two suitcases max. My driver will take you to the penthouse at 7pm. We have the Langston Charity Gala tomorrow night. You’ll wear the dress my stylist sends over. You’ll smile. You’ll hold my arm. You’ll play the part.”
“What part exactly?”
“The part of the woman who loves me,” he said simply. Then he walked to the window, hands in pockets, back to me. Dismissed.
My phone buzzed in my bag.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it. But something made me open it.
The text read: “If you go through with this marriage, your sister pays the price. Walk away now.”
My blood turned to ice.
I looked up. Damian was still facing the window. I couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not when I didn’t know who sent it.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, without turning.
“No,” I lied. The first of many, probably. “Just my sister.”
He nodded once. “Be at the penthouse by 8. Don’t be late.”
---
The penthouse was on the 87th floor. Glass walls. City lights. A kitchen bigger than my entire apartment.
And silence. So much silence.
The stylist came at 9pm. A woman with sharp eyes and sharper scissors. She measured me, clicked her tongue, and left 3 garment bags.
“The blue one for tomorrow,” she said. “Mr. Carter prefers blue on you.”
“How would you know what he prefers?”
She just smiled and left.
At midnight I couldn’t sleep. The bed was too big. The room was too quiet. And that text kept burning in my head.
I went to the window. 87 floors down, Lagos looked like stars that had fallen to earth.
Another buzz. Same unknown number.
Picture this time. It was my sister. In her hospital bed. An IV in her arm. And standing in the corner of the room, half in shadow, was a man. Face blurred.
My hands started shaking for real now.
I typed back: “Who are you?”
No reply. Just one more text: “Rule 1 of the contract. Don’t ask questions.”
But I had so many.
Why me? Why now? And who was watching my sister?
---
Morning came too fast.
The blue dress was silk. It hugged everywhere it wasn’t supposed to and left bare everywhere it should have covered.
“Mr. Carter will be here in 10,” the assistant said.
Right on time, the door opened.
Damian.
He stopped when he saw me. Just for half a second. But I saw it. His jaw tightened.
“You look... acceptable,” he said finally.
Acceptable. From him, that was probably a compliment.
The car ride to the gala was quiet. He scrolled through emails. I stared out the window, pretending my hands weren’t shaking.
“Smile more tonight,” he said suddenly. “People need to believe it.”
“And do you believe it?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He looked up from his phone. “I believe in contracts, Miss Adele. Nothing more.”
The gala was loud. Cameras. Flashes. People who all knew his name and pretended to know mine.
“Damian! And this must be the lucky lady!” A woman in red grabbed my arm. “I’m so happy for you both. When’s the wedding?”
“Next month,” Damian said smoothly, hand sliding to the small of my back. The touch burned through the silk. “Small ceremony. Private.”
Lies. All lies.
I smiled until my cheeks hurt.
Halfway through the night, I excused myself to the bathroom. Locked the door. Breathed.
That’s when my phone buzzed again.
New text. New picture.
My sister. This time not in the hospital. In a car. Being driven somewhere. The man from the corner was driving.
“Last chance, Adele. Walk away from the contract.”
I gripped the sink. My reflection looked terrified.
The door knocked. “Adele? We’re leaving in 5.” Damian’s voice.
I wiped my face, fixed my smile, and walked out.
In the car home, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“There’s someone threatening my sister,” I blurted out.
Damian didn’t look up from his phone. “What kind of threat?”
“To hurt her if I marry you.”
Now he looked up. “And did you tell me this before signing?”
“No.”
“Then it’s not my problem.” He went back to his emails.
Something hot rose in my chest. Anger. Fear. “Not your problem? You’re the reason I’m in this!”
He finally set his phone down. “No. Your sister’s hospital bills are the reason. I’m just the solution you chose.”
Cold. Factual. Cruel.
I turned to the window and cried silently. No sound. Just tears.
When we got to the penthouse, he was already heading to his room.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Carter,” he said, like the name was a joke.
“Goodnight,” I whispered.
Alone in my room, I pulled out the contract. Read it again.
Page 7. Section 9: “Party B agrees to follow all instructions from Party A without question. Failure to comply results in immediate termination and forfeiture of payment.”
And at the bottom, in tiny print: “This agreement is binding under Carter Group jurisdiction.”
I didn’t even know what that meant.
My phone buzzed one last time before I slept.
“You should have read the fine print, Adele. Welcome to the contract.”
I turned the phone off and stared at the ceiling.
Rule 1: Don’t ask questions.
Rule 2: Don’t get attached.
Rule 3: Don’t fall for the billionaire.
But nobody told me about Rule 4:
Don’t trust anyone
- Writer
