The Contract Wife

The AC in Cole Tower was freezing, but Ava’s palms were sweating. She sat across from a man who looked carved from stone. Black suit. Black watch. Black eyes that didn’t blink. Damien Cole. CEO of Cole Holdings. Net worth: $2.3 billion. Patience: zero. “Read it again,” he said. His voice was low, bored, like he was talking to furniture. Ava swallowed and pointed at the contract. “Six months marriage. $50,000 paid upfront to my account. Separate bedrooms. No intimacy. No public affection unless for cameras. And I leave with nothing after the 6 months.” She looked up. “Why me, Mr. Cole?” Damien’s dark eyes flicked to her. He took her in: thrifted dress, worn sandals, but her back was straight. “Because you’re desperate enough to say yes,” he said plainly. “And plain enough that no one will think I actually chose you for love.” Ava’s pen stopped mid-air. Broke, yes. Desperate, yes. Plain? Hell no. Her jaw clenched. “Fine. But I’m adding one rule, Mr. Cole.” He raised a brow. Finally, some life. “Don’t call me plain again. Or the contract is off.” For the first time since she entered, Damien’s cold mouth twitched. Almost... a smile. Almost. “Sign it.” Ava stared at the paper. $50,000. Her mom’s surgery. Her rent. Her future. She signed. Ava Mensah. “Good,” Damien said, standing. He was tall. 6’2 at least. “You move into the mansion tonight. We announce the engagement tomorrow. Don’t be late.” “Wait—” Ava stood too. “Separate rooms?” “Yes. And Ms. Mensah?” He paused at the door. “Don’t get any ideas. This is business.” The door closed. Ava was left holding a contract that just sold 6 months of her life. She whispered to herself, “It’s just 6 months, Ava. Don’t fall for him.” The elevator doors opened on the 40th floor and Accra hit her all at once. Glass. Steel. Money. Ava Mensah tugged at her only blazer. It was second-hand and a size too big. Her CV said “Graphic Designer” but her bank account said “0.00 cedis.” Rent was 2 months late. Her mum’s hospital bill had red stamps all over it. And the recruitment agency only had one job left. “Short-term. High pay. Confidential client.” Now she was standing outside a black door with no nameplate. Just power. She knocked. “Enter,” a voice said. Damien Blackwood didn’t look up. His office was all cold marble and floor-to-ceiling windows. The city looked tiny below. He sat behind a desk bigger than her bed, signing papers with a black fountain pen. Black suit. White shirt, no tie. Sleeves rolled up. The man looked like trouble with a salary “Enter,” a voice said. Damien Blackwood didn’t look up. His office was all cold marble and floor-to-ceiling windows. The city looked tiny below. He sat behind a desk bigger than her bed, signing papers with a black fountain pen. Black suit. White shirt, no tie. Sleeves rolled up. The man looked like trouble with a salary. Ava Mensah stayed by the door for one second too long. The elevator ride up to the 40th floor had left her ears ringing. Not from the height. From fear. Her rent was overdue. Her mum’s hospital bill had a final notice stamped on it. And the only “assistant” job in Accra that paid 200K for 6 months didn’t come with a normal job description. Now she was staring at Damien Blackwood. CEO of Blackwood Holdings. 31. Single. Worth millions. The business blogs called him `The Ice King of Accra` because no one had seen him smile in 3 years. He signed one last page before he spoke. “Ms. Mensah.” “Yes.” Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. “Sit.” Ava sat. The chair was leather, low, and it made her feel 15 instead of 24. Damien finally looked at her. Dark eyes. Sharp jaw. No warmth. “You’re early.” “I’m on time,” Ava said, and hated how her hands were sweating. He slid a folder across the marble desk. “I don’t waste time. So let’s not.” Inside: Her CV. Her mum’s hospital file. Her bank statements. Ava’s chest tightened. “That’s private.” “This is business,” Damien said. “And in business, I research liabilities before I sign them.” “Liability?” “You,” he said without blinking. “You need money. I need a fiancée. For 6 months.” He pushed another paper toward her. Ava read it. Twice. **PRIVATE FIANCÉE CONTRACT** **Term: 6 Months** **Role: Appear as my fiancée at board meetings, charity events, Q4 Gala.** **Residence: Live-in at my penthouse during term.** **Rules: No intimacy. No dating others. No emotional involvement. NDA.** **Compensation: 200,000 GHS upfront. Full medical for Esther Mensah.** Her heart dropped to her stomach. “You can’t be serious.” “I am,” Damien said. “My board thinks I’m reckless. They want me `settled` before the merger vote. A fiancée quiets them. You get your mother out of Ward C. I get 6 months of peace. Clean.” Ava laughed, but it cracked. “People don’t rent fiancées.” “People rent a lot of things when they’re desperate,” he said. “Are you?” Yes. God, yes. 18,700 cedis. That’s what they needed to move her mum to a private room with Dr. Amoako. That’s what stood between life and... not. Ava looked at the contract. At him. At the door behind her. “Two conditions,” she said. Damien’s pen stopped. “You don’t get to—” “Two conditions,” Ava cut in, louder now. “One: My mother gets the best care. Private room. Best doctor. I sign off on every bill.” Damien’s eyes narrowed. He studied her like she was a new contract clause he didn’t expect. “You’re in no position to negotiate.” “I’m in the only position that matters,” Ava said. “You need me to say yes. So yes… with conditions.” He was quiet for 3 seconds. Then he nodded. Once. Sharp. “Agreed. Dr. Amoako. Private room. You approve the invoices.” Ava exhaled. That was the part that kept her up at night. “Two,” she said, and her voice didn’t shake this time. “You don’t touch me. Not your hand. Not your mouth. Not for photos. Not for the board. This is paper only. Business.” For a second, Damien’s mask slipped. Surprise. Maybe irritation.