SUGAR AND SCARS

_Sugar & Scars--- *Chapter 1: The No-Sugar Rule* The first rule of surviving Lagos heat: never let them see you sweat. The second rule: never deliver a cake to Chike Okoro. I broke both before 9 AM. My bakery, _Amara’s Oven_, is two streets behind Lekki Phase 1. Rent is three months overdue, NEPA takes light more than it gives, and my father’s loan sharks now send texts with Bible verses and threats in the same message. _Psalm 23: The Lord is my shepherd. Pay by Friday or we visit._ So when the order came in — ₦250,000 for a red velvet wedding cake, delivery to Eko Atlantic — I said yes. I didn’t ask who. Rookie mistake. The security at Okoro Towers made me sign three NDAs before I got to the elevator. The 43rd floor smelled like money and cold AC. And him. Chike Okoro doesn’t look at people. He assesses them. Dark suit, no tie, scar across his left eyebrow that the business blogs say came from “a boardroom accident.” We all know it was his ex-fiancée’s father. “Put it down,” he said, not looking up from his tablet. His voice was the kind that made interns resign. I set the 5-tier cake on his glass desk. My hands were shaking. Not from fear. From anger. This was the man whose company sent the demolition notice for my building last week. _Urban renewal project. 30 days to vacate._ “That’s not mine,” he said finally, glancing at the cake. “I don’t eat sugar.” “Your PA ordered it. Wedding cake. ‘Mr. & Mrs. Okoro.’ Congratulations.” Something flickered in his jaw. “I’m not getting married.” “Then you should tell your mother. And your PA. And maybe the 200 people at the Civic Centre on Saturday.” He stood up. Six-foot-three of tailored anger. “Who are you?” “Amara Johnson. You’re tearing down my shop.” Silence. Then he did the last thing I expected. He picked up a fork, cut into the bottom tier, and took a bite. The rule in every Lagos business article: _Chike Okoro hasn’t touched sugar in 3 years. Not since the scandal._ He closed his eyes for one second. When he opened them, he was looking at me. Really looking. “Your shop,” he said. “How much debt?” “₦4.2 million. Why?” “Because I have a proposal. Be my fiancée for 30 days. My mother stops the wedding plans, you keep your bakery.” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “You want to fake-date me?” “I want my mother off my back. You want your building. We use each other. No feelings. No sugar. No problem.” Outside, Lagos was honking and shouting and alive. In here, it was just the AC and the smell of red velvet and a man who broke his biggest rule for my cake. I should have said no. I should have walked out. Instead, I picked up the fork. “Deal. But I have conditions.” His eyebrow went up. The scarred one. “Name them.” “One: You tell your people to cancel the demolition today.” “Done.” “Two: You eat cake when I tell you to. Exposure therapy.” A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Anything else, Miss Johnson?” “Yeah,” I said, pointing the fork at him. “Don’t fall in love with me. I bite back.” For the first time, Chike Okoro smiled. It wasn’t nice. It was dangerous. “Danger noted,” he said. “Sign here.” --- Chapter 1: episode 2 loading........