THE VOSS DEAL

CHAPTER TWO: ACCEPTING THE DEAL

I ducked under the rain after Mr. Voss left, my breath coming out in short, angry clouds.

What the hell just happened?

A marriage contract at 2 a.m.

A billionaire in my section like I still worked there.

A number-only black card sitting in my palm like it weighed more than my entire life.

The deal was tempting. Too tempting.

And that was the problem.

I tried to think like a law student. Like a normal person. Like someone who wasn’t two steps away from drowning.

But my situation wasn’t “normal.”

My visa expired in 89 days.

Mom’s chemo was around the corner.

I had classes. Projects. Exams.

And most importantly—I needed a roof over my head.

Damn.

I left Lagos chasing “greener pastures” like it was some cute dream, like people didn’t bleed for a chance abroad.

Travelling wasn’t easy either. I sold some of my paintings—pieces of myself—and still had to take out a loan.

Because I wasn’t from a wealthy family.

I was from the kind of family where you learn early that love doesn’t pay hospital bills.

Where you learn that men can leave and women still have to survive.

My asshole dad left us stranded and I spent years fighting to keep my mom alive.

Coming to New York felt like a breath of fresh air. A restart.

School. Work. A plan.

Work hard, graduate, make money, send it home, keep my mom alive.

Simple.

Except New York wasn’t simple.

New York was rent and pressure and exhaustion.

It was night shifts and early lectures.

It was smiling when your feet screamed.

Everything was going fine until I started working at Carl’s.

The owner was an ass… and one of the staff—someone who thought my “no” was a joke—kept harassing me.

I’m sure that was the real reason he fired me.

Not the plate.

The plate was just an excuse.

By the time I got home, my clothes were damp and my head was pounding.

My apartment was tiny—my little potato box—but it was still mine.

For now.

I stepped inside, tossed my bag on the floor, and went to freshen up like I could wash off the humiliation with soap.

After changing into my nightwear, I climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling.

Maybe this was God giving me a chance.

Or maybe it was the devil dressed in a black suit.

The money was… a lot.

Enough to pay my tuition.

Enough to move into a better apartment.

Enough to make sure Mom didn’t have to “God is good” her way through pain anymore.

And her treatment?

Paid in full.

My fingers tightened around my phone.

I stared at the screen so long my eyes started to burn.

Then I typed.

I’ll do it.

I sent it before I could talk myself out of it.

A reply came almost immediately.

A time. A reminder.

A car would pick me up at 6 p.m. tomorrow.

Like my life was already scheduled.

I swallowed and typed back.

Ok, Mr. Voss.

Then I put my phone away like it might explode.

I slept… but even my dreams felt like contracts.

In the morning, I moved through my routine like a machine.

I arranged the things I needed.

Threw out what I didn’t.

Folded clothes. Packed my bag. Checked my phone too many times.

When everything looked “set,” I headed for class.

Campus life kept going like my world hadn’t tilted off its axis.

On my way to a lecture, my phone buzzed.

Mr. Voss again.

Another reminder about today.

I stared at the message and shook my head, a small smirk pulling at my lips before I could stop it.

Control freak.

Or just… careful.

Either way, he didn’t do “maybe.”

I tried to focus on my day, but my mind kept drifting.

Mrs. Voss.

The words felt like a slap.

At exactly 5:57, I saw him.

Standing nonchalantly in front of my school like he belonged there—like he belonged everywhere.

Handsome as usual.

Of course.

He wasn’t in a suit this time.

Blue jeans. A black fitted top.

His hair was slightly messy, giving him that effortless bad-boy aura like he didn’t even have to try.

Our eyes met.

His gray gaze swept over me, slow and unreadable, like he was taking inventory.

“Hey,” I said, because my brain forgot every other word.

“You’re early,” I added quickly.

“Yeah.” His voice was calm. “I had business nearby.”

Hmm. Makes sense.

I followed him into the car and sat down, instantly noticing how clean it was.

Neat. Expensive. Smelling like leather and money and control.

He handed me a folder.

“So here’s the contract, Amara.” He looked at me, finally serious in a way that made my stomach twist. “I won’t lie to you. I’ll go through part of the deal.”

He paused, eyes sharp.

“I paid for your mother’s treatment in full this morning,” he said. “So don’t mess things up.”

My chest tightened.

He really did it.

Just like that.

Like $3,400 was pocket change.

“I understand, Mr. Voss,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I’m not petty. I’m old enough to understand what this is.”

His jaw flexed once.

“My driver will pick you up tomorrow at 9:00.”

“Ok, Mr. Voss.”

My hands were slightly shaky as I opened the contract.

I read it.

Then I signed it.

Because what else was I going to do?

I handed it back.

We said our farewells like we were two business partners closing a deal.

Not two strangers about to fake a marriage.

And on my way home, all I could think about was the deal.

The money.

The danger.

And the way my life had just changed with one signature.

Forever.