The Virgin Wife

Episode 8: 1 Week Later - Ours

One week.

Seven days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes.

And Amara counted every single one of them.

She stood in the kitchen of Emeka's mansion, stirring a pot of egusi soup. The house was massive. Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. A kitchen bigger than her old fish stall.

And it was so quiet it hurt.

Ever since that night during the storm, things had changed. But not in the way romance novels promised.

Emeka hadn't touched her again. But he also hadn't sent her away.

He was just... there. Cold. Polite. Distant.

"Morning," his voice came from the doorway and made her jump.

Amara turned quickly. "Morning."

Emeka was in a navy blue suit. Hair perfectly cut. Looking like the billionaire CEO he was. He looked at her. Really looked. His eyes went from her hair, down to the simple dress she wore, then back to her face.

"Breakfast is ready," Amara said, suddenly self-conscious. "Pancakes and tea."

Emeka nodded. He sat at the long dining table. Ate in silence. The only sound was the clink of his fork against the plate.

"Thank you," he said when he was done. No smile. No eye contact. Then he was gone.

That was day 4. Day 5 was the same. Day 6 was the same.

Amara started talking to the walls.

That night, she couldn't sleep. The guest room felt like a prison. The room where everything happened and nothing happened.

A knock at 2am.

"Come in," she whispered.

Emeka. No suit. Just a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. His hair was messy. Like he'd been running his hands through it.

"Can't sleep," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Me neither," Amara admitted.

He walked in and closed the door. The room immediately felt 10 degrees hotter.

"We need to talk," Emeka said. He sat on the edge of the bed. Left a foot of space between them.

"Okay," Amara said. Her heart was in her throat.

Emeka sighed. He looked tired. "That night... with the storm. I messed up."

Amara's stomach dropped. "I know."

"No, Amara. You don't," he said, turning to face her. "I didn't mess up because I regret you. I messed up because I regret stopping."

Amara blinked. "What?"

"I've spent the last 7 days trying to hate you," Emeka said. His voice was low. Honest. "Trying to remember this was just a contract. Trying to forget how you sounded when you said my name."

"Emeka..."

"And I can't," he finished. "I can't do it. I can't pretend this is fake anymore."

Tears started falling before Amara could stop them. "But you said 'I don't want a thing now'. You said 'don't say anything'."

"I was scared," Emeka admitted. He ran a hand down his face. "You're 19. I'm 32. You're my wife on paper and I touched you like you were mine. And the worst part? I liked it. God, I liked it too much."

Amara wiped her tears. "So what now? Do you want to end the contract?"

Emeka moved. In one second he was in front of her, on his knees on the floor. Looking up at her.

"I want to tear up the contract," he said. "I want a real marriage. With dates. And fights. And making up. And you cooking in my kitchen because you want to, not because you have to."

Amara stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious," Emeka said. He took her hands in his. His hands were warm. Calloused. "Can we try, Amara? For real this time? No 2 million. No hospital bill. Just... us."

Amara couldn't breathe. "Why? Why me?"

Emeka smiled. The first real smile she'd seen from him. It reached his eyes.

"Because you're stubborn," he said. "Because you argued with me in the car. Because you make soup that tastes like home. Because when I said 'you're mine' you didn't run."

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.

"Because you're mine, Amara. And I want to be yours too."

Amara sobbed. She couldn't help it. "I choose you too, Emeka. I choose you."

Emeka stood and pulled her into his arms. This hug was different from the storm night. This wasn't desperate. This was safe.

He carried her to the bed and laid her down. Brushed hair from her face.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked. Like a gentleman. Like she mattered.

Amara nodded.

This kiss was slow. Deep. It was a promise. It was an apology. It was a beginning.

When they pulled apart, Emeka rested his forehead against hers.

"From now on," he whispered, "no more guest rooms. No more silence. No more contracts."

"Deal," Amara whispered back.

"And one more thing," Emeka said, grinning.

"What?"

"You're fired from cooking every night. We're ordering food or I'm cooking for you."

Amara laughed. She actually laughed. "You can't cook."

"Watch me," Emeka said. And kissed her again.

Outside, the rain started once more. But this time it didn't sound lonely.

This time it sounded like washing away the past.

Three months later:

Amara was laughing. Really laughing. Her head thrown back as Emeka tried to teach her how to dance in their living room. He was terrible at it.

"You're stepping on my feet!" she giggled.

"You're too beautiful to complain," Emeka said, and spun her.

The contract was in the shredder. The hospital bill was paid. Her grandfather was home and healthy.

And Amara? Amara was in love.

With her husband. With her life. With this new beginning that started with a storm.

Emeka pulled her close. "You happy, Mrs. Okoye?"

Amara nodded against his chest. "The happiest."

"Good," he said. "Because I'm not letting you go. Ever."

And he meant it.

THE END... OR THE BEGINNING? ❤️