Curves,claws and contracts

The contract

Amara woke up to 47 missed calls and one name trending with hers.

*#AmaraAndDamian*

She clicked the link with shaking fingers.

The photo was grainy but clear enough. Her. Walking out of Cole Tower at 2:13am. Hair messy. Blazer in her hand.

Except she’d never been to Cole Tower in her life.

"Fake," she whispered. "This is fake."

Her phone rang. Tolu.

"Babe, turn on the news. NOW."

Channel 5. Breaking News.

"Rising lawyer Amara Johnson and billionaire Damian Cole caught in secret late-night meeting. Sources say affair may be linked to dismissed court case..."

Affair. Court case. Corruption.

Her career was over before 8am.

The door to her apartment buzzed. Building security.

"Ms. Johnson? There are reporters downstairs. And... Mr. Cole’s driver is here."

Damian Cole.

30 minutes later she was in the back of a black SUV that smelled like money and cologne. And he was already inside.

He didn’t look at her.

"You’re late," he said, scrolling through emails.

"I wasn’t invited to this k********g," Amara snapped. "What do you want?"

"Damage control." He finally turned. Gray eyes, cold and tired. "That photo is fake. But it doesn’t matter. The board thinks I’m compromised. Your firm thinks you took a bribe."

"So?"

"So we fix it. Together."

He slid a folder across the seat. *CONTRACT MARRIAGE AGREEMENT*.

Amara laughed. Actually laughed. "Are you insane?"

"6 months," he said. "We announce an engagement. We do press. Galas. Dinners. We look in love. After 6 months we have ‘irreconcilable differences’ and divorce. Clean."

"And why would I agree to that?"

"Because in 6 months my merger goes through and your name is cleared. Because if we don’t, both of us are finished." He leaned forward. "Because the alternative is you going back to that tiny apartment and never practicing law again."

The word "tiny" did it.

"You arrogant—"

"Sign it, Ms. Johnson. Or don’t. But don’t waste my time with outrage."

She grabbed the pen. Her hand shook. Not from fear. From rage.

"Fine. But I have rules."

"I’m sure you do."

"Rule 1: Separate bedrooms. Rule 2: No touching. Rule 3: We hate each other in private."

A ghost of a smirk. "Deal."

The car stopped at city hall.

Two witnesses. One ring he bought 20 minutes ago. One signature.

"Mrs. Cole," the officiant said.

Amara wanted to vomit.

Flashbulbs. Press release. #PowerCouple.

By noon the internet decided they were the most toxic couple alive.

That night, in his penthouse, they stood in the marble kitchen at 2am, both unable to sleep.

"You took the last coffee," she accused.

"You yelled at my housekeeper," he countered.

"You called me amateur!"

"You called me a monster!"

They were inches apart. Yelling.

And then his phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:

_Congrats on the wedding. Pity about what I have on you both. See you soon. -V_

Damian’s jaw tightened. He deleted it.

"What?" Amara asked.

"Nothing." But his eyes said: we have a bigger problem.

She didn’t believe him.

And she was right not to.