THE CEO'S CONTRACT WIFE

THE BABY ANNOUNCEMENT

Chapter 11: The Baby Announcement

Two years after the contract burned, Amara woke up at 5 AM with her stomach turning. She ran to the bathroom before Damian even opened his eyes. When she came back, he was sitting up, hair a mess, worry all over his face.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.

Amara sat on the edge of the bed. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Damian went still. “What?”

“My period is late. Two weeks. And I’ve been sick every morning.” Amara couldn’t look at him. She was terrified. Of his reaction. Of hope. “I know the timing is bad. With the new company launch and—”

Damian cut her off by pulling her onto his lap. His hands framed her face. “Amara. Look at me.”

She did. His eyes were wide. Not scared. Awed.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

“I think I’m pregnant, Damian.”

Damian pressed his forehead to hers and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. “Then we’re having a baby.”

Amara laughed, relieved. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” Damian kissed her nose, then her lips. “Amara, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you if you wanted kids without scaring you off. You just answered for me.”

He carried her to the hospital himself. No driver. No security. Just Damian, holding her hand in the waiting room like he was more nervous than she was.

The doctor came back smiling. “Congratulations, Mrs. Cole. You’re eight weeks pregnant. Baby looks healthy.”

Damian stared at the ultrasound screen like it was a miracle. Because it was. A tiny flicker. A heartbeat. Their heartbeat.

On the drive home, Damian didn’t let go of her hand. “We’re going to be parents,” he kept saying, like he couldn’t believe it.

“We are,” Amara said, leaning her head on his shoulder. “You’ll be a good father. Better than you think.”

Damian didn’t answer. But his grip on her hand tightened.

That night they told Amara’s mother. She cried, laughed, and immediately started planning. “My grandchild will have the best room! And I’ll teach them how to make jollof!”

Damian looked overwhelmed and happy at the same time. “Ma, slow down. We don’t even know the gender yet.”

“I don’t care,” her mother said. “Boy, girl, it’s family. That’s enough.”

The first trimester was rough. Morning sickness, mood swings, Amara crying because Damian bought the wrong ice cream. He took it all. Cancelled meetings. Worked from home. Learned to make her ginger tea at 3 AM.

One night she woke up crying. “What if I’m a bad mother? What if the baby doesn’t like me?”

Damian pulled her close. “Then the baby will be wrong. Because you’re the kindest, strongest woman I know. Our child will be lucky to have you.”

Amara fell asleep with his hand on her stomach.

At the 20-week scan, they found out it was a girl. Damian stared at the screen and whispered, “A daughter.”

Amara squeezed his hand. “You okay with that?”

Damian looked at her like she was crazy. “I’m terrified. A little girl with your stubbornness and my last name? Lagos won’t be ready.” Then he smiled. “But I’m also the happiest man alive.”

They named her Ireti. Yoruba for _hope_. Because that’s what she was. Hope after hate. Hope after contracts.

Ireti was born on a rainy Tuesday. 7 pounds, 3 ounces. Loud lungs and Damian’s eyes. Amara held her first and cried. Damian cut the cord with shaking hands.

When the nurse placed Ireti in his arms, Damian went completely still. Like the billionaire CEO had forgotten how to breathe.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered. “Just like her mother.”

Amara, exhausted and glowing, reached out and touched his cheek. “You’re a father now.”

Damian looked up at her, eyes wet. “I never thought I’d get this. A family. A second chance.”

“You deserve it,” Amara said. “You earned it.”

They brought Ireti home to the small house with the garden. Hibiscus everywhere now. Amara’s mother moved in to help. Damian learned to change diapers at 2 AM, cursing under his breath while Amara laughed.

One night, Ireti wouldn’t stop crying. Amara was exhausted. Damian took her, walked the hallway for an hour, singing badly. Off-key. No tune.

Amara watched from the doorway. “She’s crying because of your singing.”

Damian smirked. “No, she’s crying because she knows her father is the best singer in Lagos.”

Ireti finally slept. Damian sat in the rocking chair, baby on his chest, and didn’t move for two hours. Just watched her breathe.

Amara came and sat beside him. “You love her.”

Damian nodded. “More than I thought possible. More than I love myself. More than I ever loved anything.”

Amara rested her head on his shoulder. “That’s what fathers do.”

When Ireti turned one, they threw a small party in the garden. No press. No business partners. Just family. Ireti took her first steps straight to Damian. He caught her and spun her in the air while she giggled.

Amara took a photo. Framed it. Put it next to the old photo of the two fathers. New generation. New story.

That night after everyone left, Damian found Amara on the porch, watching the stars.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he said, sitting beside her.

Amara leaned into him. “I was thinking about the contract. Six months. I thought it was a prison sentence.”

Damian laughed softly. “Me too.”

“But it was a gift,” Amara said. “It gave me you. Gave us her.” She gestured inside where Ireti slept.

Damian kissed her temple. “Best contract I ever signed.”

Amara turned in his arms. “We should burn another one.”

“What contract?” Damian asked, confused.

“Our marriage vows,” Amara said, smiling. “Rewrite them every year. Because we keep changing. Keep growing.”

Damian pulled her closer. “Deal. Clause 1: Love you more every year.”

“Clause 2: Never let you forget you’re stuck with me,” Amara added.

“Clause 3: Always plant flowers, even when I complain,” Damian said.

They kissed under the stars. Ireti slept peacefully inside. The house was full of light.

Five years later, Ireti started school. She had Damian’s serious eyes and Amara’s bright smile. On her first day, Damian wore a suit but no tie. Amara wore a dress with hibiscus print.

At pickup, Ireti ran to them, yelling, “Daddy! Mommy!” and jumped into Damian’s arms.

Damian caught her easily. “How was school, my hope?”

“I made a friend! And teacher said I’m smart like you!”

Amara rolled her eyes. “Smart like your mother.”

Ireti giggled. “Smart like both!”

Driving home, Ireti chattered from the backseat. Damian caught Amara’s eye in the rearview mirror and winked. This was their life now. Messy. Loud. Full.

That night, after Ireti slept, Amara found Damian in the garden, watering the hibiscus. He did it every evening now. Said it helped him think.

“You’re good at this,” Amara said, joining him.

“I’m good at things that matter,” Damian replied. “Business. Building. Loving you. Raising her.”

Amara took the watering can from him and set it down. Then she took his face in her hands. “Damian Cole, I love you. I loved you when you were broken. I love you now that you’re whole.”

Damian kissed her. Deep. Slow. Like he had all the time in the world. Because he did.

“I love you too, Amara Okafor-Cole,” he whispered against her lips. “More than my name. More than my company. More than my past.”

They walked back inside hand in hand. The house was quiet. Safe. Full of love that started with a contract and became a family.

The contract lasted six months. The marriage lasted a lifetime. And the love? The love would outlive them both, in Ireti’s laugh, in the hibiscus that bloomed every year, in the way Damian still kissed Amara’s forehead every night and said, “Thank you for choosing me.”

And Amara always answered, “Thank you for letting me.”