THE CEO'S CONTRACT WIFE

SIX MONTHS LATER

Chapter 10: Six Months Later

The contract was supposed to end today. Day 180. Six months.

Amara woke up early and stared at the ceiling. No panic. No countdown in her head. Just quiet. She touched the bracelet on her wrist. _Amara Cole._ The engraving was worn smooth now from daily wear.

Downstairs, Damian was already in the dining room. No newspaper today. No laptop. Just coffee. And her.

He stood up when she entered. Suit, but no tie. Hair slightly messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” Amara replied. She sat down. Mrs. Adebayo served breakfast, but neither of them ate much.

Silence. The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

Damian finally spoke. “Today’s the day.”

Amara nodded. “I know.”

“The contract ends at midnight,” Damian said. “Legally, you’re free. The ₦5 million was transferred to your account last week. Your mother’s medical bills are paid. In full.”

Amara looked at her hands. “Thank you. For keeping your word.”

“I always keep my word,” Damian said. Then he paused. “The question is… what happens after midnight?”

Amara met his eyes. “That’s up to us. Not the contract.”

Damian stood up and walked around the table. Stopped behind her chair. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders. Warm. Steady.

“I don’t want you to leave, Amara,” he said quietly. “Not because of money. Not because of contracts. Because I don’t know how to go back to a house without your voice. Without you yelling at me in the kitchen. Without you planting flowers in my garden.”

Amara turned in her chair to face him. “I don’t want to leave either. But I’m scared, Damian. Scared this is just because we’ve been living together. Scared you’ll wake up one day and remember you hate my last name.”

Damian knelt down so they were eye level. “I don’t hate your last name anymore. I love it. I love the woman who carries it. Stubborn. Kind. Brave. The woman who looked at me when I was a monster and saw a man.”

Amara’s eyes filled. “Say it again.”

“I love you, Amara Okafor-Cole,” Damian said, no hesitation. “I loved you when you yelled at me in my office. I loved you when you fed me soup in the hospital. I loved you when you showed me my father’s photo. I’m in love with you. Contract or not.”

Amara stood up and threw her arms around his neck. “I love you too. You i***t. You cold, broken, beautiful idiot.”

Damian laughed into her hair and lifted her off the ground. Spun her once. When he set her down, his lips found hers. Not desperate like the first kiss. Sure. Home.

They broke apart, both smiling like fools.

“So,” Amara said, catching her breath. “What now? Do we burn the contract?”

Damian shook his head. “No. We keep it. To remember where we started. But we write a new one.” He pulled a folded paper from his jacket pocket.

Amara opened it. One line, handwritten in Damian’s sharp script: _Clause 1: Love each other. Every day. For as long as we live._

Amara looked up, tears falling. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as I’ve ever been,” Damian said. He took her left hand and kissed the bracelet. “Marry me. For real this time. Not for money. Not for your mother. For me. For us.”

Amara didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Yes, Damian. I’ll marry you. For real.”

Damian kissed her again. Longer this time. When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead on hers.

“My father would have liked you,” he whispered. “And yours would have punched me. Then hugged me.”

Amara laughed through tears. “Probably.”

They spent the day doing nothing. Walking in the garden. Eating lunch on the floor of the living room like children. Damian let Amara win at chess even though she knew he was letting her. She let him think she didn’t know.

That evening, they told Amara’s mother. She cried, hugged Damian hard, and whispered, “I knew you were a good man. Under all that Cole pride.”

Damian blushed. Actually blushed. Amara teased him about it for weeks.

At 11:59 PM, they stood in Damian’s office. The old contract lay on the desk. Amara picked it up.

“Ready?” Damian asked.

Amara struck a match. The paper caught fire. They watched it burn until only ash remained.

“Clause 1 is void,” Amara said softly.

Damian pulled her close. “Clause 1 is replaced.”

Midnight came and went. No bells. No fireworks. Just two people kissing in an office that used to be full of hate.

Three months later, the wedding was small. Just family and close friends. Amara wore white. Not designer. Simple. Her mother walked her down the aisle, stronger every day.

Damian waited at the altar, eyes only for her. When the priest said _you may kiss the bride_, he didn’t wait. He kissed her like she was his. Because she was.

They moved into a new house. Smaller than the mansion. With a garden where they planted hibiscus together. Every morning. Damian still wore suits, but his sleeves were always rolled up now. Amara still argued with him, but she always kissed him after.

One year after the contract ended, Amara found Damian in his office late at night. He was reading one of his father’s letters. The photo of the two fathers sat on his desk now, framed.

“You okay?” Amara asked, wrapping her arms around him from behind.

Damian leaned back into her. “I was thinking. My father spent his life hating your father. I spent half my life hating you. What a waste.”

Amara kissed his cheek. “But you found me anyway.”

“I found you,” Damian agreed. “And I’m never letting go.”

Amara smiled. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Cole.”

“Mrs. Cole,” Damian corrected, turning in his chair and pulling her onto his lap. “And I plan to keep you for the rest of my life.”

Outside, Lagos hummed with life. Inside, there was only peace. Two people who started with a contract and ended with a promise.

The contract was supposed to last six months. The love lasted forever.

And every night before bed, Damian still kissed Amara’s forehead and whispered, “Thank you for not leaving.”

And every night, Amara whispered back, “Thank you for not making me.”