THE CEO'S CONTRACT WIFE

THE DINNER PARTY

Chapter 7: The Dinner Party

One week after the accident, Amara’s mother was discharged. Stronger, but still needing care. A nurse came to the mansion twice a day. The best bed was set up in the guest room. Amara moved her in herself, arranging pillows, hanging the Bible on the wall.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” her mother said, touching the soft blanket.

“I did,” Amara replied. “You’re home now.”

Damian stood in the doorway, watching. He didn’t come in. Didn’t interrupt. But when Amara turned, he was there.

“Dinner is at 8,” he said. “Business partners. You’ll sit beside me.”

Amara nodded. Her mother grabbed her wrist before she left. “Be careful, my daughter. Men like him… they don’t give without taking.”

“I know, Mama,” Amara whispered. But she wasn’t sure she believed it anymore.

At 8 PM, the dining room was full. Crystal glasses. Silver plates. Men in suits laughing too loud. Damian sat at the head, Amara on his right. Her navy dress from before. No jewels except the bracelet on her wrist. Amara Cole.

One of the partners, Mr. Akindele, leaned over. “So, Mrs. Cole, how did you tame Damian? He’s never brought a woman to business dinners.”

Amara smiled. “He wasn’t tamed. He was negotiated with.”

The table laughed. Damian’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

“Negotiated?” Mr. Akindele raised his glass. “To good negotiations.”

They drank. Amara sipped water. Across the table, Damian watched her. Not the crowd. Not his partners. Her.

After dinner, the men moved to the study for cigars. Damian touched Amara’s elbow. “Stay.”

She stayed. The room emptied until it was just them and the smell of expensive cigars and whiskey.

“You handled them well,” Damian said, pouring her water. “Better than my last three girlfriends combined.”

Amara took the glass. “I’m not your girlfriend.”

“No,” Damian agreed. “You’re my wife. Girlfriends leave. Wives stay.”

Amara looked up sharply. “Is that what this is? You think I’ll stay?”

Damian set the bottle down. “I think you’re stubborn enough to stay until the contract ends. And smart enough to know when to leave.”

Amara stood up. “I’m not a chess piece, Damian. I’m not staying because I’m stubborn. I’m staying because my mother needs treatment. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not,” Damian said. He moved closer. “I’m observing you. You’re different, Amara. You don’t flinch when I’m cold. You don’t beg when I’m cruel. You fight.”

“And you like it,” Amara said. It wasn’t a question.

Damian’s eyes darkened. “I don’t like things I can’t control.”

“Well, you can’t control me,” Amara shot back.

They stood inches apart. The air between them was thick. Dangerous. Amara’s pulse raced. She told herself it was anger. Not attraction. Not fear. Not want.

Damian reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek. Light. Barely there.

“Maybe I don’t want to control you,” he murmured. “Maybe I just want to understand you.”

Amara’s breath caught. “You have a contract for that. 50 pages. Read it again.”

“I did,” Damian said. His thumb brushed her jaw. “Clause 1 says no romantic involvement. But it doesn’t say anything about curiosity.”

Amara stepped back before she did something stupid. Like lean into his touch. “Curiosity kills, Mr. Cole.”

“So does ignoring it,” Damian replied.

A knock saved her. Mrs. Blake entered, eyes down. “Mr. Cole, your father is on line 2. He says it’s urgent.”

Damian’s face went hard. Cold mask back on. “Excuse me.”

He left. Amara exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for hours. Her cheek still burned where he touched her.

Upstairs, her mother was asleep. The nurse nodded as Amara passed. In her room, Amara locked the door and pressed her back against it. Her heart was pounding.

She touched her cheek. His fingers were still there, ghosting over her skin.

Her phone buzzed. Damian. _Meeting ran late. Don’t wait up._

Amara typed back: _I wasn’t waiting._

Three dots. Then: _Liar._

Amara smiled despite herself. She fell asleep with the phone in her hand.

The next morning, Damian was gone before she woke up. A note on her breakfast plate: _Office all day. Driver will take you to hospital at 2._

No _darling_. No _Mrs. Cole_. Just instructions. Like the touch last night never happened.

Amara went to the hospital. Her mother was doing exercises, laughing with the nurse. “He’s working too hard,” her mother said when Amara arrived. “That man needs rest.”

“He doesn’t rest,” Amara said. “He conquers.”

Her mother studied her. “You’re looking at him different now.”

Amara looked away. “I’m not.”

“You are,” her mother said gently. “Be careful, Amara. Falling for the enemy is the oldest tragedy.”

Amara didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Because her mother was right.

That evening, Damian came home late. Tie loose. Jacket over his shoulder. He looked exhausted. He paused when he saw Amara in the living room, reading.

“You’re still up,” he said.

“You’re still working,” she replied, closing the book.

Damian dropped his jacket on the chair and poured himself whiskey. “Long day. Board meeting. My father called three times.”

Amara stood up. “Do you want food? Mrs. Adebayo left soup.”

Damian stared at her like she’d spoken another language. “You’re offering to serve me?”

“I’m offering to feed a tired man,” Amara said simply. “Contract or not, you’re human.”

She went to the kitchen and returned with a bowl. Set it on the table in front of him. Sat across from him. No distance. No rules.

Damian ate slowly. Like he was tasting every spoonful. Like no one had ever fed him without wanting something back.

“My father wants me to divorce you after six months,” he said suddenly. “He says the Okafor name is poison.”

Amara’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. “And what did you say?”

“I said the contract says six months,” Damian replied. “I didn’t say what happens after.”

Amara set the spoon down. “Don’t play games with me, Damian. If you want me gone in six months, say it now. I can prepare.”

Damian met her eyes. “I don’t want you gone, Amara. I don’t know what I want. But not that.”

The honesty hit her harder than any lie. Amara stood up. “I should sleep.”

“Amara,” Damian called as she walked away. She stopped but didn’t turn. “Thank you. For the soup. For not leaving when my father called. For… staying.”

Amara didn’t answer. She went upstairs, locked her door, and cried into her pillow. Not from sadness. From confusion. From wanting.

The next day, Damian left for Abuja. Three days. No calls. No texts. Just silence. The mansion felt empty without him. Amara hated herself for noticing.

On the third night, she woke to the sound of a car. Tires on gravel. She ran to the window. Damian’s Bentley pulled in. He stepped out, shirt wrinkled, eyes tired.

Amara was at the door before Mrs. Adebayo could open it. Damian stopped when he saw her. Surprise flickered across his face.

“You’re awake,” he said.

“You’re home,” Amara replied. Like it mattered.

Damian nodded. He looked like he wanted to say more. But he just walked past her, up the stairs.

Amara followed. At his bedroom door, he turned. “You should sleep.”

“I did,” Amara said. “Now I’m awake.”

Damian leaned against the doorframe. Close. Too close. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble, Mrs. Cole. Standing in hallways at 2 AM. Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Amara whispered.

“Like you missed me,” Damian said, voice rough.

Amara’s heart stopped. “I didn’t.”

“Liar,” Damian whispered back. He reached out and touched her wrist, just above the bracelet. His thumb traced the engraving. _Amara Cole._

“My name,” he said softly. “On your skin. Every day.”

Amara swallowed. “It’s just a bracelet.”

“It’s not,” Damian said. He leaned forward until his forehead rested against hers. No kiss. No promise. Just breath. Warm. Shared.

For ten seconds, the world stopped. No contract. No father. No enemy. Just Amara and Damian, breathing the same air.

Then Damian stepped back. “Go to bed, Amara. Before I break Clause 1.”

Amara ran to her room and locked the door. Her hands shook. Her lips tingled like he’d kissed her, even though he hadn’t.

Down the hall, Damian pressed his palm to the door he’d just closed. He wanted to knock. Wanted to pull her into his arms and forget the contract, the father, the hate.

But he didn’t. Because he was Damian Cole. And Damian Cole didn’t break rules. Even his own.

He whispered to the door, “Six months, Amara. I’m trying to let you go.”

But his heart wasn’t listening anymore.

And neither was hers.