THE CEO'S CONTRACT WIFE

THE FIRST PUBLIC LIE

Chapter 3: The First Public Lie

Amara woke to sunlight and silence. No Lagos traffic. No neighbors shouting. Just the soft hum of the mansion and her own heartbeat. For a second she forgot where she was. Then she saw the wardrobe full of dresses that weren’t hers and the contract on her dresser. Mrs. Cole.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Unknown number. She almost ignored it. Then it buzzed again with a text.

_8:30 AM. Breakfast. Don’t be late._ Damian.

She checked the time. 8:12 AM. Amara threw off the silk sheets and rushed to the bathroom. The black dress from last night lay on the chair like an accusation. She couldn’t wear it again. She pulled out a simple blue dress from the wardrobe. Still expensive. Still not hers. But it covered her skin and let her breathe.

Downstairs, Damian was already at the table. Newspaper in one hand, coffee in the other. He wore a grey suit today. No tie. His sleeves were rolled up, showing a watch that cost more than her mother’s yearly treatment.

“You’re 3 minutes late,” he said without looking up.

“I’m 3 minutes faster than yesterday,” Amara replied, sitting down. Her stomach twisted. Not from hunger. From being here.

Mrs. Adebayo placed eggs and toast in front of her. Amara picked at it. Across the table, Damian flipped a page.

“Your mother’s surgery is scheduled for Thursday,” he said casually, like he was discussing weather. “Best surgeon in the country. He flies in from London tomorrow.”

Amara’s fork stopped mid-air. “Thursday? You said the transfer would take weeks.”

“I said contracts work both ways.” Damian set the paper down and met her eyes. “You keep your part of the deal. I keep mine. Simple.”

Amara swallowed. Gratitude warred with suspicion in her chest. “Why Thursday? Why so fast?”

Damian’s gaze hardened. “Because my mother’s birthday party is Saturday. And you will be there. As my wife. Looking like you belong beside me.”

The word _wife_ hit her like a slap. Amara put her fork down. “I don’t know how to be someone’s wife.”

“Good,” Damian said. “Neither do I. Just pretend. Smile. Hold my arm. Say yes, darling, when I speak. That’s all.”

“Darling,” Amara repeated, tasting the lie. “I can’t—”

“You can.” He stood up, leaving his coffee half-finished. “Mrs. Blake will take you shopping at 11. You need dresses for Saturday. And Amara?”

She looked up.

“Don’t wear that blue dress. It makes you look like you’re still poor. We’re not selling that story.”

He walked out. The room felt colder without him.

At 11 AM, Mrs. Blake drove her to a boutique in Victoria Island. Glass doors. Guards. Mannequins wearing clothes that cost more than her rent. The saleswoman bowed the moment Amara entered.

“Mrs. Cole, welcome. Mr. Cole said to pick anything you like.”

Amara touched a red dress. Silk. It slid through her fingers like water. The price tag made her dizzy. She dropped her hand.

“I don’t need—”

“You need,” Mrs. Blake cut in gently. “For your mother. For the contract. Try the red one.”

Two hours later, Amara stared at herself in the mirror. The red dress clung to her curves, dipped low at the front, and made her look like a woman from magazine covers. A woman who belonged in Damian’s world. Not her world.

“It’s beautiful,” the saleswoman said.

“It’s not me,” Amara whispered.

Mrs. Blake handed her a jewelry box. Diamond earrings. “Mr. Cole said these match.”

Amara shook her head. “I can’t wear that. I’ll lose it.”

“You won’t,” Mrs. Blake said. “Because you’re not Amara Okafor today. You’re Mrs. Damian Cole.”

The words felt like chains. Amara touched the earrings but didn’t put them on.

Saturday arrived too fast. Amara stood in front of the mirror, hands shaking. The red dress. The diamond earrings. Heels that made her 6 inches taller. Her reflection looked like a stranger. A beautiful, dangerous stranger.

A knock. Damian. He wore a black tuxedo. His hair was slicked back. He looked like every woman’s fantasy and every man’s nightmare.

He walked in, looked at her, and stopped. For one second his mask slipped. Surprise. Then it was gone.

“You’ll do,” he said.

“Thanks,” Amara muttered. “You’ll do too.”

He held out his arm. “Remember the rules. Smile. Hold my arm. Say yes, darling.”

Amara placed her hand on his arm. His suit was warm. His muscles were solid under her fingers. She hated how steady he felt. How safe.

The Cole mansion was full of people. Laughter. Music. Cameras flashing. Damian’s mother stood in the center of the room like a queen. Older, sharp eyes, wearing pearls worth millions.

Damian leaned close to Amara’s ear. “Smile, Mrs. Cole.”

She smiled. It hurt.

His mother approached, eyes scanning Amara from head to toe. “So this is the girl,” she said. No warmth. “Damian never brings women to family events.”

“Mother, this is Amara. My wife,” Damian said, his arm tightening around Amara’s waist. Possessive. “Amara, my mother, Victoria Cole.”

Amara forced her voice steady. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cole.”

Victoria’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Is it? We’ll see. Tell me, dear, where did you two meet?”

Amara opened her mouth. No answer came. She didn’t know the lie.

Damian answered for her. “At a charity gala, Mother. She spilled wine on my suit. I’ve been punishing her ever since by keeping her.” He winked. Amara’s face burned.

Victoria laughed, but it sounded fake. “Charming. Try not to spill anything on the furniture, dear.”

She walked away. Amara exhaled. “You lied.”

“I told a story,” Damian corrected. “That’s what husbands do.”

They moved through the crowd. Damian introduced her as _my wife_ over and over. Each time, Amara’s chest tightened. Each time, he pulled her closer, his hand on the small of her back like he owned her.

A man approached. Younger. Handsome. Smiling too wide. “Damian Cole. Long time. And who’s this beauty?”

“Alex,” Damian said, voice cold. “This is my wife, Amara. Amara, Alex. My cousin.”

Alex took Amara’s hand and kissed it. His lips lingered. “Wife? Since when does Damian Cole get married without telling family?”

“Since he found someone worth keeping,” Damian said, pulling Amara closer. His hand slid to her waist. “Hands off, Alex.”

Alex laughed and walked away. Amara whispered, “You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” Damian cut her off. “That’s the point of this. You’re mine. Everyone here needs to believe it.”

The word _mine_ made her stomach flip. She looked up at him. For a second his eyes weren’t cold. They were intense. Focused only on her.

Then the cameras flashed. Damian smiled down at her, and his lips brushed her forehead. Light. Barely there. A public kiss. A lie for the crowd.

But Amara’s heart didn’t know it was a lie. Her knees went weak. The room tilted.

“Smile,” Damian whispered against her skin. “You’re doing perfect, darling.”

The party ended at midnight. In the car ride home, silence filled the space between them. Amara stared out the window, still feeling his lips on her forehead.

“You were good tonight,” Damian said finally.

“I lied to your mother.”

“We both did.” He loosened his tie. “That’s marriage.”

Amara looked at him. “Is this all it is? Lies and contracts?”

Damian didn’t answer for a long time. When he did, his voice was quiet. “I don’t know anymore, Amara.”

They reached the mansion. Amara went straight to her room and locked the door. She took off the earrings, the heels, the dress. Piece by piece she became Amara again. Not Mrs. Cole.

But her forehead still burned where his lips touched it. And her heart still raced when she remembered the way he said _mine_.

Down the hall, Damian stood in his own room. He touched his lips with two fingers. Forehead kiss. Nothing. Just for show.

But his pulse was faster than it should be. And he didn’t like it.

Six months, he reminded himself. Just six months.

He didn’t believe it. Not after tonight.