THE CEO'S CONTRACT WIFE

Chapter 1: The Deal She Couldn’t Refuse The rejection email glowed on Amara’s cracked phone screen like an insult. “We regret to inform you…” She didn’t finish reading it. This was the seventh job interview this month. Seven nos. Seven doors slammed in her face while her mother’s hospital bill burned a hole through her bag. ₦500,000. Due in 24 hours. The paper was wrinkled from how many times Amara had picked it up and put it down, hoping the numbers would change. They didn’t. Her hands trembled as she folded it and tucked it back beside her last ₦2,340. “I’ll figure it out, Mama,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against her mother’s frail hand. The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and fear. Machines beeped slow, steady, counting down time Amara didn’t have. Her mother was too weak to answer, but her eyes said _don’t worry about me_. Amara stepped outside to breathe. Lagos traffic roared like a beast that never slept. The sun was cruel, bouncing off cars and glass, making her head pound. She leaned against the hospital wall and closed her eyes for one second. One second of weakness. When she opened them, a black Bentley screeched to a stop inches from her feet. The driver yelled something in anger, but Amara was already numb to yelling. People shouted at her all day. Landlady for rent. Neighbors for noise. Creditors for money she didn’t have. She stepped back, clutching her bag tighter, ready for the insults to continue. The back door opened. A man stepped out. Tall. Black suit tailored to his shoulders like armor. Cold eyes that looked through her like she was glass. Damian Cole. She knew his face from business news, from whispers, from the stories her father told before he died. The billionaire who took everything from the Okafor family. The enemy. He looked at the hospital bill in her hand, then at her face. No pity. No kindness. Just calculation, like she was a problem he needed to solve. “You look desperate,” he said. His voice was low, controlled, the kind of voice that gave orders and watched people obey. Amara lifted her chin. Pride was all she had left. “I look like a woman trying to save her mother. Is there a problem, Mr. Cole?” He took the bill from her hand without asking. His fingers brushed hers and she flinched. He read it. The silence stretched. For a moment she thought he’d tear it up and laugh in her face. That’s what enemies did. Instead, he pulled out a card. Black. Gold letters. Expensive. “Meet me at Cole Tower. 9 AM. We have business to discuss. You need money. I need a wife.” Amara stared at the card. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “I’m not for sale.” “Good,” Damian said, sliding back into the Bentley. His eyes held hers for one second too long. “Because I don’t buy toys. I make contracts. Be there, or don’t. Your mother’s time is running out.” The car pulled away, leaving her with the card and a choice she never wanted to make. The card felt heavy in her palm. Heavier than the hospital bill. Heavier than her pride. That night, Amara didn’t sleep. She sat beside her mother’s bed and held her hand, watching the machines blink. 9 AM felt like a countdown to selling her soul. She thought about her father, about the way he used to say _Never bow, even when you’re broken_. She thought about walking away. She thought about dignity. By 6 AM she was dressed. Her only good dress. Second-hand, but clean. Ironed carefully at 4 AM while the city slept. She braided her hair and wiped her eyes until they stopped stinging. Fear sat in her chest like a stone, but under it was something else. Fire. She was an Okafor. She would not beg. At 8:55 AM, she stood in front of Cole Tower. Glass and steel and power reaching into the sky. Her reflection in the glass looked small, tired, out of place. But her back was straight. Her father taught her one thing before he died: _Never bow._ The receptionist led her to the top floor in silence. The elevator rose and Amara’s stomach dropped with it. The doors opened to an office bigger than her entire house. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Lagos spread out below like a toy city. The air smelled like leather and money. Damian stood with his back to her, looking out. He didn’t turn when she entered. The silence pressed against her skin. “You came,” he said finally. “I came for my mother,” Amara replied. Her voice didn’t shake. “Not for you.” He turned then. Slow. Deliberate. Those cold eyes met hers and pinned her in place. “Same thing, Ms. Okafor. Sign this contract, and your mother gets the best hospital in the country. ₦5 million when the six months are over. You play my wife at events. You sleep in my house. You follow the rules.” He slid a thick document across the marble desk. Clause 1 glared up at her: _No romantic involvement between parties._ The words blurred. Six months. Fake marriage. Enemy’s son. Amara’s hands shook as she picked up the pen. This was her father’s enemy. The man who destroyed their name, their company, their future. Signing this meant betraying everything her father stood for. Damian leaned forward, close enough that she could smell his cologne. Expensive. Dangerous. Like power and winter. “One more thing,” he said softly, his voice dropping until only she could hear. “When people see us together, they’ll believe we’re in love. So you’d better learn to look at me like I own you.” Amara met his gaze. Fear mixed with fury in her chest until she couldn’t tell them apart. Her father was dead. Her mother was dying. Pride didn’t pay hospital bills. She signed her name. Amara Okafor. The ink looked like a wound on the paper. Damian smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Welcome to the Cole family, Mrs. Cole. From today, we’ll know each other very well.”