The 10 Million Naira Wife

The law office smelled like money and bad decisions. I gripped the contract until my knuckles turned white. ₦10,000,000. Ten million naira. Enough to pay for Mama’s surgery, clear our debt in Ibadan, and still have enough left to disappear forever. "Any questions, Miss Bello?" I looked up at Khalil Abdullahi. Lagos’s most ruthless CEO. 29. Six-foot-four. Eyes like a loan shark calculating interest. The tabloids called him "The Shark of Banana Island" because he destroyed companies for sport. He was currently staring at me like I was a spreadsheet error. "No questions," I said. My voice didn’t shake. Good. "Just one condition." His eyebrow lifted. One fraction of a millimeter. For Khalil Abdullahi, that was the same as gasping. "I want half upfront. ₦5 million before I sign." The lawyer choked on his water. Khalil’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Sharks didn’t smile. "Miss Bello, you’re in no position to negotiate. You were evicted yesterday. Your mother’s hospital is threatening to discharge her tomorrow. And you came here in a dress with a safety pin holding the zipper together." Heat crawled up my neck. He’d done his research. "Which is exactly why I need the money upfront," I said. "I’m not leaving this room as your wife without Mama’s surgery being paid for. Take it or leave it, Mr. Abdullahi." Silence. The clock ticked. 17:03. Mama’s surgery was at 08:00 tomorrow. Khalil leaned back. He studied me like he was deciding whether to buy my company or bulldoze it. "Fine." He nodded to the lawyer. "Transfer ₦5 million to her account. Now." My phone buzzed 30 seconds later. CREDIT ALERT: ₦5,000,000.00 I exhaled for the first time in three days. "Sign," Khalil ordered. I picked up the pen. Page 1: Marriage Contract Between Khalil O. Abdullahi and Zara Bello. Page 7: Term: 365 days. Compensation: ₦10,000,000. Termination Clause: Immediate divorce if either party develops romantic feelings. No falling in love. Easy. I hated him already. I signed: Z. Bello. I didn’t write my middle name. Anon. Zara B. Anon. The same name I used when I coded my first fintech app at 19 from a borrowed laptop in University of Ibadan. The same name Forbes was calling "the faceless billionaire" last week after my company, Anon Tech, was valued at ₦20 billion. Khalil didn’t notice. He never looked at me. Just the signature line. "We’re done here," he said, standing. "My driver will pick you up at 06:00 tomorrow. We’re moving you into the estate. My grandfather arrives in six days. We need to look convincing." He walked out without saying goodbye. Without looking back. The lawyer slid a gold wedding band across the table to me. "Congratulations, Mrs. Abdullahi." Mrs. Abdullahi. The name tasted like poison and ₦10 million. I slipped the ring on. It was cold. Heavy. It felt like a handcuff. As I walked out of the air-conditioned office into the Lagos heat, my phone buzzed again. Not the bank. My CTO. Text from Ife, CTO of Anon Tech: Boss, we have a problem. Khalil Abdullahi just filed a hostile takeover bid for us. His lawyers say he wants to “dismantle Anon Tech piece by piece.” What’s the play? I stared at my new wedding ring. Then at the name on the contract in my hand. Khalil O. Abdullahi. I typed back with my thumb: Me: Buy a wedding dress. I just married the enemy.