"I wasn't expecting a palace," I murmured as the black SUV pulled into the massive estate.
Damien glanced at me from the passenger side. "Don't let the flowers fool you. My mother waters thorns."
I tried to laugh. But my stomach churned with nerves.
He must've noticed because he said, "We stay for ninety minutes. No more. If things go south, use the phrase peach tea. I'll get us out."
"Is that… serious?"
"As a signed prenup," he replied.
I stared at the towering gates of the Odukoya ancestral home, a mansion larger than anything I'd ever dreamed of. Everything about it reeked of old money, quiet power, and legacy.
I tugged down my silk blouse.
Too plain?
I regretted not wearing the red dress Nene had suggested.
But it was too late.
The car rolled to a stop.
And I walked into the lion's den.
The first face that greeted us was an older man with silver hair and sharp eyes.
"Damien," he said in a tone that neither welcomed nor resented him. "You look rested."
"This is my grandfather," Damien told me.
The man looked me over.
One glance. Up, down.
Like an auctioneer inspecting a painting.
"Zara, sir," I said, offering a polite smile.
His nod was curt. "Pretty. Slim. Polished. Let's see how long that lasts."
I bit the inside of my cheek.
He walked away.
Damien whispered, "That was the nice one."
Inside, the Odukoya estate was a different universe.
Oil paintings of ancestors. Gold accents. Chandeliers so large they could light a ballroom. Every inch screamed tradition, control, and silent judgment.
And at the center of it all sat a woman with flawless skin, coiled hair, and an expression as blank as untouched snow.
"Mother," Damien said.
"Son," she replied, rising slowly.
Her gaze flickered to me.
No hug. No handshake.
Just… eyes.
Sharp. Calculating.
"You brought her."
"Zara is my wife," he said.
"So I've read."
Her voice was silk dipped in glass.
"I've prepared a private garden brunch," she said, already walking away. "Only direct family. I didn't want to overwhelm your… arrangement."
I bristled.
But Damien offered his arm.
And I took it.
Because this wasn't brunch.
It was war in pearls and porcelain.
The table was long and oval, dressed in white linens and surrounded by Damien's relatives. Aunts with tight smiles. Uncles with judging stares. Cousins who whispered behind napkins.
I sat beside Damien.
Opposite his mother.
She poured herself peach tea—how ironic—and looked at me as she stirred.
"So, Zara," she began, "tell us—how exactly did you two meet?"
I hesitated. The script. The lie.
But Damien answered smoothly. "At a private fundraiser. She tripped. I caught her."
I blinked at him. He never told me that version.
His mother smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Ah. So romantic. And tell me, dear… what do your parents do?"
There it was.
The test.
"My mother runs a pharmacy. My father passed when I was ten."
A pause.
Then a saccharine smile. "How quaint."
I tightened my grip on the fork.
Damien's voice cut in. "She graduated top of her class. Started her own non-profit. She's more than quaint."
The air shifted.
But his mother didn't falter.
"Of course. And yet… I do wonder. In a marriage built so quickly, do you even know my son's favorite meal?"
I blinked.
Damien's grip on his teacup froze.
"I—"
"Mother—" he warned.
"It's alright," I said.
I looked directly at her.
"His favorite meal is fried plantain and egusi, but only when it's made with scent leaf instead of bitter leaf. He pretends he doesn't like sweets, but he keeps a stash of chocolate in the top-right drawer of his home office. He falls asleep to jazz, but only old-school tracks—nothing modern. And he cracks his knuckles when he's thinking too hard."
Silence.
Aunties stopped chewing.
Cousins looked stunned.
I went on.
"I may not know your kind of wealth. But I know him. And if you're wondering how long I'll last… maybe ask yourself why you're betting against your own son's choices."
The silence snapped.
Damien reached under the table and squeezed my hand once.
Proud.
Warm.
Real.
She changed tactics after that.
Of course she did.
People like her never attacked the same spot twice.
By dessert, she invited a family friend—a tall, light-skinned man named Tunde with perfect teeth and expensive cologne.
He smiled at me like I was up for auction.
"You're quite the beauty," he said. "And smart too. Damien's lucky."
I smiled politely.
But Damien stiffened.
"Zara's not interested," he said flatly.
Tunde laughed. "I was being nice."
"Try being quiet."
I blinked.
That was new.
After brunch, as we walked toward the car, Damien didn't let go of my hand.
"Did I pass?" I asked.
He looked down at me.
"You made my mother blink. No one makes her blink."
I laughed.
But something caught in his expression.
A softness.
Then he said, "Thank you. For not folding."
"I wasn't raised to fold for glass women."
"Your mother raised a lion," he said.
And I flushed.
Because that sounded like admiration.
No—felt like admiration.
We reached the car.
He opened the door.
But before I climbed in, I turned to him.
"You're still full of secrets," I said.
"And you still want to uncover them."
I smiled. "Maybe."
And he said, "Good."
Then added, "But don't fall in love with me, Zara."
I looked at him.
"I don't fall for cold men."
But the truth was already unraveling.
Because when he kissed me again—this time at the gate, with no cameras watching
I let him.