The church was filled with roses, but she couldn't breathe.
Her veil felt heavier than chains as she stood at the altar, clutching the bouquet in trembling fingers. Cameras flashed, relatives whispered, and every eye in the grand cathedral was fixed on her—yet the one man who mattered most hadn't even looked her way.
Her groom.
His tall frame stood beside her, a shadow dressed in the finest white tuxedo. His face was handsome enough to steal breaths—sharp jawline, piercing dark eyes, and lips that curved in an expression colder than ice. The youngest billionaire in Lagos, feared and admired, every woman's dream… but her nightmare.
"Do you, Amara Okoye, take this man as your lawful wedded husband?" the priest's voice boomed.
Her throat was dry. She forced her lips to move. "...I do."
A ripple of whispers moved through the guests. Some smiled with envy, others with pity. Everyone knew she wasn't marrying for love. Everyone knew her family's business was drowning, and this man—their savior and executioner—had offered a deal too dangerous to refuse.
The priest turned. "And do you, Michael Adewale, take this woman as your lawful wedded wife?"
The billionaire didn't hesitate. His voice was firm, steady, and devoid of any emotion. "I do."
No smile. No tenderness. Not even a glance at her.
The priest declared them husband and wife. Applause thundered across the hall, but Amara's chest felt hollow. Michael slid the ring onto her finger as if sealing a business contract. His fingers brushed hers—icy, deliberate, detached. He didn't even raise her veil for the kiss.
The humiliation burned.
Her cousin whispered loudly from the pews, "A wedding without a kiss? What kind of husband is that?"
Amara bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. She couldn't cry. Not here. Not now.
The ceremony ended, and the guests began to chatter and congratulate them. Cameras clicked, but Michael's smile never reached his eyes. He shook hands, posed for pictures, then walked straight toward the waiting limousine without sparing her a glance.
She followed silently, her white gown dragging against the marble floor.
Inside the car, the air was suffocating. He sat across from her, scrolling through his phone, ignoring her existence.
Finally, she broke the silence. "You didn't even… kiss me."
His eyes lifted, dark and sharp. "This marriage isn't about love, Amara. Don't expect romance from me."
Her chest tightened. "Then why marry me at all?"
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn't answer.
The limousine pulled into his sprawling mansion—an empire of glass and steel that looked more like a fortress than a home. Servants bowed as they entered, their eyes curious but careful.
Michael led her upstairs to the master suite. The room was coldly elegant, designed with perfection but lacking warmth.
She turned to him, her voice trembling. "Michael… what exactly do you expect from me?"
For the first time that day, he looked straight into her eyes. The intensity in his gaze froze her in place.
Without a word, he pulled a sleek envelope from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table.
"Read it."
Her fingers shook as she opened the document. Her eyes scanned the first line, and her heart dropped.
Marriage Agreement
Her vision blurred. The contract spelled out rules, restrictions, conditions. No intimacy. No interference in his personal life. She was to be his wife only in name, a shield for business alliances and a puppet for social appearances.
Tears welled in her eyes. "You… you want me to sign this?"
He leaned closer, his voice low and ruthless. "Sign it, Amara. From today onward, you're my wife only on paper. Nothing more."
The bouquet slipped from her hands, crashing onto the marble floor.
Her wedding night had just turned into a prison sentence.