The afternoon sky hung heavy with clouds, thick and gray, threatening rain. Lagos had a way of turning moody in August, as if the weather carried its own grudges. On some days the sun burned mercilessly, and on others, like today, the heavens seemed to sulk, ready to weep without warning.
By the time Amara ducked into the café, the drizzle had already begun, streaking the glass windows in uneven lines. Drops pattered against the awning outside, dripping onto the busy street where umbrellas bobbed like restless mushrooms in a storm.
Inside, the hum of conversation, clinking cups, and the warm smell of roasted beans wrapped the little place in comfort she could hardly feel. Students tapped at laptops, couples leaned across tables, and a group of men in suits debated football scores with too much laughter.
Amara slipped into a seat near the window, her bag resting by her side. She stared at the cappuccino cooling in front of her, untouched. She hadn't even wanted it, not really. Money was too tight for luxuries, but she had ordered the cheapest thing on the menu so she wouldn't be chased out for buying nothing. Now the foam had flattened into a dull lather, its warmth seeping away just as quickly as her own strength.
Her phone buzzed against the wooden table. She didn't want to look. Nothing good ever came from that rectangular device, not for her. Calls from the landlord, bills, work emails demanding more of her than she had left to give.
Still, her eyes betrayed her, and she flipped the screen over.
Debit Alert: ₦150,000
Rent.
Her chest tightened.
The landlord had refused to wait another week. He had threatened, as he always did, to throw their belongings out if she delayed again. And just like that, the money she had carefully tucked away for her brother's tuition was gone — swallowed whole by a man who treated people's lives as collateral.
Amara pressed the phone face down, her fingers trembling, and closed her eyes. A wave of helplessness crashed over her. She hated this feeling — weak, cornered, like life had pinned her against a wall with no room to breathe.
Her whisper was a broken plea. "God, how much more do I have to take?"
"Miss Johnson?"
The voice cut through her fog. Deep, even, commanding without trying.
Her eyes flew open.
Standing before her was a man she recognized instantly, though they had never spoken beyond polite hellos in passing.
Tade Adewale.
He was hard to miss. Not just for his height, tall, broad-shouldered or his expensive navy suit that looked stitched directly onto his frame. No, it was the air he carried with him. The quiet confidence of a man who didn't need to demand attention because the world already offered it to him. His tie sat firm, his shoes gleamed despite the wet streets outside, and his cologne sharp, clean, with a whisper of spice slipped into the air between them.
Amara blinked, caught off guard. "Mr. Adewale?"
He inclined his head politely. "May I join you?"
Her first instinct was to say no. To guard her space, to protect the little bubble of exhaustion and silence she had carved out for herself. But her lips betrayed her with a stiff nod.
Tade slid into the chair opposite her with an ease that made the tiny café suddenly feel smaller. He settled, as though every chair was designed to accommodate him, as though the very air reshaped itself to suit his presence.
"You're probably wondering why I asked to meet you," he said.
Amara tightened her grip around her cup. She hadn't been given much of a choice. His assistant's call earlier that morning had come with a tone that allowed no refusal: "Mr. Adewale would like to see you. Two p.m. at Green Bean Café." It had felt less like an invitation and more like a summons.
She nodded warily, forcing her voice steady. "Yes."
Tade leaned forward, his dark eyes locked on hers. "I'll get straight to the point. I need a wife."
The words hit her like a slap.
Her mouth parted, but no sound came out. She thought she had misheard him. "I… beg your pardon?"
"I need a wife," he repeated, his tone steady, businesslike, as if he were discussing stock options. "And I want you to be that woman."
Amara's brain scrambled for a response. A shaky laugh escaped before she could stop it. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"I don't joke about things like this."
Her heart thudded against her ribs, so loud she was certain he could hear it. She searched his face for a smirk, a flicker of amusement, something to tell her he was teasing. But Tade Adewale's expression was carved from stone.
"You can't be serious."
"I am."
"Why me?" The question tumbled out, unfiltered. "You don't even know me."
"That's exactly why," he replied smoothly.
Amara frowned. His answer made no sense.
He adjusted his cufflinks with practiced precision before continuing. "Miss Johnson, this isn't about romance. It isn't about love. This is business, a contract. You'll play the role of my wife for one year. In return, you'll be compensated handsomely."
Her chest tightened. A contract marriage? That was the stuff of Nollywood melodramas and cheap romance novels, not real life.
"You must think I'm desperate."
"Aren't you?"
The bluntness of his words stung like a slap. Heat rose in her cheeks. "That's insulting."
"It's the truth." His gaze never wavered. "You're drowning financially. I know about your mother's passing two years ago. Your father leaving when you were a child. I know you're the sole guardian of your younger brother. That your salary barely covers your expenses. That you're struggling to keep him in school. You've been fighting hard, but you're at the edge of breaking."
Her stomach twisted. Cold dread slid down her spine. How did he know so much about her life? He had investigated her. Researched her.
Her pride screamed at her to get up and leave. But reality pinned her to the chair.
"What's in it for you?" she asked, her voice sharp, defensive.
For the first time, a shadow flickered across his expression. His jaw tightened, his eyes darkened. "My grandfather's will. If I'm not married by my thirty-second birthday, control of Adewale Holdings goes to my cousins. I won't allow that to happen."
Amara let out a humorless laugh. "So I'm supposed to help you fight your family battles?"
"You need money. I need a wife. This solves both our problems."
He reached into his briefcase and slid a folder across the table. Amara refused to touch it.
"There's a signing bonus of ten million naira," he said evenly. "A monthly allowance of two million. At the end of the year, a final settlement of fifty million."
The café noise faded into a dull hum. Amara's breath caught in her throat. Fifty million.
Her hand twitched against the table. That kind of money could change her life. Secure her brother's education. Wipe away years of struggle. It could buy freedom.
But at what price?
She pushed the folder back toward him. Her voice trembled. "I can't. This is crazy."
"You can," he said quietly. "And it's not crazy. It's practical."
Her eyes flashed. "It's selling myself."
"No," he corrected, his gaze steady, unflinching. "It's saving yourself."
The café seemed to disappear around them. The clinking spoons, the chatter, the hiss of the espresso machine all of it blurred into silence. There was only him, only her, and the dangerous offer that hung between them.
Amara stood abruptly, her hands trembling as she grabbed her bag. "I don't need your charity, Mr. Adewale."
She turned sharply toward the door, her chest rising and falling. But his voice stopped her cold.
"Walk away if you want. But remember, your landlord won't wait. And neither will your brother's school."
The words sliced through her like a blade. She hated him for saying them. Hated him more for being right.
Outside, the rain had grown heavier, soaking her instantly as she stepped onto the street. The city buzzed around her honking cars, shouting vendors, people rushing under umbrellas but she felt strangely numb.
She wanted to hate him. To dismiss his proposal as absurd. To cling to her pride and spit in the face of his arrogance.
But deep down, beneath the anger and humiliation, she knew the truth.
The offer he had laid on the table was salvation. Dangerous, yes. But salvation all the same.
And that thought terrified her more than anything.