Amara barely slept that night.
She tossed and turned, the thin mattress digging into her back, the ceiling fan clicking with each slow spin like it was mocking her. Sleep came only in fragments, restless, broken pieces of dreams. Faces floated in and out: her mother's warm smile, Chike's carefree laughter, and always Tade. Those eyes of his. Calm. Sharp. Watching.
By dawn, she gave up.
The city outside was already awake. Buses honked impatiently, hawkers shouted prices into the humid air, and that constant Lagos hum pressed against the window, threatening to swallow her whole.
She sat up slowly, her hair sticking out in tangled knots, her mouth as dry as sand.
On the nightstand, her phone glowed faintly. The message was still there, heavy as a curse: You don't have much time. Decide quickly.
Her chest tightened.
"Decide quickly," she muttered, almost laughing. As if choices like this could be made over bread and tea. As if selling a whole year of her life was the same as choosing between garri and bread.
A knock at the door snapped her out of it.
"Amara?" Chike's voice was still thick with sleep. "You awake?"
"Yes. Come in."
The door creaked open and he shuffled inside, his hair sticking out in every direction, his eyes half-closed. For a moment, he looked so young again, just her little brother, the boy who once clung to her hand at the school gates.
"You didn't sleep," he said, reading her like he always did.
She managed a faint smile. "Neither did you."
He shrugged and sat on the edge of her bed. "I was thinking about the relay race. I need new sneakers. Mine are spoilt."
The words cut deeper than they should have. Sneakers. Something other kids barely thought about. But for Chike? A mountain. A luxury.
Amara squeezed his hand. "Don't worry. You'll get them."
His face brightened. "Promise?"
"Promise," she whispered, though the word burned on her tongue like a lie.
He left, bounding out the door with all the energy of someone who still believed the world was kind. She stayed behind, her chest heavy, frozen in place. His whole future was in her hands, and she could feel it slipping through her fingers.
Maybe Ifeoma was right. Maybe pride didn't put food on the table. Maybe dignity couldn't pay tuition.
But if she agreed, it wouldn't be crawling. It wouldn't be begging. She would walk in on her own terms.
By afternoon, she was standing in front of Adewale Holdings.
The building towered above her, all glass and steel, screaming money and power. People rushed in and out, their suits sharp, their heels clicking against marble like gunshots. Amara almost turned back. Almost. But then she saw Chike's hopeful eyes in her mind, heard his small voice asking Promise.
She pushed forward.
The lobby swallowed her whole. High ceilings, polished marble floors, everything too pristine, too quiet. The receptionist glanced up, her eyes skimming over Amara's simple dress before softening.
"I'm here to see Mr. Adewale," Amara said, her voice steadier than she felt.
"You're expected," the receptionist replied, checking the schedule. "Top floor."
Expected.
The word made her stomach twist.
The elevator ride dragged. Each number ticked by slowly, in sync with her racing heartbeat. When the doors slid open, she stepped into a silent corridor lined with glass offices.
At the end: Tade's door. Large. Heavy. Waiting.
She knocked once.
"Come in."
His voice carried through calm, deep, steady.
The office stretched wide, sunlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows. Books, awards, a massive desk, leather chairs. Everything screamed control.
And there he was, standing by the window. Straight-backed, hands clasped behind him. When he turned, those piercing eyes locked on her.
"You came," he said.
Amara lifted her chin. "Yes. To talk."
He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "Sit."
She sat, every nerve stretched tight.
"So," he said, lowering into his seat, "have you decided?"
"Yes," she answered, louder than she expected. "But not on your terms."
His brows lifted, a flicker of surprise. "Go on."
"If I do this, if I agree, it won't be as your puppet. I'll have conditions."
Silence stretched between them. Then a ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. Not warm. Amused.
"You intrigue me, Miss Johnson. Most people would have signed already."
"I'm not most people."
"Clearly." He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Tell me your conditions."
Her heart thudded, but she met his gaze head-on.
"First, my brother. His education guaranteed. All the way. No matter what happens."
"Done."
"Second, my independence. I won't be locked away like a trophy. I'll work, I'll live my life. No parades unless necessary."
"Acceptable."
She hesitated, then forced out the last one. "Third… respect. I don't care if this is fake. I don't care about your show. But in private, you won't treat me like I'm beneath you. I won't be humiliated."
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes, something unreadable. He leaned forward, his voice dropping.
"You're bold."
"I have to be."
The pause that followed was heavy.
Finally, he nodded. "Agreed."
Relief swept over her, tangled with fear. This was real now.
He opened a drawer and slid a folder across the desk. "Read it. Sign when you're ready."
Her fingers trembled as they landed on the folder.
"This changes everything," she whispered.
"Yes," he said. "For both of us."
Their eyes held. That invisible line was there, daring her to cross.
She opened the folder.
The title hit her like a slap:
Contractual Agreement of Marriage Between Mr. Tade Adewale and Miss Amara Johnson.
Her chest tightened. Seeing her name tied to his in black ink made it real.
She skimmed the clauses:
• Duration: twelve months, unless ended early.
• Public Image: act like a married couple in public.
• Compensation: ₦10,000,000 in installments, plus full tuition for Chike.
• Confidentiality: no one must know.
• Termination Clause: exposure, disobedience, breach = no money.
Her eyes burned. Ten million. She had never even touched a hundred thousand at once. Her hands shook as she flipped the page.
Additional clauses:
• Both parties must live under one roof.
• Physical intimacy only by consent.
• Inheritance rights subject to wills.
She froze. "One roof?"
"Yes," Tade said evenly. "It's necessary. People would ask questions otherwise."
"You expect me to just move into your house? Like that?"
His eyes narrowed. "Would you prefer to explain why my wife lives elsewhere?"
Heat rose to her face. The thought of waking up under the same roof as him twisted her stomach. But he was right. A fake marriage couldn't survive separate addresses.
She read on, pages of legal jargon tightening around her throat.
Finally, she slammed the folder shut. "This is insane."
"It's practical."
"You thought of everything. Every loophole. Every chain to bind me."
"I don't leave things to chance."
Her voice shook. "And if I change my mind tomorrow?"
"You won't."
The certainty in his tone pressed down on her.
Amara rose, moving to the window. Lagos stretched beneath her, vast and chaotic, but her life down there wasn't small. It was messy. Fragile. Real.
She thought of Chike. His sneakers. His laughter.
She turned back. "Fine. I'll do it. But I add one thing."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "What?"
"At the end of this year, when it's over, I walk away free. No strings. No debts. No hold from you."
His jaw tightened, then eased. "Agreed."
She sat again, pulled the folder close, and picked up the pen.
It felt cold. Heavy.
Her mother's voice whispered in her memory: Amara, never sell yourself short. You are worth more than gold.
Maybe this wasn't selling. Maybe this was survival.
Her hand shooked so badly the firat letter looked like a child's scribble.She almost laughed at herself, but the pen kept moving.One stroke, Two. Her name crawled across the page, binding her.
When she dropped the pen, her breath came fast and uneven. It was done.
Tade turned the folder, signed his name with smooth, practiced strokes. No hesitation.
The scratch of his pen sounded final, like a door slamming shut.
He set the pen down and looked at her. "Welcome to our marriage, Mrs. Adewale."
The title stung like a slap.
Her stomach twisted, her throat dry. But she lifted her chin anyway. "Don't think this makes me yours."
Something flickered in his eyes, amusement, maybe respect.
"We'll see," he murmured.
Her pulse hammered. She had signed. Crossed the line.
And there was no going back.