Amara left Tade's office with her chest on fire. The contract was still fresh in her mind, the ink almost wet, like it had burned straight into her skin. Lagos traffic roared outside, horns, buses, people shouting but she hardly noticed. Her feet just moved on their own, carrying her away from the glass tower that had just swallowed her future.
She wanted to scream. To run. To disappear. To rip up that cursed paper. But she couldn't. The money was real. Her signature was there. No running away from that.
When the hot air hit her face, the weight of it sank deeper. I'm somebody's wife now. A stranger's wife. For money.
She hugged herself tight, shivering even though the sun was merciless.
Word spread faster than she imagined. Tade must have told his people, because within two days her phone wouldn't stop buzzing. His lawyer. His personal assistant. Even his mother's secretary. All calling, all polite, all professional. Each voice a reminder that her life was no longer her own.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Adewale," one of them said over the line.
She almost dropped the phone.
Mrs. Adewale? Who? She was Amara Johnson. The broke girl from Surulere who could barely keep up with rent. But the world had already started replacing her name.
And then came the wedding planning.
The Adewale family didn't believe in small things. Tade was the heir to a billion-naira empire, and society demanded spectacle.
The first planning meeting was in some luxury hotel downtown. Amara sat stiff at the long table, surrounded by decorators, florists, stylists, photographers—people who spoke about colors and budgets like it was war strategy.
Tade arrived last, as usual, walking in calm and sharp, and just like that the room fell silent.
"This is my fiancée," he said, voice smooth as glass.
Her heart jumped at the word. Fiancée.
Every face turned to her. Some smiled politely. Some… didn't bother to hide the judgment.
One woman, middle-aged with cheekbones like blades, leaned forward. "She's… beautiful," she said, but the pause in her voice was louder than the words.
Tade didn't blink. "Of course. That's why I chose her."
Heat climbed up Amara's face. Chose me? Like what—furniture?
The planners went on buzzing. White roses. Cathedrals. Chandeliers. Guest lists running into hundreds. Everything sparkled, everything screamed millions.
Amara sat quietly, her mind raging. She didn't want roses. She didn't want lace. She didn't even want the man beside her. All she wanted was freedom.
But every time she glanced at Tade, that calm expression reminded her: this wasn't her story. It was his. His family's. His image.
At home, Ifeoma nearly swallowed her tongue when Amara confessed.
"You signed? Amara!"
"I had no choice," Amara whispered, tears stinging her eyes. "It's Chike. It's school fees. It's everything."
Ifeoma paced the tiny room like a trapped animal. "Do you even know what you've done? You're walking into a cage. With a man who probably doesn't even believe in love!"
Amara stayed silent. She didn't need to answer.
Ifeoma finally stopped pacing and grabbed her hands. "Then listen to me, if you're doing this, don't lose yourself inside it. Fight."
Those words stuck to Amara's ribs long after.
The weeks that followed were a battle in themselves.
At a dress fitting, Tade strolled in uninvited. His eyes scanned her in the gown like he was assessing a deal.
"It suits you," he said simply.
Her lips tightened. "Good. That's all you care about, right? Suiting your image."
He didn't take the bait. Instead, he turned to the seamstress and said, "Make the veil longer. She deserves something grand."
When he left, Amara's chest twisted in confusion. How could he be so cold and yet throw in words that almost almost felt considerate?
Almost.
Another evening, during a family dinner, Tade's mother pulled Amara aside.
"You'll behave yourself, won't you? No scandals. No noise. My son has a reputation to protect."
Amara swallowed hard. "Yes, ma."
But inside, she was boiling. She wasn't a mannequin to be polished and displayed.
In public, she and Tade smiled. In private, silence stretched between them, thick enough to choke on. Their hatred wasn't loud, it was quiet, heavy, waiting.
The morning of the wedding felt unreal.
Her suite was a chaos of stylists and makeup artists. Powder brushed against her cheeks. Heavy gold settled on her neck. The gown shimmered so bright it almost looked like it was made of starlight.
She stared at the mirror and hardly recognized the woman staring back. Regal. Elegant. Like she belonged in Tade Adewale's world.
But her eyes… her eyes were still Amara's. Wide, unsure, full of questions no one wanted answers to.
"Smile," one stylist urged. "It's your big day!"
Smile? Easy for them to say. They weren't marrying a stranger.
She forced her lips into place, the smile hollow.
The church overflowed. Cameras flashed as she walked down the aisle, arm linked with Chike's. He grinned, proud as ever, completely blind to the war inside her chest.
Then she saw Tade, waiting at the altar in a suit so sharp it could cut. His face was unreadable, carved from stone.
Their eyes locked. For one suspended second, the noise fell away. Hate. Fear. Duty. Survival. All of it crashed in the space between them.
She reached him. He held out his hand. She placed hers in his, the touch sparking something she couldn't even name.
The vows came next. Words that sounded simple but dragged like heavy chains.
"I do."
She heard her own voice, steady but distant, as if it belonged to someone else.
When it was his turn, Tade's answer was firm. "I do."
Applause thundered. The priest's words rose. Husband and wife.
Then came the kiss.
Her heart stopped as his hand brushed her cheek. His lips touched hers softly, brief, but colder than glass.
The crowd cheered. Cameras exploded with light.
But Amara knew the truth. That kiss wasn't love. It was a performance. The final stamp on a contract.
The reception was a flood of laughter, music, clinking glasses. The hall glittered. Guests toasted, danced, ate until their plates were heavy.
But beside her new husband, Amara sat stiff, a statue wrapped in silk. Their hands only touched when cameras demanded it. Their smiles never reached their eyes.
Whispers trailed through the hall like smoke. Some admired. Some speculated. Few believed.
And as the night dragged on, the truth sank into her bones like ice:
She was now Mrs. Tade Adewale.
A bride without love.
A wife only by name.
And this was only the beginning.