The applause and flashing cameras still echoed in Amara's ears long after the reception ended. Her jaw ached from smiling. Her feet hurt from dancing with strangers who clutched her like she was a trophy on loan. She had laughed when she was supposed to laugh, posed when she was supposed to pose, even tilted her head just so for photos that would splash across the society pages by morning.
She wore the mask well. But behind it, her chest felt like stone.
Now, hours later, she sat on the edge of a bed so large it could have swallowed her whole. The suite smelled faintly of roses and spilled champagne. A bridal suite. Her new husband stood across the room, his back turned, peeling off his cufflinks one by one like he was dismantling a weapon.
Tade hadn't said more than five sentences to her since they'd left the reception.
The silence wasn't peaceful. It was the kind that made your skin itch.
Amara's hands twisted in her lap, her gaze fixed on the lace hem of her wedding dress. She should have changed hours ago, but her body refused to move. She wanted to say something maybe a stupid joke about how surreal it was to be "Mrs. Adewale" now. But Tade's stiff shoulders told her not to bother.
"This arrangement," he said finally, voice flat, "does not require us to pretend when we're alone. You can stop waiting for some fairytale moment."
Her throat tightened. He hadn't even turned.
"I wasn't expecting one," she shot back, softer than she meant. "Don't flatter yourself."
That made him pause. His eyes flicked to the mirror, meeting hers in the reflection. Something flickered there, surprise? annoyance? before vanishing.
He turned, sliding his watch into its case with mechanical precision. "Good. Tomorrow we fly out early. Maldives. A week. We perform in public, we vanish in private. That way, neither of us suffers more than necessary."
Her chest squeezed at the casual cruelty. She wanted to remind him she hadn't begged for this. But instead, she bit her tongue until it hurt. Let him think she was fragile. Sometimes survival meant letting people underestimate you.
Breakfast the next morning tasted like nothing. Scrambled eggs, toast, champagne, all wasted on a throat that refused to swallow. Tade scrolled through his emails while she pushed food around her plate. The clink of cutlery was the only sound.
By the time they boarded the jet, Amara had made a decision. She might be trapped in this marriage, but she wouldn't let him ruin everything. She had never been outside Africa before. If she was going to be dragged into this arrangement, then she would at least keep the parts of it that belonged to her.
The Maldives. White sand. Turquoise water. Villas that looked like they had been carved out of dreams. Amara pressed her forehead to the jet's oval window, breath fogging the glass. Her chest tightened at the sight below, islands scattered like emeralds in a blue so pure it hurt.
"You're staring like a tourist," Tade muttered beside her.
"I am a tourist," she said, still glued to the view. "It's my first time seeing this."
Silence stretched. Then his voice came again, quieter: "Don't act too starstruck in front of the staff. We're supposed to look like this is normal."
Amara turned to him finally, lips twitching. "Sorry I don't live on private jets and exotic islands every other weekend."
His mouth tightened, but he said nothing.
Their villa perched above the water like something out of a postcard. A deck stretched into the horizon, a pool shimmering like glass. Amara's chest caught. "It's… beautiful."
Tade tipped the manager generously and dismissed him with a wave. Then, turning to her: "Your room is left. Mine is right. Meals together when necessary. Otherwise, stay out of my way."
Her eyes widened. "You booked separate rooms?"
"Of course. Did you think I wanted to share a bed?" His gaze pinned her in place, cold as marble. "Don't mistake this for a marriage."
Her stomach twisted, but she lifted her chin. "Don't worry. The thought never crossed my mind."
She dragged her suitcase across the polished floor, refusing to let him see her sting.
By sunset, she was barefoot on the deck, arms wrapped around herself against the ocean breeze. The waves lapped softly, steady, endless. She had dreamed of places like this — but not like this. Not with a man who could make paradise feel like prison.
Behind her, the glass door slid open. She didn't have to turn. His presence pressed against her like static.
"You should come inside," he said. "The wind gets rough after sundown."
"I like it here."
A sharp exhale. "Always difficult."
She laughed bitterly. "Oh, I'm difficult? Forgive me for not being the perfect mannequin you can parade for photographs."
Silence. When she turned, his expression startled her. He looked almost… tired. His jaw slack, tie loosened, a crack in the mask. For a split second, she saw a man instead of a machine.
Then it vanished. He straightened, cuffs snapping into place. "Dinner's at seven. Don't be late."
The restaurant floated on water, its glass floor alive with darting fish. Candlelight flickered. A violin whispered in the background. Every detail screamed romance, but Amara sat stiffly across from Tade, her silky champagne dress clinging to her skin. She had picked it for herself, not for him.
The waiter poured wine. Amara caught her reflection in the glass, smiling faintly, like she belonged here. But her chest ached.
"You're staring too hard at your drink," Tade said.
"I was thinking."
"Dangerous," he murmured. "Especially for someone in your position."
She smirked. "My position? You mean the wife you bought?"
Something flickered in his eyes. Quickly buried. "At least you're not pretending otherwise."
"Oh, I'm pretending," she whispered, leaning closer. "Ask anyone here, they'll tell you we're madly in love."
Almost on cue, a couple leaned over from the next table. "Congratulations!" the woman gushed. "Such a beautiful couple. You two look so in love."
Amara didn't hesitate. She reached for Tade's hand, brushing his knuckles like it was the most natural thing. "Thank you. It's been a dream."
To her surprise, Tade didn't let go. His grip was firm, steady — almost warm.
"You're good at this," he murmured.
"So are you," she said, though her voice betrayed her.
For the rest of dinner, they performed flawlessly. To anyone watching, they were a couple drowning in passion. But Amara's heart refused to play along.
Walking back, her heels dangled from her hand, feet sinking into cool sand. She let out a sigh.
"You enjoyed that performance too much," Tade said.
"Maybe I'm just a better actress than you thought."
"Or maybe you're forgetting it isn't real."
Her step faltered. "Trust me, I know."
But when she tripped on a loose plank of the bridge, his arm caught her before the world tilted.
Her palms pressed to his chest, his heartbeat steady under her touch. Too steady. Too human.
"You should watch where you're going," he said, voice low.
"You could just say are you okay," she muttered.
His lips twitched, but the almost-smile vanished. "You're fine. That's all that matters."
But lying awake later, Amara couldn't stop replaying it. The warmth of his hold. The flicker in his eyes. She wasn't supposed to feel anything.
And yet.
Across the villa, Tade downed whiskey at the window. He told himself she was a pawn. Just a pawn. Nothing more.
But her startled eyes haunted him long into the night.
The next morning, sunlight painted the sea in gold. Amara's phone buzzed with a text: Private island excursion. Pickup at 10 AM. She hadn't booked anything.
A knock at her door. Tade appeared, crisp in white linen, like a model. "Get ready. We're expected."
"Expected where?"
"The resort arranged it. Appropriate for appearances."
"For who?" she asked. "The paparazzi hiding in the bushes?"
"For anyone watching."
She rolled her eyes, but part of her knew he was right.
The speedboat tore across turquoise waves, salt stinging her lips. Amara clutched her hair against the wind while Tade lounged, sunglasses on, untouchable.
The island was paradise itself ,white sand, swaying palms, water clear as glass.
"You can swim, right?" Tade asked.
She glared. "Of course. What, you think I grew up in the desert?"
He stripped off his shirt, lean muscles glinting under the sun. "I verify."
Heat rose to her cheeks. "You're insufferable."
"And yet," he smirked, stepping into the water, "here you are."
Snorkeling was a dream, coral gardens, fish like moving jewels. For a while, she forgot.
Until she surfaced, mask pushed up, and realized he had drifted far away. Panic spiked.
"You could've told me!" she snapped when they regrouped.
"You seemed fine," he said, maddeningly calm.
"That's not the point! You don't get to decide when I need you."
His jaw tightened. "And what makes you think I'm here to be needed?"
Her chest stung. She turned away, voice small. "Right. Silly me. Thinking husbands are supposed to care."
Later, sitting under a palm tree, silence stretched thick between them.
Finally, Tade broke it. "You think this is easy for me?"
Amara blinked, startled.
"You think I wanted this?" His voice was sharp, but not arrogant. Worn. "Every day pretending. Every day smiling for cameras. Do you know what it costs to keep a façade that never cracks?"
She studied him. For the first time, he didn't look cold. He looked tired. Haunted.
"Then why do it?" she whispered.
He twisted the water bottle in his hands. His jaw worked. Finally: "Because sometimes… you sacrifice peace for survival."
The words hung between them, heavy.
She wanted to reach for him, to close the space, but pride anchored her.
Instead, she leaned back, eyes fluttering shut. "We make quite the pair, don't we? Pretending so hard we've forgotten what's real."
When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her not with disdain, but something else. Something dangerous.
And it unsettled them both.
That night, lying in her room, Amara pressed her palms to her racing chest. She hated him. Hated the contract. Hated the way he looked at her like she was both nothing and everything.
But most of all, she hated the way her body betrayed her.
Because it meant she was in danger.
Not of him.
But of herself.