If you've never prayed for amnesia before, you've clearly never humiliated yourself in front of a billionaire.
The moment Adrian Cole's voice echoed through that ballroom and I realized my "assistant" was actually him, my life ended. Right there. The Amara you knew? Gone. Buried under a mountain of shame, with a headstone that read: Here lies Amara. She only wanted champagne, but she got humiliation instead.
I couldn't even stay for the rest of the speech. I rushed home the way Nigerian aunties rush to the market when tomatoes are cheap.
Of course, Sophia was waiting.
"Tell me everything," she demanded, eyes gleaming like a gossip blogger ready to break the internet.
So I told her. Every detail. The café, the parking lot, the words that had come out of my foolish mouth: Who wouldn't want to be close to a billionaire?
By the time I finished, Sophia was howling. She laughed so hard she slid off the couch and rolled on the rug like someone who'd just won a lottery.
"Babe," she wheezed between gasps for air, "you told him—" more laughter, "you told him you wanted to meet him?"
I groaned, burying my face in a throw pillow. "Don't remind me."
But she couldn't stop. She cackled for three straight hours. My tragedy had become her Netflix special.
"Honestly, Amara," she said finally, wiping tears. "If you ever write a book, call it How to Embarrass Yourself in Front of Rich Men: A Memoir. Instant bestseller."
I threw the pillow at her head.
The next morning, I woke up still mortified.
I tried affirmations.
"I am strong."
"I am powerful."
"I am... never showing my face outside again."
But rent still needed paying, and bread didn't buy itself. So I put on a wig, some oversized sunglasses, and dragged my shame to the one place where I could think in peace: the café.
I ordered a latte, settled into a corner, and tried to drown my sorrows in steamed milk.
The memory of last night replayed on a loop in my head like a bad Nollywood part two. Every time I remembered his smirk, my soul crumbled a little more.
I was mid–self–pity when the atmosphere shifted.
You know that feeling when electricity zaps through a room? The way everyone suddenly sits straighter, like they've just remembered their ancestors are watching?
That's what happened.
The café, normally buzzing with small talk and clinking cups, went pin-drop silent. Even the barista stopped mid–espresso pull.
Slowly, I raised my head.
And there he was.
The man himself. My personal nightmare dressed in tailored perfection. Adrian Cole.
Oh God. Not today.
I ducked my head so fast my wig tilted forward, sliding down my face like a curtain. With shaky fingers, I pushed it further until I was basically hidden under synthetic hair.
If wigs had superpowers, mine was about to earn sainthood.
"Please, Lord," I whispered into my coffee. "Let him take his drink, turn around, and vanish. Like a billionaire mirage. That's all I ask."
My heart hammered. I could hear his footsteps—measured, confident, the kind of stride that said my shoes cost more than your rent.
Closer.
And closer.
No. No, no, no. The heavens clearly had beef with me. Because instead of leaving, his footsteps angled... toward me.
I squeezed my eyes shut under my wig shield.
Maybe if I stayed perfectly still, he'd think I was a mannequin. Or an abandoned mop. Yes. Amara, the human mop. Perfect disguise.
But the footsteps stopped at my table.
And his voice—smooth, amused, far too familiar—cut through my prayer.
"Are you hiding under your wig, or is that just a new fashion trend I should know about?"
My life, officially, was over.
That voice again. Smooth. Rich. Mocking, but in the kind of way that felt like velvet against my nerves.
Slowly—very slowly—I lifted my wig curtain and peeked through synthetic strands.
Adrian Cole. In the flesh. Smiling down at me like the universe had decided my embarrassment wasn't complete unless it happened two days in a row.
"Um... hi," I croaked, trying to channel my inner Beyoncé but sounding more like a frog that had swallowed a mosquito.
To my absolute horror, he didn't leave. No. This man—this billionaire with cheekbones sharp enough to cut through my dignity—pulled out the chair across from me and sat down like he owned not just the café, but also my sanity.
"Why so shy?" he asked, resting an elbow on the table, eyes glinting with that dangerous mix of amusement and curiosity. "You were much more confident last night."
I nearly choked on my own saliva. Confident? Last night? That wasn't confidence. That was full-blown, certified foolishness.
But what was I supposed to say? Sorry, sir, I mistook you for your assistant and practically begged you to introduce me to yourself because I thought you were him.
No.
So I straightened my back, adjusted my wig, and pretended like humiliation wasn't gnawing on my bones.
"Oh, I'm always confident," I said, plastering on a smile. "I just... prefer subtle entrances."
He chuckled, low and warm, and somehow that made my wig feel hotter. "Subtle, huh? Interesting. Because I remember a young woman practically sprinting across a parking lot to talk to me."
Lord. Take me now.
"Ah—yes, well," I stammered. "That was... enthusiasm. Subtle enthusiasm."
His eyes glittered as though he were dissecting every syllable. He wasn't mocking me outright—no, he was enjoying this. Like a scientist observing a new, peculiar species. Amara Embarrassicus.
For a few minutes, we danced around in small talk.
"I'm Adrian Cole, but you already know that," he said with a smirk.
Yes, I knew that and I wasn't going to forget it. Ever.
I straightened my shoulders and pretended the embarrassment from yesterday didn't cling to me like a vengeful ghost "I'm Amara Williams."
"Nice to meet you, Amara," he said with an amused glint in his eyes.
He asked me about my coffee order.
"Latte," I said with faux elegance, even though the truth was I only drank it because Sophia told me cappuccinos made your breath smell "too needy."
He asked about my work.
"Marketing," I replied vaguely, which wasn't a complete lie even though it really was digital marketing and was completely remote.
And he... he said very little about himself. Just enough to keep me intrigued.
It was in the way he spoke—measured, smooth, always with that glint in his eye that screamed: I know something you don't know, and I'm enjoying this too much to tell you yet.
The longer we sat there, the more my nerves did somersaults. Not because he was intimidating (okay, fine, he was), but because he seemed genuinely amused. Like my entire existence was a sitcom and he had front-row tickets.
And then he leaned forward, casually, like he was about to comment on the weather.
Instead, he said,
"I need a favor from you."
My latte nearly leapt out of the cup. "A... favor?"
"Yes." His tone was calm, but his eyes were sharp, watching me closely. "I need you to be my girlfriend."
I blinked. Then blinked again. Surely, caffeine hallucinations were a thing. "I'm sorry, what?"
"My girlfriend," he repeated, as though we were discussing menu options. "Just for the weekend."
I froze. My brain short-circuited. I could practically hear Sophia's voice screaming in my head: Babe, this is it! Your sugar-daddy starter pack!
But reality? Reality was my jaw hanging open like a badly oiled hinge.
"You—you can't just... ask someone to be your girlfriend like you're ordering puff-puff at the market," I spluttered.
He smirked. "Can't I?"
"No!" I hissed, lowering my voice when the barista glanced our way. "Why on earth would you—"
"Because," he cut in smoothly, "my grandfather has been pestering me to settle down. He's hosting a charity weekend. I need a date. A believable one. And you..." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with that maddening amusement. "You're entertaining enough."
Entertaining. My entire life has been reduced to Netflix comedy relief.
I blinked again, brain still rebooting. "You want me... to pretend to be your girlfriend? In front of your family? At a billionaire event?"
"Yes."
"Why me?"
"Because you're not boring," he said simply.
I gaped at him. "That's it?"
He shrugged, sipping his espresso like he hadn't just thrown a Molotov cocktail into my quiet, shame-filled morning.
Meanwhile, my thoughts were running wild.
On one hand: humiliation. Public disaster. Potential prison sentence if I accidentally broke something worth more than my yearly salary.
On the other hand: proximity to a billionaire. Free food. Possible access to a private jet.
And maybe, just maybe... Sophia wouldn't laugh at me for the next decade.
I stared at him, still half convinced this was a prank. "You realize I could say no, right?"
His lips curved into a slow smile that made my heart stutter in ways it had no business stuttering. Sliding his business card across the table to me.
"You won't."