The wedding was a blur of Moët, expensive nshima, and a five-tier cake that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. By the time the last guest was ushered out of the Roma gardens, my feet weren't just aching; they were staging a coup.
The Mercedes-Maybach ride to Mwansa's estate in Leopards Hill was silent. The city lights flickered past, a shimmering veil over the reality we were both finally facing: The party was over. The contract was now.
The gates to the Tembo Estate swung open like the jaws of a silent beast. This wasn't a house; it was a monument to solitude.
"Welcome home," Mwansa said. The words sounded heavy, like stones dropping into a deep well.
He led me through a foyer that smelled of lemon polish and expensive emptiness. My suitcase—the old, battered one with the broken zipper—looked like a stray dog in a palace.
"Your wing is to the left," he said, pointing toward a corridor lined with original Zambian art. "It has its own sitting room, a terrace, and the master suite. My quarters are on the opposite side of the courtyard. You won't have to see me unless it's scheduled."
I stood there, still draped in my reception dress, feeling the weight of the diamonds around my neck. "Is there a kitchen? Or does food just manifest out of thin air here?"
"The staff will be here at 06:00. If you're hungry now, the pantry is stocked. But Chileshe..." He paused, his hand on the banister. He looked exhausted, the 'Copper King' facade slipping to reveal a man who hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. "The alarm system is sensitive. Don't go wandering into the garden after midnight. The dogs don't know the 'Banda' brand yet."
"Good to know," I whispered. "I'd hate to be the first bride in history eaten by her own dowry."
I walked into my "wing." The bed was large enough to host a cabinet meeting. The sheets were silk—the kind that feel like water against the skin. I sat on the edge of the mattress and began the agonizing process of unpinning my hair.
*Click.*
The sound of my bedroom door locking echoed through the room. I froze. Then I realized—I was the one who had turned the lock.
For years, I had dreamed of a room where I didn't have to share a closet with two cousins or listen to the neighbors' generator. Now I had it. And it was the loneliest place in Lusaka.
I couldn't sleep. The silence was too loud. Around 2:00 AM, driven by a mixture of hunger and a stubborn refusal to be intimidated by a house, I crept out.
I found the kitchen. It was a cathedral of stainless steel. I bypassed the imported cheeses and the artisanal crackers. I found a bag of *maputi* (roasted corn) I'd hidden in my bag and a bottle of cold water.
I sat on the marble island, swinging my legs, crunching on the corn.
"The maputi in this house is probably offended to be here," a voice said from the shadows.
I nearly choked. Mwansa was standing by the oversized fridge, wearing a black silk robe. He looked less like a CEO and more like a ghost.
"You're supposed to be in the East Wing," I hissed, clutching my snack.
"I couldn't sleep. The house feels... different tonight." He walked over and, to my absolute shock, reached into my bag and took a handful of maputi. He ate one, leaning against the counter. "It's too quiet, isn't it?"
"It's the silence of someone who has everything and no one to tell it to," I said, my economics brain turning on. "You've optimized your life for efficiency, Mwansa. But humans are messy. We need noise."
He looked at me, really looked at me, in the dim light of the under-cabinet LEDs. "You're a dangerous woman, Chileshe. You see through the balance sheet."
"That's why you hired me."
"I hired you to be a shield," he stepped a fraction closer. The air between us changed. The 'business' vibe evaporated, replaced by something thick and electric. "I didn't hire you to be a mirror."
My heart hammered against my ribs—the same way it had during the Kitchen Party when he lifted the veil. For a second, I thought he might touch my face. I thought he might forget the clauses and the end date.
Then, his phone buzzed on the counter. A harsh, bright light in the dark.
He looked at the screen. His jaw tightened. The CEO was back.
"It's the London office," he said, his voice turning back into ice. "There's a problem with the Konkola shipments. I have to take this."
He turned away before I could respond.
"Goodnight, Mwansa," I called out to his retreating back.
He didn't answer.
I went back to my silk sheets and my gold-plated prison. I realized then that the contract wasn't the hardest part of this marriage. The hardest part was going to be the 2:00 AM moments, when the billionaire looked like a man, and I looked like a woman, and the Kwacha didn't matter at all.
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