Three weeks passed.
Amara filled them with work, travel, and silence.
She took meetings in Nairobi, drafted policy briefs in Brussels, and slept too little in hotel rooms that all smelled the same—linen and loneliness. Her name continued to circulate in circles of influence, but her inbox remained conspicuously absent of one address.
Blackwood.
She told herself that was relief.
It was a lie.
The call came at 2:14 a.m.
She considered ignoring it.
She didn't.
"We have a problem," Alexander said without preamble.
She closed her eyes. "Good morning to you too."
"The Lagos project is being weaponized politically. My rivals are using your report to destabilize negotiations."
"Then you shouldn't have sidelined me."
Silence.
Then, quietly: "I was wrong."
The words landed heavier than any apology.
"I need you," he continued. "Not as a shield. As a partner."
Amara sat up slowly. "I don't step back into fires I was pushed into."
"I know," he said. "That's why I'm asking you to meet me."
She hesitated.
"When?" she asked.
"Tomorrow. Paris."
Of course.
"I'll listen," she said. "Nothing more."
"That's all I'm asking," Alexander replied.
They hung up.
Amara stared into the dark.
Unfinished business had a way of demanding closure.
Paris was neutral ground—romantic, deceptive, dangerous.
They met in a private dining room overlooking the Seine. Candlelight softened the sharp lines of Alexander's face, but not the tension in his posture.
"You look well," he said.
"So do you," Amara replied, though both knew it wasn't true.
He didn't waste time.
"I want a formal alliance," Alexander said. "A public one."
Her brows knit. "Define 'formal.'"
"A contract," he continued. "Strategic. Mutually beneficial. You remain independent. We present a united front."
"And the rumors?" she asked.
"They become assets."
Her stomach tightened. "You're asking me to play a role."
"I'm asking you to control the narrative," he corrected. "Before others do."
She studied him carefully. "And what do you get?"
"Stability," he said. "And leverage."
"And what do I get?"
Alexander met her gaze, unwavering. "Protection. Access. And the ability to enforce ethical outcomes at the highest level."
Silence stretched.
"And the personal cost?" she asked softly.
His jaw tightened. "That stays off the record."
Amara leaned back, heart pounding.
"A fake relationship," she said.
"Yes."
The word lingered between them, dangerous and seductive.
"This changes everything," she murmured.
"It changes nothing," Alexander replied. "Except how visible we are."
She laughed once, breathless. "You're asking me to pretend to be something we're not."
His voice lowered. "Or to pretend we're not something we already are."
Her breath caught.
This was the line.
And they were standing on it.
They reviewed the contract in silence.
Clauses. Boundaries. Exit strategies.
No intimacy clauses.
No exclusivity demands.
No emotional obligations.
Amara noticed that last omission.
"You left something out," she said.
Alexander looked up. "I don't legislate feelings."
She swallowed.
"This arrangement will blur lines," she said. "You know that."
"Yes."
"And if it fails?"
"Then we walk away with our reputations intact," he said. "And whatever damage we choose to carry privately."
She stared at the document.
This was power dressed as choice.
And yet—so was refusal.
Amara picked up the pen.
"This is temporary," she said.
"Everything is," Alexander replied.
She signed.
Alexander followed, his signature bold, controlled.
The moment the ink dried, something shifted.
This was no longer coincidence.
This was intent.
He rose, extending his hand.
"Welcome back, Ms. Okoye."
She took it.
His touch lingered a fraction longer than necessary.
"Don't confuse this with trust," she said quietly.
"I won't," he replied. "I'll earn it."
Their eyes held.
The contract lay between them.
And with it—the beginning of something far more dangerous than desire.
The gala was a spectacle designed to impress and intimidate. Crystal chandeliers glimmered like captured stars, and the city's elite flowed through the grand ballroom like a tide of wealth and influence.
Amara's dress was understated—elegant, strategic. She had no intention of being a decoration.
Alexander appeared beside her, perfectly composed, as though he had been born for this spotlight. Yet, for all his control, she sensed the subtle shift when eyes lingered too long. He had already claimed her in the public eye, without a word.
"Remember," he whispered as they approached the stage for the photo-op, "nothing personal."
She nodded, keeping her smile neutral.
Cameras flashed. Reporters whispered. Questions about Blackwood Capital and the enigmatic consultant at his side circled like predators.
"Are you a couple?" one photographer asked too loudly.
Alexander's gaze met hers briefly, sharp and calculating. "We are business partners."
Truth was… not entirely.
The next morning, the headlines were unavoidable:
"Blackwood's Mysterious Consultant Steals Spotlight"
"Power and Beauty: Amara Okoye at Alexander Blackwood Gala"
Amara scowled over her coffee. "I said nothing," she muttered.
"Neither did I," Alexander replied evenly, though his eyes lingered on her longer than the article warranted.
"You make it impossible to appear independent," she said.
He smirked. "Appearances matter. Control the optics, control the narrative."
She bristled. "I didn't sign up to be anyone's accessory."
"No," he admitted. "But you signed up to influence outcomes. And visibility is part of that."
Her pulse quickened—not from anger, but from the undeniable energy that crackled every time they were in proximity.
Later, in the privacy of the office, they poured over market reports and press coverage, shoulders brushing accidentally. Small, but the contact sparked something she couldn't name.
Alexander caught the hesitation in her posture. "You're distracted," he observed.
"I'm focused," she insisted, though her gaze lingered on the line of his jaw.
"You're lying to yourself," he said quietly.
Paris had been civil. Geneva had been professional. Now, the city of London held them in rooms smaller than their reputations, surrounded by colleagues and contracts.
Alexander walked beside Amara down the corridor to a high-security meeting.
"You can step aside if you want," he offered, almost casually.
"I've done worse," she said.
He glanced at her. "And yet you stay."
She didn't answer.
In the boardroom, discussions turned heated. Their professional collaboration forced them to defend each other, negotiate, and strategize. With every interaction, boundaries blurred.
A brush of hands over a shared tablet lingered. A glance held too long. And somewhere between negotiation and strategy, the contract they signed as a safeguard became a fragile cord of desire.
Amara caught herself studying him—not as an adversary, not as a client, but as a man who, for all his control, unsettled her entirely.
Alexander noticed too. He didn't move away. He didn't pull back. Not yet.
For now, they were partners. For now, they were safe.
But safety, as both of them knew, was the first casualty of what was coming.