The door to the master suite closed behind Amara with a soft, final click that sounded louder than it should have.
She stood frozen just inside the threshold, still wearing the midnight-blue gala gown, the satin now wrinkled from hours of forced smiles and whispered threats. The room was enormous—dark wood floors, a king-sized bed draped in charcoal linens, floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the glittering Lagos skyline like a taunting jewel box. A single lamp burned low on the nightstand, casting long shadows that made the space feel both intimate and cavernous.
Dominic had disappeared down the hallway toward his private wing after murmuring goodnight at the foot of the stairs. She had climbed to her own suite alone, legs heavy, mind spinning with Victoria Langford's voice looping in her ears.
But now she realized something worse.
This wasn't her suite.
The door she'd just walked through had no number. No guest placard. And when she turned back to open it again, the handle refused to budge.
Locked.
From the outside.
Her breath caught. She rattled the knob harder—nothing. Panic crawled up her throat. She spun around, scanning the room for another exit. There was a second door on the far wall, half-hidden behind a tall potted fiddle-leaf fig. She crossed the room in quick strides and tried it.
Also locked.
She was trapped.
Heart slamming, she pressed her back to the wall and slid down until she sat on the cool floor, knees drawn to her chest. The gown pooled around her like spilled ink.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time blurred when every sound in the mansion felt like a warning.
Then—footsteps in the hallway.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
Dominic stood framed in the doorway, still in his tuxedo jacket, bow tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked at her on the floor, expression unreadable.
"You're in the wrong room," she said, voice thin.
"No," he replied quietly. "You're in the right one."
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The lock engaged again with another soft snick.
Amara pushed herself to her feet, using the wall for support. "This is your bedroom."
"Our bedroom," he corrected. "For appearances."
Her mouth went dry. "You said separate suites. You said no physical relations unless mutually agreed."
"I did." He moved past her, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of an armchair. "And I meant it."
"Then why am I locked in here?"
He turned to face her fully. "Because tonight the staff will report to the household manager. The household manager will report to my mother. My mother will call at seven a.m. sharp to ask if the marriage was… consummated."
Amara stared. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
She searched his face. No trace of humor. Only cold pragmatism.
"Your family expects proof," she whispered.
"Not proof," he said. "Plausibility. The sheets will be changed by morning. A small amount of blood—synthetic, courtesy of a very discreet doctor—will be on them. The staff will see it. Word will spread. My mother will be satisfied. The merger documents will be signed by noon tomorrow."
Amara felt sick. "You planned this."
"I planned everything." He loosened another button on his shirt. "This marriage is theater. Tonight is the opening act."
She wrapped her arms around herself. "And I'm the unwilling actress."
"You're the lead." He studied her for a long moment. "You can sleep on the chaise in the sitting area if you prefer. I'll take the bed. Or we can share it with a very clear line of pillows between us. Your choice."
"My choice?" She almost laughed, the sound bitter. "You locked me in."
"To prevent you from wandering the halls at three a.m. and raising suspicion." He crossed to the minibar, poured two fingers of scotch into a crystal tumbler, then hesitated and poured a second glass. He held it out to her.
She didn't move to take it.
"Amara," he said, softer this time. "Drink. You're shaking."
She hated that he noticed. Hated more that he was right.
She took the glass, fingers brushing his. A spark jumped between them—small, unwanted, ignored.
She drank in one swallow. The burn steadied her.
Dominic sipped his own, watching her over the rim.
"Rules," he said finally. "We need them. Clear ones. Tonight."
She nodded once.
He set his glass down. "Rule one: In public, we are newlyweds in love. Hand-holding, lingering glances, the occasional kiss on the cheek or temple. Nothing excessive. Nothing that looks performative."
"Fine."
"Rule two: In private, we are strangers who happen to share a last name. No touching unless absolutely necessary for appearances. No personal questions. No expectations."
She swallowed. "Agreed."
"Rule three: You sleep here tonight. After tonight, you return to your own suite. But the staff must believe we spent the wedding night together."
"And the blood?" Her voice cracked on the word.
"Already handled. A small vial is in the en-suite bathroom. You'll smear it on the sheets before we call for housekeeping in the morning. I'll be in the shower. You won't have to look at me while you do it."
Clinical. Detached. Like he was explaining a business transaction.
She hated how much it hurt.
"Rule four," he continued. "If anyone—anyone—threatens you, blackmails you, or makes you uncomfortable, you tell me. Immediately. No exceptions."
Her mind flashed to Victoria's business card hidden in her bra. She looked away.
"Amara."
She forced herself to meet his eyes.
"I mean it," he said. "I don't care what it costs me. No one coerces my wife."
The word—wife—landed differently this time. Not possessive. Protective.
She nodded slowly.
"Rule five." His voice dropped lower. "If at any point you want out—if this becomes too much—you tell me. We'll find another way. I won't force you to stay."
Her breath hitched. "You'd lose the merger."
"I'd survive." A muscle ticked in his jaw. "I always do."
Silence stretched between them, thick with things neither would say.
Amara set her empty glass on the dresser. "Is that all?"
"One more." He stepped closer—not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. "If you ever feel unsafe in this house—in this bed—you say the word 'eclipse.' I'll leave the room immediately. No questions. No argument."
"Eclipse," she repeated, tasting the word.
He nodded once.
She looked at the bed. Massive. Intimidating.
"I'll take the chaise," she said.
"No." He moved to the closet, pulled out a stack of pillows, and began building a barricade down the center of the mattress. "We share the bed. It's more convincing if the sheets are disturbed on both sides."
Practical. Always practical.
She didn't argue.
He disappeared into the en-suite. She heard the shower start.
Alone again, she slipped out of the gala gown, letting it fall in a sapphire puddle. Underneath she wore simple black lingerie—nothing seductive, just what had been provided. She pulled on one of the oversized shirts hanging in the closet. It smelled faintly of him—cedar, bergamot, power.
When he emerged, he wore only black sweatpants, chest bare, towel around his neck. Water droplets clung to the ridges of his abdomen. She looked away quickly.
He didn't comment.
They climbed into bed on opposite sides. The pillow wall stayed firmly between them.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. He lay on his side, facing away.
Minutes passed.
"Amara," he said into the darkness.
"Yes?"
"You did well tonight. At the gala. You didn't crack."
She swallowed. "I wanted to."
"I know."
Another long silence.
"Why me?" she whispered. "Why the Kingsleys? You could have married anyone."
He didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter than she'd ever heard it.
"Because your father has something I need. Something no one else can give me."
"What?"
He exhaled. "A clean title to land my family has wanted for three generations. Land that was stolen during the civil war. Your father holds the original deed—hidden, forged, buried in layers of paperwork. He promised it in exchange for saving his company."
Amara closed her eyes. "And Elena knew?"
"Elena negotiated the terms. She was… enthusiastic."
Bile rose in her throat. Her sister had sold their family legacy for a ring and a title.
"And now I'm the one paying the price," she said bitterly.
"Not if I can help it."
She turned her head toward the pillow wall. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." A pause. "You're not her."
Her heart stuttered. "What?"
"You're not Elena. You don't move like her. You don't speak like her. You flinch when people get too close. She never did."
Tears slipped down her temples into her hair.
He didn't press.
After a long time, she whispered, "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For lying. For being here instead of her."
Another silence.
"Don't apologize for surviving," he said finally. "Just… don't lie to me again."
She didn't promise. She couldn't.
Because Victoria's card was still burning a hole in her conscience.
And tomorrow she had a meeting that could either save her family—or destroy the fragile truce forming in this bed.
The clock on the nightstand glowed 3:47 a.m.
Amara listened to Dominic's steady breathing on the other side of the pillow wall.
She didn't sleep.
Neither, she suspected, did he.