The black Mercedes pulled up outside my family's modest flat in Surulere exactly at 6:58 p.m. No honk. Just the low purr of the engine and the driver stepping out in a crisp uniform to open the rear door like I was already royalty.
I had spent the last three hours in a frenzy. My sister, Chioma, had raided her fashion-school stash and forced me into a deep emerald satin gown that hugged every curve I usually hid under oversized shirts. It had a high slit and a neckline that dipped just low enough to feel dangerous. She'd pinned my braids into an elegant updo, added gold hoop earrings that weren't mine, and painted my lips a bold red that screamed I dare you to look away.
"You look like revenge in heels," she'd said, eyes shining with a mix of pride and worry. "Don't let him win, Ada. Not even for one second."
I stepped out of the house feeling like a fraud. The neighbors were already peeking through curtains. By tomorrow, the whole street would know Ada Okoye was being whisked away in a car worth more than our rent for ten years.
The drive to Ikoyi was silent except for the rain tapping the tinted windows like impatient fingers. Kian didn't ride with me. Of course he didn't. He probably arrived in his own convoy, fashionably late, untouchable.
The venue was the rooftop of The Palms Hotel—one of those places where billionaires came to pretend they were slumming it while dropping six figures on champagne. String lights draped like diamonds across the open sky, low tables scattered with white orchids and crystal flutes, soft Afrobeat remixes floating through hidden speakers. Guests in aso-ebi and designer suits mingled, laughing too loudly, clinking glasses like they owned the night.
I spotted him the second I stepped off the elevator.
Kian stood near the edge of the roof, city lights glittering behind him like a personal backdrop. Black tuxedo, no tie, top button undone just enough to show a hint of collarbone. He was talking to a group of older men—probably investors or politicians—but his eyes flicked to me the moment I appeared.
For one heartbeat, something raw crossed his face. Hunger? Recognition? It vanished before I could name it.
He excused himself and crossed the rooftop in long strides. Every head turned. Phones discreetly lifted. This was the show they'd come for.
"Ada." His voice was velvet over steel. He stopped close—too close—and offered his arm like a gentleman. "You clean up... adequately."
I slipped my hand through his elbow, nails digging in just enough to remind him I wasn't playing. "And you still look like money that forgot how to feel."
A ghost of a smirk. "Careful, wife. Cameras love a scandal."
He led me through the crowd, introducing me as "my fiancée, Adanna Okoye" with the smoothness of someone who'd rehearsed it. Handshakes. Air kisses. Compliments on my "radiant beauty" that felt rehearsed too. I smiled until my cheeks hurt, murmured polite nonsense, and tried not to flinch every time his fingers brushed my lower back to guide me.
At one point, an older woman in gele and pearls leaned in conspiratorially. "Kian has been so private about his love life. How did you two meet, dear?"
Before I could stammer something vague, Kian answered for me.
"She hated me on sight," he said, eyes locked on mine. "Took me five years to convince her otherwise."
The woman laughed delightedly. I wanted to slap the lie off his lips.
When we finally broke away to a quieter corner near the balcony railing, I yanked my arm free.
"Five years?" I hissed. "You left me at the altar, Kian. You didn't even have the decency to show up and say goodbye."
He didn't flinch. Just stared out at the lagoon, lights reflecting like broken stars on the water.
"I had reasons," he said quietly.
"Reasons." I laughed without humor. "That's what you call running away to London the night before our wedding? Leaving me to explain to my family why the groom's side of the church was empty?"
His jaw tightened. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
He turned then, fully facing me. Up close, I could see the faint scar above his left eyebrow—the one he'd gotten falling off a bike when we were teenagers racing through Bar Beach. The boy was still in there somewhere, buried under layers of ice.
"Not tonight," he said. "This is business. Smile. Pose. Pretend you don't want to push me off this roof."
"And after the year is up?" My voice cracked despite my best effort. "What then?"
"Then you get your freedom. And I get..." He paused, gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. "What I need."
Before I could press him, a voice boomed over the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention. Tonight we celebrate not just a union, but a legacy."
Kian's father—Mr. Adeleke—stepped onto a small platform, glass raised. The crowd hushed.
"To my son, Kian, and his beautiful fiancée, Adanna. May your marriage be as strong as the empire we've built together."
Cheers erupted. Glasses clinked.
Kian took my hand—firm, unyielding—and led me forward. Flashbulbs popped like gunfire.
He leaned down, breath warm against my ear. "Kiss me, Ada. Make it look real."
My heart slammed against my ribs. "You must be—"
"Now," he murmured. "Or the whole deal collapses."
I hated him.
I hated how my body still remembered his touch.
I tilted my head up, met his eyes—dark, unreadable—and pressed my lips to his.
It was supposed to be quick. Polite. Performative.
But the second our mouths met, something cracked open.
His hand slid to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. The kiss deepened—slow, deliberate, like he was tasting five years of regret. My fingers curled into his lapels. Heat flooded through me, traitorous and fierce.
When we finally broke apart, the crowd was roaring approval.
But Kian's eyes were stormy. Haunted.
He whispered against my mouth, so low only I could hear:
"This wasn't supposed to feel like this."
Then he stepped back, smile fixed in place, and left me standing there—lips tingling, heart racing, wondering if the hate I'd nursed for half a decade had just caught fire.
End of Chapter 2