Naya Lawal had survived a cheating fiancé, a cancel-worthy podcast, and her mother's suffocating silence.
But nothing prepared her for the headline glowing on her office screen.
> "Love Therapist Exposed: Never Been in Love Herself?"
The irony wasn't lost on her. She made a living coaching people through heartbreak, helping them find "safe, sustainable love"—and now the internet was chewing her up like expired chewing gum.
Her heart didn't hurt. Not in the way it should. It throbbed with humiliation, not heartbreak. That's what stung.
She didn't cry. She never cried.
Instead, she clicked the video.
Her ex-fiancé's voice—smooth, smug—filled the room.
> "Naya's brilliant. But she's clinical. Cold. You don't date her—you study her. I mean, she once suggested we schedule our intimacy. That's not love. That's strategy."
Her hand balled into a fist.
What he failed to mention? He'd cheated. Multiple times. Lied. Gaslit.
And when she'd finally broken things off, he'd gone straight to the media with his hurt man performance.
"Naya's incapable of feeling," he'd said.
As if being emotionally cautious was a crime.
She slammed her laptop shut.
Three clients cancelled. One brand deal pulled. A thousand DMs full of fire emojis and fake concern.
Just like that, her career—the one she built with precision and sacrifice—was hanging by threads.
A knock tapped at her door.
"Not now, Amanda," she called, voice sharp.
"It's not Amanda," a deeper voice replied.
She paused. That voice didn't belong in her office.
The door opened anyway.
Kian Adeyemi.
Same man she'd met briefly at a mutual friend's engagement party. He'd barely said a word. Just nodded politely, then left early with a sleepy little girl in his arms.
Now he stood in her doorway like he belonged there.
Rolled sleeves. No tie. Serious face. Calm, like he wasn't stepping into her crumbling world.
She folded her arms. "You're lost."
He stepped inside. "You're trending."
"Thanks for the update."
He didn't flinch. "I heard the podcast."
"I think everyone did."
"And I read the comments. Brutal."
"You came here to enjoy the spectacle?"
"I came with a solution."
Her eyebrow lifted. "Unless it involves time travel or public amnesia, I'm not interested."
"I'm not offering love," he said. "I'm offering marriage."
Naya blinked.
"…Excuse me?"
"A legal marriage. To me."
She stared. Then laughed. Laughed until it wasn't funny anymore.
"You're serious?"
"I am."
"Why would I marry a man I've spoken to once?"
"Because you need to prove you believe in love. And I need to prove I live in a stable, two-parent household."
There it was. Crisp. Blunt.
Her breath caught. "Your daughter."
"She's six. Her mother's dragging me back to court. Says I'm emotionally unstable, too busy for a family. I don't date. I don't bring women home. It works against me."
"And I'm supposed to help you win custody by… marrying you?"
"You need the press off your back. I need to look married."
"And when does this arrangement end?"
"One year. No more."
Naya let silence stretch between them. He didn't fill it. Didn't try to charm or persuade. Just stood there, as if this was normal.
"You expect me to risk my name, my brand, my—everything—for what? A neat little lie?"
His voice softened. "It's not a lie if we commit."
Her eyes narrowed. "Commit to what?"
"To protecting each other. You need someone to stand beside you. I need someone to stand in court with me."
It sounded insane. Yet the idea curled around her mind like a warm, dangerous whisper.
No love. No dating. No mess.
Just structure. A clean exchange.
"I don't even know you," she said.
"You know I won't lie to you. That's more than most people can promise."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"Take some time. Not too much. The court date is in two weeks."
And then he walked out—just like that.
Naya stood in the quiet hum of her office, heartbeat louder than her thoughts.
No dating. No feelings.
Just marriage.
God help her, she was considering it.