The conference room was too quiet for comfort. Thick tension hung in the air, like stale cologne, as Lanre Coker sat at the head of the long mahogany table, flanked by men with silver hair, golden cufflinks, and iron intentions. The smell of money and manipulation was heavy in the room.
Across from him, Chief Ayoola, the party's National Chairman, leaned forward with the kind of smile that didn't touch his eyes.
"The Lagos seat is yours, Lanre," he said, voice smooth like oil. "But it will come with a bride."
Lanre blinked once. He had expected a demand, there was always a catch in Nigerian politics — but marriage?
"A bride?" he repeated.
"Bella Alakija," another elder said casually, as if he'd just offered bottled water. "Daughter of Chief Deji Alakija. Alakija Holdings. Massive contributor to the party. A union with her solidifies both wings of our power base."
Lanre let the words settle.
Bella Alakija.
The name was familiar. A socialite of sorts. Heiress. Businesswoman. Reserved. Beautiful. Ice.
"And if I say no?"
Ayoola's eyes glinted. "Then we have other candidates."
Lanre exhaled slowly and stared out the window. Lagos stretched before him, chaotic and hungry. The city he had dreamt of transforming. The power he had spent years chasing now dangled within reach — if he signed his heart away.
VICTORIA ISLAND – ALONG THE PRIVATE COASTLINE
The waves crashed rhythmically, but Bella Alakija heard nothing but her own silence.
She sat cross-legged on the balcony, dressed in an ivory silk robe, eyes fixed on the sea as her father's words echoed in her mind.
"You will marry him, Bella. It's not a request."
Chief Alakija had delivered it like a boardroom decision, one of many he had handed down over the years, shaping her world without pause.
"It's for the image," he had said. "For the business. For the party. Your engagement will settle tensions across our top investors. The boy is good for optics."
Optics.
Power.
Men.
Bella sipped her wine and let the bitterness settle on her tongue. She didn't cry, never had. She learned long ago that in her family, tears were a sign of luxury. Luxury was for the weak.
She had Googled Lanre Coker.
Harvard-educated. Former tech entrepreneur. A man with a wolf's smile and eyes that seemed to carry both pride and punishment. Ambitious. Dangerous. Maybe even charming.
But he wasn't hers. And she wasn't a prize.
"If I agree to this circus," she had asked her father, "what do I get in return?"
"Control," he had said. "You'll take over Alakija Holdings by next quarter. Fully. No strings."
Bella had nodded slowly. She didn't believe in fairy tales. But she did believe in power.
"Fine," she had whispered.
"But I won't touch him. And I won't love him."
LAGOS – NIGHTFALL
Lanre stood on the penthouse balcony, phone in hand, staring at the city lights that refused to blink.
He should call Amaka.
She deserved to hear it from him, not from the party, not from the blogs.
He closed his eyes.
Amaka, who had stood by him for years. Who had believed in his vision when no one else did.
Amaka, who had made promises under moonlight and whispered dreams into his ears like spells.
And yet, politics had no room for sentiment.
With a deep breath, he finally dialed.
"Hey baby," her voice came soft, unaware. "You free to talk?"
Lanre clenched the railing.
"Amaka... We need to talk. It's serious."