The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time Amara returned home, but her clothes were still damp, clinging uncomfortably to her skin. She trudged up the narrow stairwell of their apartment building, her shoes squelching softly against the cracked cement steps. The building smelled faintly of kerosene and fried plantain, the usual perfume of their neighborhood.
Their flat sat at the end of the corridor, its paint peeling, the door frame swollen from years of rain. Amara paused for a moment before unlocking it, inhaling deeply, as if bracing herself for the weight of reality waiting inside.
"Amara!"
Her younger brother, Chike, barreled into her the second the door opened. His skinny arms wrapped around her waist, and his grin lit up his thin, handsome face. He was only sixteen but already taller than her, all gangly limbs and restless energy.
"You're late again," he teased, though his eyes held concern.
"I know, I know," Amara muttered, ruffling his hair affectionately. "How was school?"
"Fine. We started rehearsals for the inter-house sports day. Guess what? They want me to run the relay." His voice brimmed with excitement.
Amara forced a smile, though a lump rose in her throat. How could she tell him the truth that the school had already sent a final reminder about his fees? That without money, his name might be struck off the register before he ever got to run that relay?
"That's wonderful, Chike," she said softly, slipping past him into their small sitting room.
The room was modest—a faded sofa, a rickety center table, a television that worked only half the time. On the wall hung the only family photo they had managed to keep: her mother's gentle face smiling, her arm draped lovingly around them both. Amara's chest tightened every time she looked at it.
"You didn't eat, did you?" Chike asked, eyeing her carefully.
She shook her head, sinking onto the sofa. "I'll eat later. I'm tired."
Chike frowned but didn't push. He was used to her evasions.
As he disappeared into the kitchen, Amara let her head fall back against the worn cushions. Her mind replayed the afternoon like a broken record. Tade Adewale's calm, unyielding face. His voice, low and certain, declaring, I need a wife. And I want you to be that woman.
Her stomach twisted.
It was madness. Utter madness. And yet…
Her phone buzzed again. She flinched, half-expecting another debit alert. But it was just a message from Ifeoma, her best friend since university.
Ifeoma: Babe, are you alive? You've been quiet since yesterday.
Amara sighed, fingers hovering over the keyboard. She wanted to tell her everything, but how did one even begin? Hey, guess what, a billionaire just offered to marry me like it's a business deal.
Instead, she typed: I'll come over tomorrow. Too much to say.
The next day, Amara stood outside Ifeoma's apartment in Surulere, a plastic bag of puff-puff and soft drinks in her hand. Ifeoma never let her visit empty-handed, insisting she was already stretched too thin, but Amara couldn't show up without something.
Ifeoma opened the door in her usual dramatic flair hair wrapped in a colorful scarf, oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, a toothbrush still in her mouth.
"Woman, you look like you haven't slept in a year," she mumbled around the toothbrush, pulling Amara into a hug.
"Good to see you too," Amara said with a weary smile.
They settled on the couch, the puff-puff spread out between them. Ifeoma eyed her closely, her expression softening.
"Okay, Talk. What's wrong?"
Amara hesitated. Then, like a dam breaking, the words spilled out. She told Ifeoma everything—the café, the proposal, the contract, the money. She spoke quickly, as if afraid she'd lose her nerve if she slowed down.
By the time she finished, Ifeoma was staring at her, mouth hanging open.
"Wait, wait, wait," Ifeoma said, waving her hands in disbelief. "Let me get this straight. You're telling me the Tade Adewale billionaire, ice-king, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Scary asked you to marry him? On contract? With money involved?"
Amara winced. "Yes."
"Jesus is Lord." Ifeoma sank back against the cushions, laughing incredulously. "I swear, these rich people. Only them will come up with nonsense like this."
"It's not funny, Ifeoma."
"I know, I know," her friend said, sobering. "But Amara, this is… big. Like, life-altering big."
"I can't do it," Amara whispered. "It's insane."
"Is it, though?" Ifeoma leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Think about it. This man is offering you enough money to change your life forever. Your brother's education? Sorted. Rent? Sorted. Future? Sorted. All for what, pretending to be his wife for one year?"
Amara bristled. "It's not that simple. It's my dignity, my freedom. I'd be signing away a piece of myself."
"But you wouldn't be selling yourself," Ifeoma argued gently. "You'd be surviving. And maybe… just maybe… living for once."
Amara buried her face in her hands. "I don't know."
Ifeoma reached over, squeezing her shoulder. "Just promise me you'll think about it. Don't let pride keep you stuck where you are. Sometimes life throws crazy opportunities at us, and we have to decide whether to grab them or stay safe and broke."
Meanwhile, in the sleek glass tower of Adewale Holdings, Tade sat in his office, staring out at the sprawling city. Lagos stretched endlessly before him—chaotic, alive, unforgiving. Much like himself.
He had not expected Amara to agree immediately. He respected her fire, her refusal to be easily bought. But he also knew desperation had a way of bending even the strongest backs.
Still, something about her unsettled him. The quiet dignity in her eyes, the way she had looked at him as though she could see past the billionaire facade into the man beneath. It had been years since anyone looked at him that way.
He shook off the thought, turning back to the stack of reports on his desk. This wasn't about feelings. It was strategy. A move on the chessboard of his life.
And Amara Johnson, whether she liked it or not, was the piece he needed.
That night, Amara lay awake, the ceiling fan humming softly above her. Chike slept soundly in the next room, his light snores a reminder of the innocence she was trying so hard to protect.
Her mind churned restlessly. Images overlapped: her landlord's sneer, the final tuition notice, Tade's unflinching gaze, the folder thick with promises of money.
She thought of her mother, of the sacrifices she had made, the way she had worked herself into exhaustion for them. What would she say now? Would she tell Amara to cling to her pride, or to take the deal and secure a better life for Chike?
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A new message.
Unknown Number: You don't have much time. Decide quickly.
Amara's blood ran cold. She didn't need to guess who it was.
She clutched the phone to her chest, torn between anger and fear.
This was no longer just an offer. It was a crossroad.
And whichever path she chose, her life would never be the same.