Amara left Tade's office with her chest burning. The ink on the contract still felt wet in her mind, like it had branded her skin. Lagos traffic roared outside, but she hardly noticed the noise. Her legs moved on instinct, carrying her away from the glass tower that had just swallowed her future.
She wanted to scream. To run. To rip up the contract. But she couldn't. The numbers were real. The signature was hers. The bargain was sealed.
As the hot air hit her face, the gravity of it pressed down. I'm somebody's wife now. A stranger's wife. For money.
She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering despite the heat.
Word spread faster than she expected. Tade must have told his people because within two days, she was receiving calls. His lawyer. His personal assistant. Even his mother's secretary. They spoke in polite, professional tones, each conversation a reminder that her life was no longer her own.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Adewale," one voice said over the phone. She almost dropped the device.
She wasn't Mrs. Adewale. She was Amara Johnson, the broke girl from Surulere who barely had enough to pay her landlord. But to the world, that name had already begun to dissolve.
And then the wedding planning began.
The Adewale family didn't believe in small ceremonies. Tade was the heir to a billion-naira empire, and society demanded spectacle.
Amara attended the first planning meeting in a conference hall at one of the luxury hotels downtown. She sat stiffly at the long table, surrounded by decorators, stylists, florists, photographers, and family representatives.
Tade arrived last, as usual, perfectly composed, his presence commanding silence.
"This is my fiancée," he introduced, his voice calm, polished.
Her heart jolted at the word. Fiancée.
The room turned to look at her. Some eyes held polite smiles. Others, veiled judgment.
One woman, middle-aged with sharp cheekbones, leaned forward. "She's… beautiful," she said, though her tone carried a question mark.
Tade didn't miss a beat. "Of course. That's why I chose her."
Heat rushed to Amara's face. Chose me? Like a piece of furniture?
The planners buzzed with ideas. White roses. A cathedral. A luxury reception hall. Guest lists with over five hundred names. Everything glittered, everything cost millions.
Amara sat quietly, her mind a storm. She didn't want roses. She didn't want lace or chandeliers. She wanted freedom.
But every time her eyes drifted to Tade, his calm expression reminded her—this wasn't about her. This was about appearances.
At home, Ifeoma nearly choked when Amara confessed.
"You signed? Amara!"
"I had no choice," Amara whispered, her eyes filling with tears. "It's Chike. It's school. It's—everything."
Ifeoma paced the room. "Do you realize what you're doing? You're walking into a cage with a man who probably doesn't even believe in love!"
Amara's silence was answer enough.
Still, Ifeoma squeezed her hands. "Then fight. If you're going through with this, don't lose yourself in it."
Those words clung to Amara through the following weeks.
The closer the wedding came, the more she and Tade clashed.
At one dress fitting, he walked in unannounced, his eyes sweeping over her figure in the gown.
"It suits you," he said simply.
Her lips tightened. "Good. That's all you care about, isn't it? Suiting your image."
He didn't rise to her anger. Instead, he glanced at the seamstress and said, "Make sure the veil is longer. She deserves something grand."
When he left, Amara's chest twisted. How could he be so cold and yet still capable of gestures that almost seemed… considerate?
Almost.
Another day, during a family dinner, Tade's mother cornered Amara.
"You'll behave yourself, won't you? No scandals. No unnecessary noise. My son has a reputation to maintain."
Amara swallowed the lump in her throat. "Yes, ma."
But inside, she was boiling. She was not a doll to be dressed and displayed.
The hate was mutual, though it never erupted outright. In public, they smiled. In private, they spoke only when necessary. Their silence was thick, heavy, filled with everything they didn't dare say aloud.
The morning of the wedding felt unreal.
Her bridal suite was overflowing with stylists and makeup artists. Powder brushed across her cheeks. Gold jewelry weighed against her neck. The gown shimmered like it had been woven from starlight.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror and barely recognized herself. She looked regal. Elegant. Like someone who belonged in Tade Adewale's world.
But her eyes… her eyes were still Amara's. Wide, uncertain, burning with questions.
"Smile," one stylist urged. "It's your big day!"
Amara forced her lips upward. But inside, she felt hollow.
The church was packed. Cameras flashed as she walked down the aisle, her arm linked with Chike's. He was grinning proudly, oblivious to the storm inside her.
And then she saw him—Tade, waiting at the altar, dressed immaculately in a dark suit, his expression calm as stone.
Their eyes met. For a moment, the world fell silent.
Hate. Fear. Duty. Survival. It all mixed in the space between them.
She reached him. He offered his hand. She placed hers in his, her skin tingling at the contact.
The vows were spoken. Simple words, but heavy as chains.
"I do."
She heard her own voice, steady but distant, like it belonged to someone else.
When it was his turn, Tade's voice was firm, unshaken. "I do."
Applause erupted. Music soared. The priest declared them husband and wife.
Then came the kiss.
Her heart stopped. His hand rested lightly against her cheek. His lips brushed hers—brief, soft, but utterly devoid of tenderness.
The crowd cheered. Cameras flashed.
But Amara knew the truth. That kiss wasn't love. It was a performance. A seal on a deal.
At the reception, laughter and music filled the grand hall. Guests ate, drank, and toasted to their happiness.
But beneath the glitter, Amara sat like a statue beside her new husband. Their hands touched only when required for photos. Their smiles never reached their eyes.
Whispers rippled through the crowd. Some people admired. Others speculated. Few truly believed this was a marriage of love.
And as the night wore on, Amara realized with chilling clarity:
She was now Mrs. Tade Adewale.
A bride without love.
A wife in name only.
And her story was only beginning.