The applause and flashing cameras still echoed in Amara's ears long after the reception had ended. She had smiled until her jaw ached, danced with strangers who treated her like a shiny trophy, and allowed herself to be swept into photographs that would appear in every society page by morning. She wore the mask well, but behind the polite smiles, her heart was heavy.
Now, hours later, she sat at the edge of a massive bed in a suite that smelled faintly of roses and champagne. A bridal suite. Her new husband stood across the room, his back to her, removing his cufflinks in sharp, deliberate movements. Tade hadn't said more than five sentences to her since they had left the reception.
The silence between them was not comfortable. It was suffocating.
Amara folded her hands in her lap, staring down at the lace hem of her wedding dress. She should have changed already, but her body refused to move. Part of her wanted to break the silence, to make some silly joke about how surreal it felt to be "Mrs. Okonkwo" now. But Tade's stiff shoulders and the way he avoided looking at her told her not to bother.
"This arrangement," he finally said, his voice low and cold, "does not require us to pretend when we're alone. You can stop looking like you're waiting for a fairytale moment."
Her throat tightened. He hadn't even turned to face her.
"I wasn't expecting one," she said quietly. "Don't flatter yourself."
That made him pause. His eyes lifted to the mirror in front of him, meeting hers in the reflection. For a second, something flickered there — surprise, maybe. Then it was gone.
Tade turned, slipping his watch into its case. "Good. Because tomorrow we fly out early. Maldives, A week. Play the perfect wife in public, disappear when we're private. That way, neither of us has to suffer more than necessary."
Her heart squeezed at the casual cruelty in his tone. She wanted to snap back, to remind him she hadn't begged for this marriage. But she bit her tongue. Let him think she was fragile, out of her depth. The real power, she reminded herself, came from surviving this arrangement with her dignity intact.
The next morning, Amara barely tasted the expensive champagne breakfast sent up to their suite. She sat across from Tade at the small table, the clinking of cutlery the only sound. He read emails on his phone while she pushed scrambled eggs around her plate.
By the time they boarded the private jet, she had decided she would not allow him to ruin everything. She had never been outside Africa before. If she was going to be dragged into this arrangement, then at least she would savor the parts of it that belonged to her.
The Maldives. White sand, turquoise water, overwater villas she had only ever seen in glossy travel magazines. Amara pressed her forehead lightly against the jet's oval window as the pilot announced their descent. Her eyes widened at the view below — islands scattered like emeralds on a vast expanse of sapphire sea. It was unreal, breathtaking, a scene painted by a God who loved beauty.
She almost forgot Tade was beside her until his voice cut in. "You're staring like a tourist."
"I am a tourist," she replied without turning, still staring at the view. "This is my first time seeing this."
There was a beat of silence. Then, softer than before, he said, "Don't act too starstruck in front of the staff. We're supposed to look like this is normal for us."
Amara turned to him finally, her lips twitching. "Sorry I don't live on private jets and luxury islands every other week."
His mouth tightened, but he didn't reply.
The villa they were escorted to looked like something out of a dream. A wooden deck stretched over crystal-clear water, leading to a private pool that melted seamlessly into the horizon. Beyond it, the ocean sparkled like scattered diamonds under the sun.
Amara couldn't hide her awe. "It's… beautiful."
Tade slipped the resort manager a tip and dismissed him with the authority of someone used to being obeyed. Then he turned to her, his expression unreadable. "Your room is to the left. Mine is to the right. We'll eat together when necessary. Otherwise, stay out of my way."
Amara blinked. "You booked separate rooms?"
"Of course. Did you think I wanted to share a bed?" His eyes held hers, cool and sharp. "We may have signed a contract, Amara, but don't mistake this for a marriage."
Her stomach twisted, but she lifted her chin. "Don't worry. The thought never crossed my mind."
She dragged her suitcase toward her assigned room, refusing to let him see how much his words stung.
That evening, as the sun bled shades of orange and pink across the sky, Amara stood barefoot on the deck, hugging herself against the salty breeze. The ocean stretched endlessly, waves lapping softly against the wooden stilts below. She had dreamed of places like this — somewhere far from the noise of Lagos, where she could breathe and be herself.
But instead of peace, she felt the heavy weight of loneliness. She was in paradise, yet trapped in an arrangement colder than the marble floors of Tade's mansion.
Behind her, the sliding glass door opened. She didn't need to turn to know it was him. His presence was a storm she felt in her bones.
"You should come inside," Tade said, his voice clipped. "The wind gets rough after sundown."
"I like it here," she answered, not moving.
He exhaled sharply. "Always difficult."
That pulled a bitter laugh from her throat. "Oh, I'm difficult? Forgive me for not being the perfect little mannequin you can pose beside for photographs."
There was silence. When she finally turned, his expression startled her. He looked… almost tired. His jaw clenched, his tie loosened, the façade of perfection slipping.
For a moment, she saw not the arrogant billionaire everyone bowed to, but a man carrying shadows she couldn't yet name.
Then it was gone. He straightened, adjusting his cuffs. "Dinner is at seven. Don't be late."
He walked away, leaving her with the sound of waves and a heart that beat far too loudly.
The restaurant at the resort was perched on the water, its glass floor revealing schools of colorful fish darting beneath their feet. Candlelight flickered on every table, casting warm golden halos on polished cutlery. Soft music drifted in the background — violins and a faint piano, the kind of atmosphere made for whispered confessions and stolen kisses.
Amara sat across from Tade, wearing a silky champagne dress that caught the light every time she shifted. She had chosen it deliberately, not for him but for herself. If she was to endure this charade, she would at least look the part of a woman unbroken.
The waiter poured wine into her glass, and she caught her reflection in the liquid poised, smiling faintly, like a woman content in her paradise. But beneath the façade, her chest tightened.
"You're staring too hard at your glass," Tade murmured from across the table. He hadn't touched his food yet, only swirled the wine in his hand like it was another deal waiting to be signed.
"I was thinking," she replied, raising her eyes to meet his.
"That's dangerous," he said smoothly. "Especially for someone in your position."
Amara's lips curved. "My position? You mean the wife you bought?"
His eyes flickered. For a moment, she thought she saw a crack in his mask, but then his smile returned — sharp, calculated. "You're learning fast. At least you're not pretending otherwise."
Her pulse quickened, but she refused to let him win. "Oh, I'm pretending. Everyone else here thinks we're madly in love. And you'll play along, won't you?"
Almost as if on cue, a couple from the next table leaned toward them. "Congratulations," the woman gushed, her accent American. "We heard you just got married. Such a beautiful couple. You two look so in love!"
Amara didn't hesitate. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing Tade's hand with a softness that felt foreign even to her. She smiled brightly, the kind of smile that made her cheeks ache. "Thank you. It's been a dream."
The woman beamed, satisfied, and turned back to her companion.
Amara started to withdraw her hand, but Tade surprised her by holding on. His grip was firm, steady, sending a strange current up her arm. To anyone watching, it looked like the most natural thing in the world — a husband reluctant to let go of his new bride.
"You're good at this," he murmured low enough for only her to hear.
"So are you," she shot back, though her voice wavered.
For the rest of the meal, they played their roles to perfection. He fed her a bite of dessert, his gaze lingering as though she was the only woman in the world. She laughed softly at something he whispered, tilting her head just so. Anyone watching would envy their passion, their chemistry.
Later, walking back to their villa along the torchlit path, Amara slipped off her heels, the sand cool under her bare feet. She let out a sigh she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"You enjoyed that performance too much," Tade said, his hands in his pockets.
"Maybe I'm just a better actress than you thought."
"Or maybe," he said quietly, "you're forgetting this isn't real."
Her steps faltered, but she quickly recovered. "Trust me, I know exactly how unreal this is."
She quickened her pace, wanting to end the conversation, but fate had other plans.
Halfway across the wooden bridge that led to their villa, her foot caught on a loose plank. She stumbled, and before she could crash to the ground, a strong arm wrapped around her waist.
Tade.
The world seemed to tilt. Her palms rested against his chest, her face inches from his. His heartbeat thudded beneath her touch , steady, strong, undeniably human.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The night air hummed around them, the ocean whispering secrets below. Amara's breath hitched, and she hated that her body reacted to him at all.
"You should watch where you're going," he said finally, his voice lower than usual.
"You could just say 'are you okay,'" she muttered, pulling back.
His lips twitched, almost like a smile, but it vanished as quickly as it came. He released her and stepped away. "You're fine. That's all that matters."
But as they reached the villa, Amara found herself thinking about the warmth of his hand, the steadiness of his hold. For the first time, she wondered what he was hiding behind that coldness.
That night, Amara lay awake in her room, listening to the faint sound of waves outside. She stared at the ceiling, the image of his eyes so close to hers refusing to leave her mind.
This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to notice the way his shoulders tensed when he thought no one was looking, or how his mask slipped when he caught her almost falling. She wasn't supposed to feel… anything.
And yet, she did.
Across the villa, Tade stood by his own window, a glass of whiskey in hand. He had saved her without thinking, instincts kicking in faster than logic. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
She was supposed to be a nuisance. A pawn in a contract. Nothing more.
But when she had looked up at him with those wide, startled eyes, he had felt something stir, something he had buried years ago, under layers of ambition and bitterness.
He drained the glass, jaw tight. Whatever that was, it had no place here. Not in this arrangement.
Still, sleep eluded him long into the night.
The sun rose lazily over the Maldives the next morning, spilling orange and pink streaks across the horizon. Amara woke to the sound of seabirds calling and waves lapping gently against the wooden stilts of their villa. She lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling, her body refusing to accept that this was her life now.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from the resort: "Your private island excursion is ready. Pickup at 10 AM."
She blinked. Private island? She hadn't booked anything.
A knock at her door followed, and before she could respond, Tade walked in, already dressed in a crisp white shirt and shorts. Effortless. Like he belonged on magazine covers.
"You should get ready," he said flatly. "We're expected."
"Expected where?" she asked, sitting up.
"The resort arranged a day trip. Thought it would be… appropriate." His tone suggested he'd rather be anywhere else.
Amara narrowed her eyes. "Appropriate for who? For the paparazzi you assume are hiding in the bushes?"
"For anyone watching," he replied without hesitation.
She wanted to argue, but part of her knew he was right. This wasn't just a trip — it was another performance. Another day of acting like the perfect couple.
"Fine," she muttered. "But don't think I'm doing this for you."
He didn't answer. He just turned and walked out, as though he knew she'd follow.
The speedboat cut through turquoise waters, spraying salt into the air. Amara sat at the edge, her dress fluttering in the wind, hair whipping across her face. Tade sat opposite her, sunglasses on, expression unreadable.
The boat docked at a secluded stretch of beach, white sand so soft it looked like powdered sugar. Palm trees swayed lazily overhead, and the water shimmered like liquid glass.
It was paradise. The kind of place people dreamed of visiting once in a lifetime. And here she was — stuck with a man who barely looked at her.
The guide handed them snorkeling gear before leaving them alone.
"You do know how to swim, don't you?" Tade asked, his voice laced with mild amusement.
Amara shot him a glare. "Of course I do. What, you think I grew up in the desert?"
"I don't assume," he said, removing his shirt, revealing lean muscles and a torso that made her throat go dry despite herself. "I verify."
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she turned away quickly. "You're insufferable."
"And yet," he said, walking into the water, "here you are."
Snorkeling turned out to be more magical than she'd imagined. Schools of fish shimmered like living rainbows beneath them, and the coral reef pulsed with colors she'd never seen in her life.
But paradise didn't last.
When she surfaced, pushing her mask up, she realized Tade was nowhere near. Panic pricked her chest. She scanned the water — then spotted him farther out, floating effortlessly like the ocean belonged to him.
Relief gave way to irritation.
"You could have told me where you were going!" she snapped when they regrouped.
"You seemed fine," he replied, his calm tone fanning the flames of her temper.
"That's not the point! You don't get to decide when I need you or not."
His jaw tightened. "And what makes you think I'm here to be needed?"
The words stung more than she expected. For a moment, she looked away, the blue horizon blurring in her vision.
"Right," she said quietly. "Silly me. Thinking husbands are supposed to care."
She started swimming back to shore, each stroke fueled by anger.
They didn't speak again until later, when they sat under the shade of a palm tree, a picnic basket between them. The silence was thick, heavy, broken only by the crash of waves.
Finally, Tade exhaled sharply. "You think this is easy for me?"
Amara blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his voice.
"You think I wanted this?" he continued, staring at the horizon. "A staged marriage, endless scrutiny, pretending every moment of my life is picture-perfect?"
Something shifted in his tone. Less arrogance, more weariness. For the first time, she caught a glimpse of the man beneath the armor.
"Then why do it?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer right away. His fingers tightened around the glass bottle of water in his hand.
"Because sometimes," he said finally, "you sacrifice peace for survival."
The words hung between them, cryptic and heavy.
Amara studied him. The lines around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. He wasn't just cold — he was burdened. By what, she didn't know. But she felt the truth of it, like a shadow he carried everywhere.
For a moment, she wanted to reach out. To bridge the gap. But pride stopped her.
Instead, she leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes. "We make quite the pair, don't we?" she murmured. "Two people pretending so hard, we've forgotten what's real."
When she opened her eyes again, he was looking at her — really looking, as though seeing her for the first time.
And it unsettled them both.
The boat ride back was silent, but not in the same way as before. It wasn't hostility anymore. It was something unspoken. Something simmering beneath the surface.
When they reached the villa, Amara slipped into her room, shutting the door behind her. She pressed her back against it, heart racing.
She hated him. She hated the contract, the performance, the way he looked at her like she was both nothing and everything at once.
But most of all, she hated the way her chest tightened whenever she thought of the man who had caught her on that bridge, who had whispered truths he probably hadn't shared with anyone else.
Because it meant she was in danger. Not of him.
But of herself.