The hum of the ceiling fan was the only sound in the villa when Amara slipped off her sandals and sank into the edge of the king-sized bed. The ocean breeze carried in the faint scent of saltwater and hibiscus, but instead of calming her, it only seemed to amplify the tension between her and Tade.
He stood by the glass wall, one hand buried in the pocket of his tailored linen trousers, the other holding a half-empty glass of whisky. His profile was sharp against the glow of the moonlight, jaw set, expression unreadable.
Amara stole a glance at him, then quickly looked away. She hadn't spoken since they returned from the boat cruise earlier that afternoon. He hadn't either. It wasn't just silence—it was the kind of silence that had weight, that pressed down on both of them, filling the room with something unspoken and dangerous.
It should have been a beautiful evening. Dinner by candlelight, laughter echoing over the water, strangers assuming they were madly in love. And maybe that was the problem. Pretending had come too easily. When Tade brushed her hand at the table, when his lips tilted in that half-smile he reserved for show, it had felt too real. Too much.
"Are you going to keep avoiding me?" His voice broke through her thoughts, deep, steady, but laced with an edge that made her pulse jump.
"I'm not avoiding you," Amara muttered, staring at the floor. "I just don't know what to say to you."
He set the glass down on the side table with a deliberate clink. "Funny. You had no trouble talking back at the table tonight."
Her head snapped up. "That was different. We were performing."
"And this isn't?" He took a slow step toward her, his gaze sharp, almost challenging. "Every second of this marriage is a performance, Amara. Don't confuse it with anything else."
The words stung more than she wanted to admit. She clenched her fists in her lap, willing herself not to rise to the bait. But something about Tade—his arrogance, his control, the way he looked at her like he could see through every wall she tried to build—pulled the worst out of her.
"Then why did you touch me like that tonight?" she asked softly, surprising even herself.
His brow arched, and for the first time, he looked unsettled. "What are you talking about?"
"You held my hand. You leaned close when you didn't have to. You—" She stopped, her throat tightening. "It wasn't just performance. Not all of it."
The silence that followed was heavy. Charged. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, could feel the air thickening between them. He was close now—too close—and though he hadn't touched her, the heat of his presence was enough to make her skin prickle.
Tade's eyes darkened, but instead of answering, he turned abruptly toward the balcony doors. "We should get ready. The gala starts in an hour."
And just like that, the moment slipped away, leaving Amara breathless and confused.
The gala was a masterpiece of elegance—white lanterns swaying gently from the palms, fairy lights strung along the open-air terrace, the sound of a string quartet blending with the hush of waves just beyond. Waiters moved like shadows, balancing trays of champagne flutes that glittered beneath the glow.
Amara adjusted the satin strap of her emerald-green dress, wishing it didn't cling so perfectly to her curves. She'd chosen it to look confident, unbothered, untouchable. But as she stepped into the gathering with Tade's hand resting lightly against her back, she felt anything but.
He was devastatingly composed, as always. Black tuxedo, crisp shirt, tie knotted with the kind of precision that only came from years of practice or an army of stylists. His arm was steady, his smile controlled, his every movement screaming power. The kind of presence that made people stop mid-sentence just to watch him pass.
And she hated, very much hate how part of her thrilled at being on his arm.
"Mr. Adewale," a tall man with graying temples greeted warmly, pulling Tade into a firm handshake. "And this must be your wife. You didn't exaggerate, she's stunning."
Amara's cheeks flushed at the compliment. She extended her hand politely, but before she could respond, Tade lifted it to his lips in a practiced, deliberate gesture that sent shivers racing down her spine.
"She's more than stunning," he said smoothly, eyes never leaving hers. "She's everything."
It was for show, she reminded herself. Every word, every touch, every glance—just another layer in the performance they'd signed into. But the heat in his eyes lingered even after they turned to greet others, and Amara wasn't sure if she was imagining it.
The evening blurred into a whirlwind of introductions and laughter, champagne and applause. Everywhere they went, people whispered about the "beautiful couple," about how in love they looked. Amara found herself smiling too easily, leaning into Tade's shoulder, laughing at his dry remarks.
And then came the music.
A soft waltz began, and couples slowly drifted to the dance floor. Amara stiffened when Tade turned to her, offering his hand.
"No," she whispered quickly, shaking her head.
"Yes," he countered smoothly, his palm waiting. "They're watching."
Her heart hammered. She could argue. She could walk away. But instead, she placed her hand in his, and he led her into the circle of swaying couples.
The world seemed to fall away as his arm slid around her waist, firm but not rough, drawing her closer than she expected. His scent—clean, sharp, with a hint of something darker—wrapped around her as they moved in time with the music.
"Relax," he murmured against her ear, the warmth of his breath sending a traitorous shiver down her spine.
"I am relaxed," she lied, her voice tight.
His lips curved in a knowing smirk. "Then why can I feel your pulse racing?"
She bit the inside of her cheek, focusing on the rhythm, on the simple pattern of steps. But it was impossible to ignore the way his fingers brushed against the bare skin of her back, the steady pressure that made it feel less like a performance and more like
Something else. Something dangerous.
The song ended too soon, and yet she exhaled in relief when they broke apart. Guests clapped, smiling at them, whispering words like perfect, chemistry, destined. Amara forced another smile, even as her insides twisted.
When they returned to the table, she reached immediately for her glass of champagne. But Tade leaned close, his voice low, meant only for her.
"You're a better actress than I thought."
She froze, glass hovering near her lips. "And you're a better liar."
Their eyes clashed, heat sparking between them like a live wire. And for a fleeting moment, the entire gala—the lights, the music, the people faded, leaving only the two of them in that charged silence.
The gala wound down slowly, with laughter and music softening into the warm hum of the ocean. Guests drifted away in pairs, leaving half-empty glasses and the faint scent of perfume clinging to the air. Amara excused herself from a cluster of women who had been complimenting her dress, weaving through the terrace until she found a door leading outside.
The balcony was quiet, washed in silver moonlight. From here, she could see the stretch of the beach, endless and dark, with waves breaking in lazy foams against the shore. She leaned against the railing, breathing deeply, trying to quiet the riot inside her chest.
Pretend wife. Pretend smiles. Pretend intimacy.
And yet none of it had felt pretend tonight.
"Running away?"
His voice slid into the night like silk, deep and unhurried. She turned sharply to see Tade stepping through the door, bow tie loosened, jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder.
"I needed air," she said, trying to sound casual.
"So did I." He moved closer, his footsteps soft against the wooden floor. "Though I imagine our reasons are different."
She scoffed lightly, looking back out at the sea. "Yours probably has to do with closing another deal in your head."
"And yours?" he asked quietly.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Because the truth was tangled—anger, confusion, attraction she didn't want.
Tade stopped just beside her, his arm brushing hers as he leaned on the railing. "You were good in there. Convincing."
She turned to glare at him. "Is that what this is to you? A show? Some elaborate play to make your mother and shareholders clap for you?"
"That's what we agreed on," he reminded her, eyes steady. "You signed the contract. We both knew what this was."
"Contracts don't explain…" she faltered, heat rising in her chest. "…what happens when it feels real."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Silence stretched. His gaze sharpened, unreadable, before he leaned in just slightly, his face too close, his cologne wrapping around her.
"And what exactly felt real, Amara?" His voice was low, almost dangerous.
Her throat tightened. She wanted to step back, but her body betrayed her, rooted to the spot. "The way you looked at me tonight, The way you...." She broke off, biting her lip hard.
He caught the movement, his eyes darkening as if she'd pulled something primal out of him. Slowly, he lifted a hand and brushed a stray curl from her face, his fingers lingering near her temple.
Her breath hitched.
For a moment, nothing existed but the tension, her heart pounding against her ribs, his chest rising and falling so close to hers, the dangerous tilt of his head as though he was on the brink of closing the distance.
Her lips parted. His gaze dropped to her mouth.
And then, She stepped back, sharply, breaking the spell. "No."
Tade's hand fell away, his jaw tightening.
"This isn't part of the deal," she said quickly, her voice shaking more than she wanted. "We don't blur lines. We don't…" She gestured between them helplessly. "Whatever this is—it's not allowed."
His eyes flickered, something unreadable flashing across them, before he straightened, sliding his mask of composure back into place.
"You're right," he said, tone cool, almost clipped. "It's not allowed."
He turned, pushing away from the railing, leaving her alone with the crash of the waves and the echo of a moment that should never have happened.
Amara pressed trembling fingers to her lips, as though to hold in the truth she couldn't admit: that she had wanted him to kiss her.
That she had almost let him.
Perfect 👍 let's move into Part Four of Chapter Six — the immediate aftermath in their villa after that almost-kiss. This section will keep the tension alive: silence, avoidance, and those small details that show how attraction simmers beneath the surface even when they're both fighting it.
The silence between them on the ride back to the villa was suffocating. Not angry silence, worse. It was charged, thick, alive with unspoken words.
Amara sat stiffly in the corner of the golf cart, eyes fixed on the glowing lamps that lined the sandy path. She could feel Tade beside her, his shoulder brushing hers every time the vehicle jostled. Neither of them said a word.
When they reached the villa, she was out first, her heels crunching on the gravel. The butler waiting by the door offered a polite smile, but Amara barely nodded, sweeping past him into the cool interior.
She kicked off her shoes and headed straight for the bedroom, her heartbeat refusing to calm. She needed space. She needed distance from him.
But when she entered, her gaze landed immediately on the king-sized bed. One bed. Of course. The resort had been chosen by him, and Tade Adeyemi would never imagine discomfort as part of luxury.
She groaned softly, dragging a hand through her hair. "Perfect."
Behind her, she heard his steps enter the room. His jacket hit the chair, then his cufflinks clinked against the dresser. He moved with casual ease, as if nothing had happened on that balcony.
"I'll take the sofa," he said, voice flat.
She turned to look at him. His tie was gone, his shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled back, exposing strong forearms. The sight should not have made her pulse jump. She hated that it did.
"You don't have to," she muttered, crossing her arms.
"I know," he replied, already pulling a throw blanket from the wardrobe. "But I'm not in the mood to argue about sleeping arrangements."
Something in his tone cut deeper than she expected. It wasn't annoyance; it was detachment, like he was deliberately shutting a door in her face.
Amara sat on the edge of the bed, watching as he spread the blanket across the sofa. He didn't look at her once.
When the lights were finally out, she lay staring at the ceiling, the soft hum of the ocean barely drowning out the storm inside her head. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face leaning close, his eyes dark and unguarded, the almost-touch of his lips.
She turned on her side, pulling the covers over her head. This was supposed to be simple. Business. A contract. Not… this.
From the sofa, she heard him shift, a quiet exhale escaping him. And though they were only a few feet apart, it felt like an ocean had risen between them.
The next morning was no easier.
Amara padded into the kitchen barefoot, her satin robe tied tightly around her waist. She found Tade already there, dressed in crisp linen trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow again. He was making coffee, moving like a man who owned the entire villa, the island, the sea itself.
"Good morning," he said without looking at her.
She blinked at him. Was that… casual civility? After last night?
"Morning," she replied carefully, reaching for the fruit bowl.
They ate in silence, the clink of cutlery the only sound between them. She couldn't stand it. The silence was worse than fighting—it was like he'd erased her completely.
Finally, she set down her fork. "So that's it? We pretend nothing happened?"
Tade's eyes lifted, steady, calm. Too calm. "What exactly do you think happened, Amara?"
Heat surged into her cheeks. "You know what I mean."
"Do I?" He leaned back, sipping his coffee slowly. "Because from where I stood, nothing happened. You stopped it before it could."
Her breath caught. The words were true, but the way he said them—measured, indifferent—made it sting.
"So we're just… colleagues again," she said tightly.
"That's what we've always been." His tone was firm, final.
But his eyes betrayed him. For a fraction of a second, when he looked at her, there was something raw there, something that contradicted every cold word.
Amara pushed back her chair abruptly. "Fine."
She stormed out onto the terrace, gripping the railing so hard her knuckles whitened. The sea roared before her, endless and wild, and she realized bitterly that it mirrored exactly how she felt inside.