The flight back from the Maldives was long, the kind of flight that made hours blur into each other, a stretch of endless clouds and recycled air. For most of the journey, Amara sat by the window, headphones in but no music playing, staring out at the cotton swells of sky as though they might offer her clarity.
Clarity, of course, never came.
She thought of the storm, of the way Tade had looked at her across that candlelit table, of his words that had shaken her so deeply "Because you're the only one who doesn't want me".
She wanted to erase them, but they followed her into her dreams and into her waking hours. They gnawed at her like hunger.
Tade, as usual, seemed untouchable. He worked through most of the flight, tapping away on his laptop, occasionally making quiet calls. His composure irritated her almost as much as it fascinated her. How could someone be so completely unreadable?
By the time the plane descended into Lagos, Amara was tired and restless, eager to shower, to crawl into her own bed, to pretend this entire whirlwind had been a fever dream.
But reality came crashing in before she even set foot outside the airport.
The sliding glass doors opened, and the world exploded in flashes.
"Mr. Adeyemi! Over here!"
"Is it true you married in secret?"
"Mrs. Adeyemi, smile for us!"
"Was it love at first sight?"
"Or was this a business deal?"
Cameras, microphones, phones everywhere. The swarm of paparazzi descended on them like vultures, shouting, shoving, desperate for a photograph. Security guards pushed through, forming a barrier, but it was chaos all the same.
Amara froze.
Her first instinct was to cover her face, to retreat, to disappear into the crowd. But before she could move, Tade's hand closed around hers, firm and unyielding.
"Smile," he murmured, so quietly only she could hear.
"What?"
"Smile, Amara. Right now."
Her heart hammered in her chest, but his grip steadied her, grounding her against the onslaught. She forced her lips upward, plastering on the most believable smile she could manage.
The cameras went wild.
Tade lifted their joined hands, as if showing her off to the world. He leaned in, whispering something into her ear not sweet nothings, but a calculated move, knowing how it would look through a photographer's lens. The crowd roared with excitement, convinced they were capturing intimacy.
Amara's cheeks ached from holding the expression. She hated every second of it.
When they finally reached the waiting black SUV, the door shut behind them with a satisfying thud, blocking out the noise. Silence engulfed the car, but her pulse still raced.
"What the hell was that?" she snapped, pulling her hand from his.
Tade leaned back, unbothered. "That," he said, "was survival."
She glared at him. "Survival? They were treating us like like exhibits!"
"They always will." His tone was flat, final. "Get used to it."
Amara turned to the window, her throat tight. Lagos rolled past in a blur of lights and movement, but she saw none of it. Her world had shrunk to the suffocating weight of scrutiny, the realization that her life was no longer her own.
By the time they reached the estate, Amara was exhausted in a way she'd never been before. Not physically, but soul-deep.
She kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the couch in the living room. Her phone buzzed nonstop—messages, notifications, missed calls. She ignored them at first, but curiosity gnawed at her.
Finally, she unlocked the screen.
Her face stared back at her.
Dozens of headlines, some flattering, most not:
• "Nigeria's Billionaire Prince Finally Tied Down!"
• "Who is Amara Johnson? The Mystery Bride Behind the Contract Marriage Rumors."
• "Love Story or Business Merger? Experts Weigh In."
She scrolled further, her stomach sinking. Strangers had dug up old photos from her university days, commenting on her clothes, her weight, her smile.
"She doesn't look rich enough."
"Pretty, but nothing special."
"Gold-digger vibes."
Her hand trembled as she set the phone down.
Tade emerged from his study, jacket off now, sleeves rolled up. He glanced at her, then at the phone. "Don't read the comments."
She let out a bitter laugh. "Easy for you to say. You've lived in this circus your whole life."
"Which is exactly why I'm telling you not to."
Her throat tightened. "They don't even know me. And already…" She trailed off, unable to finish.
"Already they think they do," he supplied quietly.
Their eyes met, and for once, she didn't see arrogance in his expression. She saw something closer to resignation, as though this was a battle he'd fought countless times and long since stopped expecting to win.
Amara turned away, hugging her knees to her chest. She didn't want his pity. She didn't want his understanding. What she wanted, what she craved was her freedom back.
But freedom, she realized, wasn't part of the contract.
That night, long after Tade had retreated to his own room, Amara lay awake staring at the ceiling. The air conditioning hummed softly, the sheets cool against her skin, but sleep refused to come.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, it was a message from her best friend, Kemi.
"Girl, is this real?? Tell me you didn't marry that man just for money."
Amara stared at the words, her chest tightening. How could she answer? What could she say? The truth was complicated, messy, unspeakable.
She typed, erased, typed again. Finally, she settled on: "It's… complicated. I'll explain later."
She hit send, then rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket over her head.
But the glow of the headlines burned behind her eyelids, inescapable.
The world was watching now. And it would not look away.
The following week was a blur of noise.
Everywhere Amara turned, there was a headline, a camera, or a question she didn't know how to answer. She couldn't step outside the estate without security. Even a trip to the grocery store became impossible, her picture was snapped by someone on their phone and posted online before she'd even reached the checkout counter.
Suddenly, she was trending. Not because of her work, not because of who she was, but because she was Mrs. Adeyemi.
And she hated it.
She hated the way people stared at her as though she were wearing a costume that didn't fit. She hated the whispers she overheard at salons, the double-takes from strangers in restaurants. She hated the way every choice was about what she wore, how she spoke, whether or not she held Tade's hand in public was dissected like a case study.
But more than anything, she hated the gnawing doubt in her own chest.
Because the comments weren't just noise. Some of them hit too close to home.
"Why her?" one post asked, with thousands of likes. "She doesn't look like his type."
"She'll never survive in his world," another wrote.
"She's just temporary."
Amara slammed her phone face down on the dresser, gripping the edge until her knuckles turned white.
Temporary.
She knew it was true. But seeing it written out, repeated by strangers who knew nothing about her, made her want to scream.
When Tade announced they were attending a high-society dinner, Amara felt a knot tighten in her stomach.
"It's unavoidable," he said, buttoning his cufflinks in the mirror. "My associates will expect to see us. It's the first public appearance since the wedding."
"Your associates," she repeated flatly. "Not mine."
He turned, raising an eyebrow. "You're my wife, Amara. That makes it both of ours."
The word wife still sat uneasily on her skin, like a borrowed dress she hadn't chosen.
"I don't fit into your world," she muttered.
His expression didn't change, but his voice sharpened slightly. "Then learn to."
She bit back a retort, choosing silence instead.
But inside, the resentment simmered.
The dinner was everything she feared it would be glittering chandeliers, polished marble floors, gowns that shimmered like constellations. Laughter rang from every corner, the kind that didn't sound entirely real.
Amara walked in on Tade's arm, her black dress clinging to her frame, her smile rehearsed. Heads turned instantly. Conversations dipped. Cameras flashed discreetly.
"Smile," Tade murmured under his breath.
She did. But inside, she wanted to vanish.
They made the rounds, stopping at table after table where business partners congratulated Tade, their eyes lingering on her with thinly veiled curiosity.
"So this is the bride," one man said, his voice oily. "Beautiful. Quite the… unexpected choice, Tade."
Amara stiffened. She knew exactly what he meant.
Tade's hand tightened on hers, a silent warning. But she was already burning.
"Yes," she said sweetly, flashing a smile. "I suppose love doesn't always follow… expectations."
The man chuckled awkwardly, glancing at Tade for approval. Tade gave a polite nod, moving them along.
By the third round of introductions, Amara's patience wore thin. The whispered comments, the patronizing smiles, the way every woman seemed to size her up, it grated until her mask cracked.
When one socialite leaned close, whispering just loud enough for Amara to hear, "She's pretty, but she'll never last," something in Amara snapped.
"Maybe you should worry about your own marriage," Amara shot back, her voice low but sharp. "I heard your husband prefers his secretary's company."
The woman's face froze, her glass of champagne trembling in her hand. A few people nearby had overheard. The ripple of shocked silence spread.
Tade's grip on Amara's arm tightened like steel.
"That's enough," he hissed in her ear, his tone deadly calm.
She yanked her arm free. "No, what's enough is standing here like a trophy while people insult me to my face. I'm not going to play your perfect little wife while they..."
"Amara." His voice cut through hers, quiet but lethal. "Not here."
But it was too late. The damage was done. Eyes were on them. The polished facade of the perfect couple had cracked.
Tade's expression didn't change, but she saw the fury in his eyes, simmering just beneath the surface. He smiled for the crowd, taking her hand again as though nothing had happened, but his grip was iron.
The rest of the dinner was torture. Amara felt every gaze on her, every whisper amplified in her head. By the time they finally left, her chest was tight with humiliation.
The car ride home was suffocatingly silent.
When they reached the estate, she was halfway up the stairs before his voice stopped her.
"What the hell was that?"
She turned, her anger boiling over. "That was me standing up for myself. You might be used to being worshipped, Tade, but I'm not going to sit quietly while people tear me apart."
His jaw clenched. "You don't understand. Every move we make is calculated. Every word. Tonight wasn't just dinner. It was business. And you...." He broke off, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "You can't afford to lose control like that."
Her laugh was sharp, bitter. "Control. That's all you care about, isn't it? Controlling me. Controlling everything."
He took a step closer, his voice low, dangerous. "Do you think this is a game? That your pride is more important than the empire I've built? One wrong move and everything collapses."
"Maybe it should," she shot back, her throat tight. "Because I don't care about your empire, Tade. I never asked for this. I never wanted this life!"
The words hung between them, jagged and raw.
For a moment, neither moved. Neither spoke.
Finally, his voice dropped to a near whisper. "You're right. You didn't want it. But you chose it."
And with that, he turned, retreating into his study, the door slamming shut behind him.
Amara stood in the hallway, her chest heaving, tears burning in her eyes.
For the first time since the wedding, she wondered if she had made a mistake she could never undo.
Amara shut her bedroom door and pressed her back against it, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor. The fight replayed in her head like a broken record: his voice sharp, her words sharper.
"You chose this."
The phrase gnawed at her. Yes, she had chosen this arrangement, but not for herself—for her family. And some nights, when the lights dimmed and the cameras weren't clicking, she asked herself if that sacrifice would ever be worth it.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She ignored it. It buzzed again, louder this time.
Finally, with a weary sigh, she reached for it. Her mother's name flashed across the screen.
She hesitated, then answered.
"Amara," her mother's warm, concerned voice filled the line. "Are you alright?"
The question was so simple, but it broke something inside her. Tears welled up in her eyes.
"I don't know, Mama," she whispered. "Everything feels… too much."
Her mother was quiet for a moment before speaking. "I saw the pictures. The dinner."
Amara stiffened. "Of course you did."
"People will always talk, my child. But you must hold your head high. Do not let them see you break."
Amara swallowed hard. "It's not just them, Mama. It's him. We're… we're constantly fighting. And I don't know if I can keep doing this."
Her mother's voice softened. "Marriage, even real marriage, is never easy. And yours…" She paused delicately. "Yours is more complicated than most."
Amara closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against her knees. "What if I made a mistake?"
"You didn't," her mother said firmly. "You made a choice. For us. For your future. Hold on a little longer, Amara. Give it time."
Time.
It sounded like both a promise and a punishment.
Meanwhile, across the hall, Tade sat in his study, staring at the city skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. A glass of whiskey sat untouched on his desk.
He replayed the evening in his head, Amara's sharp words echoing louder than any boardroom criticism he had ever faced.
"I never wanted this life."
He clenched his jaw, his chest tight. He told himself he didn't care. This was business. A contract. Nothing more.
But if that was true, why had her words cut so deeply? Why did the image of her standing in the dinner hall, fire in her eyes as she defended herself, haunt him now?
He took a long breath, forcing the thought away. He didn't have the luxury of feelings. Not when everything he had built was at stake.
Still, when he finally left his study hours later, he paused outside her door. His hand hovered over the handle. For one irrational moment, he considered opening it, sitting beside her, telling her… what?
That he understood? That he didn't hate her fire, even if it scared him? That some part of him wanted this marriage to be real?
The thought was foolish. Dangerous.
He dropped his hand and walked away.
The next morning brought no peace.
Amara woke to a fresh storm online. Her clapback at the dinner had gone viral. Clips were circulating with captions like "Mrs. Adeyemi fights back!" and "The fiery new wife shakes up Lagos high society."
Some comments applauded her. Many did not.
Her notifications were a battlefield of insults and backhanded compliments. She felt her stomach churn as she scrolled.
But then one headline stopped her cold.
"Who is the mysterious woman spotted with Tade Adeyemi two weeks before his wedding?"
Amara's breath caught. She clicked the link.
A grainy photo loaded. Tade, in his signature suit, walking out of a restaurant. Beside him, a woman, tall, elegant, her hand brushing his arm as they exited together.
The article speculated wildly. A former lover? A secret fiancée discarded? The timeline was vague, but the implication was clear.
Amara's heart pounded. She stared at the photo until the words blurred.
The worst part wasn't the suspicion. It wasn't the sting of jealousy she didn't want to admit.
It was the realization that she didn't even know if it was true.
Tade had never told her about his past. Never offered her more than what was necessary for their arrangement. And now, staring at this faceless threat, she realized just how little she really knew about the man she'd married.
By noon, the estate was buzzing. Calls flooded in from Tade's PR team, demanding a response. His mother arrived unannounced, her expression sharp as a blade.
"Amara," Mrs. Adeyemi said crisply, striding into the living room where Amara sat with her untouched tea. "We need to talk."
Amara rose slowly. "About what?"
"You know very well." The older woman's eyes narrowed. "That stunt at the dinner. And now this." She waved a hand, dismissing the tea table as if it contained the scandal itself.
Amara bristled. "You think I caused this? I didn't take those pictures. I didn't start the rumors."
"But you fueled them," Mrs. Adeyemi snapped. "Your lack of composure reflects badly on this family, On my son."
Anger flared in Amara's chest. "Maybe your son isn't as perfect as you think."
The silence that followed was icy, suffocating.
Mrs. Adeyemi's gaze hardened. "Be very careful, Amara. You may carry his name, but names can be taken back."
The threat hung heavy in the air.
Amara stood tall, her chin lifted. "I won't be intimidated."
But inside, doubt churned.
That evening, when Tade returned, the tension was palpable. He walked into the living room, phone in hand, his expression unreadable.
Amara rose, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "Is it true?"
He looked up, startled. "What?"
"The woman in the article. Was she… was she yours?"
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes, something she couldn't name. Then his face hardened.
"Don't believe everything you read."
"That's not an answer."
He set his jaw, slipping his phone into his pocket. "It's the only one you're going to get."
Her chest ached, frustration and confusion warring inside her. "Why won't you just tell me the truth?"
"Because," he said quietly, "the truth doesn't matter in our arrangement."
The words cut deeper than she expected.
She turned away, blinking back the sting of tears. "Maybe it doesn't matter to you. But it does to me."
And with that, she left him standing in the living room, the unspoken tension thick enough to choke on.
That night, Amara lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. The contract had always been about survival, about appearances, about playing a role.
But now, with the world watching, the cracks in their script were becoming impossible to hide.
And in those cracks, feelings she wasn't supposed to have were beginning to take root.
Feelings that scared her more than the rumors ever could.