The morning light in Lagos had a way of sneaking into places it wasn't wanted. It streamed through the half-drawn curtains, brushing across the silken sheets of the Adeyemi master bedroom. But the warmth of the sun couldn't touch the icy silence between its occupants.
Amara stirred awake to the faint buzz of her phone. She reached for it groggily, still tangled in sheets that smelled faintly of Tade's cologne. Her eyes blinked open to dozens of notifications, the screen lighting up like a battlefield.
Her heart sank.
Trending: #WhoIsShe
"Adeyemi's Mystery Woman"
"New Wife, Old Flame?"
Amara's hand trembled slightly as she scrolled through the endless blur of tweets, blog posts, and gossip site headlines. The grainy photo of Tade and the unknown woman was everywhere—reposted, dissected, zoomed in until it looked like evidence in a courtroom.
Some comments were cruel.
"She looks like she belongs on his arm, not the wife."
"Classic rich men never faithful."
"Poor Amara. Marriage of convenience never works."
Others were worse, dripping with pity.
"She seems sweet. But she can't compete with that."
"She's temporary. Just watch."
Amara locked her phone with a sharp motion and tossed it onto the dresser. Her stomach churned. She pressed the heel of her palm against her temple as though she could push the words out of her mind.
From the en suite bathroom came the sound of water running. Tade was already awake, showering like the scandal didn't exist. Like the world wasn't circling them with sharpened knives.
She lay back against the pillows, her chest tight. The questions swirled like vultures. Who was the woman? Why hadn't he told her? Why was he always so good at closing doors in her face and leaving her to guess what was behind them?
The water shut off. A few minutes later, Tade emerged, a towel around his waist, droplets of water glistening on his skin. His expression was calm, controlled, as always. Too controlled.
Amara sat up, unable to keep it in. "Are you even going to address it?"
He paused, rubbing the towel across his hair. "Address what?"
Her jaw clenched. "Don't play dumb with me. You know exactly what I mean."
His gaze flicked toward the dresser, where her phone still buzzed faintly with notifications. He let out a long breath. "It's noise, Amara. Gossip. It will pass."
"Noise?" Her laugh was sharp, bitter. "They're calling me a placeholder. They're saying I don't belong here. That she, whoever she is does."
Tade's eyes hardened, though his voice remained steady. "And since when do you measure your worth by headlines?"
"I don't!" she snapped, her voice breaking. "But maybe I'd like to know if my husband is secretly seeing someone else. Is that too much to ask?"
For the first time, his composure faltered. Something flickered in his eyes—anger, or maybe hurt—but it vanished just as quickly.
"I told you before," he said, his tone final. "Don't believe everything you read."
"That's not an answer, Tade."
He didn't respond. He turned back toward the wardrobe, pulling out a crisp shirt, sliding into it with mechanical efficiency. As though her questions were no more pressing than choosing a tie.
The silence between them grew, heavy, suffocating. Amara's throat burned. She wanted to scream, to shake him, to demand the truth. Instead, she swung her legs off the bed, storming toward the balcony for air.
When the glass door slammed behind her, the sound echoed like a gunshot through the quiet house.
At breakfast, the silence stretched on.
The staff moved quietly around them, refilling glasses of orange juice, placing plates of steaming akara and golden yam fries on the table. Normally, Amara might have taken comfort in the familiar Nigerian spread. But today, every bite felt like sawdust in her mouth.
She picked at her food. Across the long mahogany table, Tade scrolled through emails on his phone, barely glancing up.
Finally, she broke. "Do you even care what people are saying?"
He looked up, brow arched. "About what?"
"About us. About me." Her voice cracked despite her effort to steady it. "They're ripping me apart, Tade. And you sit there like it's nothing."
His expression cooled further. "Because it is nothing. What people say online has never paid my bills or signed my contracts. Their opinions don't matter."
Her hands tightened around her fork. "Maybe they don't matter to you. But they do to me. I'm the one they're calling unworthy. I'm the one being humiliated."
His eyes darkened. "This isn't about you, Amara. It's about protecting the image. Our image. And the moment you let them see they've rattled you, you've already lost."
Her chest heaved. "So I'm supposed to sit there and smile while the world calls me a fraud? While they parade another woman as the one who really belongs with you?"
Something sharp flickered in his eyes. But instead of answering, he stood, slipping his phone into his pocket. "I have meetings."
And just like that, he was gone.
That afternoon, Amara tried calling Chika, her best friend. But halfway through the ringing tone, panic struck. What could she say? "Hey, I married a billionaire under contract and now I'm drowning in rumors about his ex"? No. She couldn't drag her friend into this. Not without revealing everything.
She hung up before the call connected.
Next, she tried her mother. But though Mama's voice was warm, steady, it couldn't break through the walls closing in.
"Hold on a little longer, Amara," her mother urged softly. "The storm will pass."
But what if it didn't?
Amara hung up, her chest heavy. Alone in the massive house, surrounded by glass walls and marble floors, she had never felt smaller.
The invitation to the charity gala arrived like an omen.
Amara almost refused outright, but Tade insisted. "We have to show face. Pull focus back to the marriage. End the chatter."
So she dressed in another carefully chosen gown, sleek midnight blue silk that clung to her frame, diamonds at her ears. She painted on her best smile, though her stomach churned.
The gala glittered with Lagos elites, chandeliers casting golden light over the room. Cameras flashed as soon as they stepped inside, capturing their every move.
And then she saw her.
The woman from the photo.
Tall, effortlessly elegant, in a crimson gown that made her stand out like a flame among embers. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who belonged in every room. And when her eyes met Amara's, her smile was slow, deliberate, edged with something that wasn't kindness.
The whispers began instantly. Phones lifted. Flashes erupted.
Tade stiffened beside Amara. His jaw tightened, but he didn't move. Didn't say a word.
The woman approached with graceful steps, her heels clicking against the polished floor.
"Amara, isn't it?" Her voice was smooth, practiced. She extended a hand, her eyes never leaving Amara's. "I've heard so much about you."
Amara hesitated, then took the hand. It was cool, firm, a handshake that felt like a silent duel.
"And you are?" Amara asked, her voice steady though her pulse raced.
The woman's smile deepened. "Oh, I'm just an old… friend of Tade's."
The implication hung heavy.
All around them, cameras clicked, recording every second.
Amara kept her expression neutral, refusing to flinch under the stranger's pointed smile. Around them, the noise of the gala swelled, soft music, murmured conversations, the faint clink of champagne glasses but all Amara could hear was the heavy, charged silence between herself, Tade, and this so-called friend.
The woman tilted her head slightly, her glossy curls shifting over one shoulder. "You're even lovelier in person," she said smoothly, though the words dripped with something less than admiration. Her gaze flicked to Tade, who had yet to speak. "Tade always did have impeccable taste."
Amara's chest tightened. She forced herself to smile, though her lips trembled. "And you are…?"
The woman's smile sharpened. "Oh, forgive me. My name is Vanessa." She extended her hand again, this time resting it briefly on Tade's arm as she did. The gesture was casual to anyone else, but to Amara it was a slap.
"Vanessa and I go way back," Tade said finally, his voice clipped, controlled.
Way back.
The words stabbed at Amara's chest, though she kept her chin high. "How nice," she murmured, withdrawing her hand.
Vanessa's eyes glittered, as though she knew she'd landed a blow. "Well, I won't keep you. Enjoy the evening, Mrs. Adeyemi."
With that, she glided away, leaving behind a wake of whispers and camera flashes.
Amara's stomach twisted. She felt the heat of humiliation crawling up her neck, her pulse hammering. The photographers hadn't missed the tension. Tomorrow's headlines would be merciless.
She turned sharply to Tade. "What the hell was that?"
His jaw tightened. "Not here."
But the words only fanned her fury. "Of course. Always later, always silence. Do you enjoy making me look like a fool in public?"
His eyes snapped to hers, dark and warning. "I said not here."
The ice in his tone cut deeper than shouting ever could. She bit her tongue, forcing herself to swallow the storm that threatened to spill over.
But inside, she was burning.
The ride home was thick with silence, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows like smears of gold and red. Amara sat stiffly on one end of the leather seat, arms folded tight across her chest. Tade leaned back, his gaze fixed on the cityscape outside, as though she weren't even there.
Finally, the words burst from her lips. "So that's her, isn't it? The woman in the photo."
He didn't look at her. "Yes."
The simple admission stole the breath from her chest. She hadn't expected him to confirm it so easily.
Her voice wavered. "And you weren't going to tell me?"
"There was nothing to tell."
"Nothing to tell?" she repeated, her voice rising. "The entire city thinks my husband is secretly in love with someone else, and you call that nothing?"
His head turned then, his eyes flashing. "Because it's irrelevant."
Her laugh was sharp, bitter. "Irrelevant? She touched you like she still owns a piece of you. Everyone in that room saw it. Everyone online is tearing me apart. But sure to you, irrelevant."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone low, dangerous. "Don't twist this into something it's not. Vanessa is in the past."
"Then why didn't you say so earlier?"
"Because," he snapped, the mask finally cracking, "you don't need to know every detail of my past. You think this marriage is about love and confessions? It's a deal, Amara. Nothing more."
The words hit her like a slap. Her throat tightened, her eyes burning.
"A deal," she whispered, the word trembling on her tongue. "That's all I am to you?"
His chest rose and fell sharply. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—regret, maybe, or hesitation—but he crushed it down, looking away.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Amara turned to the window, blinking rapidly as the city blurred past in streaks of light. She refused to let him see her cry.
By the time they arrived at the estate, her hands were shaking. She stormed out of the car, ignoring Tade's voice calling her name. She climbed the stairs two at a time, slamming the bedroom door behind her.
Only then did the tears come hot, angry, unstoppable.
She hated this. Hated the whispers, the headlines, the endless doubt gnawing at her. But most of all, she hated the way Tade's words had cut deeper than she'd expected.
A deal.
If that's all this was, why did it hurt so much?
The next morning, Amara barely made it out of bed before the knock came at the door. It wasn't Tade. It was his mother.
Mrs. Adeyemi swept in like a storm, her perfume strong, her expression colder than the marble floors. She didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Sit," she ordered, and Amara obeyed, too weary to argue.
"I warned you," Mrs. Adeyemi said crisply. "Your little outburst at the dinner, and now this scandal with Vanessa, you are dragging this family's name through the mud."
Amara's fists clenched in her lap. "I didn't create that photo. I didn't invite Vanessa. I'm not the one with ghosts from the past showing up unannounced."
Mrs. Adeyemi's eyes narrowed. "Careful, Amara. You may be wearing my son's ring, but rings can come off."
The words landed like a dagger.
Amara swallowed, her chin trembling, but she lifted it anyway. "I won't be bullied. Not by you. Not by anyone."
For a long moment, the older woman studied her, something unreadable in her gaze. Then she stood. "You'd better learn quickly, my dear. This world eats the weak alive."
And with that, she swept out, leaving the air thick with tension.
Amara sat frozen, her heart pounding.
It was becoming clearer by the day: she was at war on every front. With the press. With Vanessa. With Tade. With his family.
And she was running out of strength to keep fighting.
But the storm wasn't done.
That afternoon, Tade's PR chief arrived at the estate, a tall man in a sharp grey suit, clutching a folder. His expression was grim as he sat across from them in the study.
"This is spiraling," he said without preamble. "The photo. The dinner. Vanessa's reappearance. The media smells blood. If we don't control the narrative now, it'll bury both of you."
Amara sat stiffly in her chair. Tade leaned back, silent, his jaw clenched.
The PR chief continued, "We need a joint interview. A united front. You two will sit down, answer questions, and show the world your marriage is unshakable. If you don't—" He spread his hands. "You may as well sign divorce papers now."
Amara's chest tightened. An interview. Cameras, questions, lies dressed as truth.
Her eyes flicked to Tade, who finally spoke. "Schedule it."
Amara's heart sank.
For the first time, she realized they would have to fight this together.
Even if it meant pretending.
The study fell silent after the PR chief left, the echo of his words hanging heavy in the air. Amara sat frozen, her fingers twisting together in her lap, while Tade rose and walked toward the window.
"An interview," she muttered, her voice low. "So now we perform, like actors on a stage?"
Tade didn't turn. "It's not about performance. It's about survival."
Her laugh was hollow. "Funny. I thought this marriage was already about survival."
He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes sharp, unreadable. "Then you understand what's at stake."
The next two days were a blur of preparation. The PR team set up mock interviews, drilling them with potential questions. Every answer had to be polished, rehearsed, precise—an illusion of harmony that could withstand the scrutiny of millions.
"What's the secret to your marriage's success?" one assistant asked during rehearsal, her tone chirpy, like a morning show host.
Amara's throat tightened. She glanced at Tade, who said smoothly, "Trust."
The word almost made her laugh out loud. Instead, she forced a smile. "And… patience," she added, though it burned on her tongue.
The assistant nodded. "Perfect. Next question. How did you two meet?"
Amara hesitated, her mind flashing to that boardroom, the contract, the signatures that had sealed her fate. But she pasted on the version they had agreed to. "At a charity gala. He couldn't stop staring at me."
The assistant chuckled, jotting notes. "Lovely. Keep that energy."
But when the rehearsal ended, Amara dropped the mask, exhaustion pulling at her bones.
"This is a circus," she whispered as they walked out.
Tade's jaw clenched. "It's necessary."
"Necessary for who? For your family's empire? For your image? Or for us?"
The question hung between them, sharp and dangerous.
For once, he didn't answer.
That night, Amara stood on the balcony of their bedroom, staring out at the dark sweep of the city. The air was cool, the distant hum of traffic floating up from the streets below. She hugged her arms around herself, wishing she could peel off the weight of it all—the expectations, the lies, the endless pretending.
Behind her, she heard the door open. Tade stepped out, his presence filling the small space.
"You shouldn't be out here," he said quietly.
She didn't turn. "Why not? Afraid I'll jump and ruin the perfect illusion?"
His silence was sharp, startled.
She exhaled shakily. "I'm drowning, Tade. Drowning in whispers, in lies, in shadows I didn't create. And you stand there, calm and untouchable, like none of it touches you."
For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then, softly, "It touches me more than you think."
She turned then, truly looking at him. His face was half-shadowed in the moonlight, his expression rawer than she'd ever seen it.
"Then why don't you show it?" she whispered.
His throat worked, as though the words cost him. "Because if I show weakness, everything crumbles. My family. The company. Us."
The last word lingered in the air, fragile, unexpected.
Amara's chest tightened. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that beneath the cold armor, there was a man who felt, who cared.
But before she could respond, he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers on the balcony rail. The contact sent a jolt through her, sharp and undeniable.
Their eyes locked. The distance between them shrank, breaths mingling, the tension coiling tight as a spring.
Her heart pounded. For a heartbeat, she thought—this is it.
But then he pulled back, the wall slamming shut again.
"Get some sleep," he said roughly, retreating into the room.
She stood there long after he left, her hand still tingling from where he'd touched her, her chest aching with words unsaid.
The morning of the interview arrived like a storm. Their estate swarmed with crew members—cameras, lights, makeup artists, assistants darting about with clipboards. The living room had been transformed into a glossy set, every detail staged for perfection.
Amara sat in the makeup chair, her reflection staring back at her. The artist brushed powder across her cheeks, murmuring about lighting and angles. But all Amara saw was the hollowness in her own eyes.
Can I really do this?
Across the room, Tade stood in a perfectly tailored suit, his presence commanding as ever. But his shoulders were stiff, his eyes shadowed.
They were two actors in a play neither had auditioned for.
"Ready in five minutes," a producer called out.
Amara's stomach twisted. She rose, smoothing the silk of her dress, and walked to the sofa where Tade waited. He glanced at her briefly, then looked away, his hands clasped in front of him.
She sat beside him, the distance between them small but heavy.
For a moment, neither spoke. Then, quietly, she said, "We can't keep doing this."
His eyes flicked to hers. "Doing what?"
"Pretending it doesn't matter. Pretending we don't care. If we go out there with nothing but rehearsed lines, they'll see through us."
He studied her, his gaze unreadable. "What do you suggest?"
She swallowed hard. "That—for once—we tell the truth. Not all of it. Just enough."
His brow furrowed. "The truth is dangerous."
"So is silence."
The producer's voice rang out. "We're live in thirty seconds!"
The crew scrambled, cameras shifting, lights blazing hotter. Amara's pulse thundered in her ears. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the glowing red light of the nearest camera.
Tade leaned slightly toward her, his voice low, urgent.
"Then let's make them believe," he said.
The countdown began.
"Five… four… three…"
Amara drew in a shaky breath, her chest tightening.
"Two… one…"
The red light blinked on.
And the world was watching.