Sunlight crept through the blackout curtains like an unwelcome guest, pulling me from a restless sleep. I woke up tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets that smelled faintly of Kian's cologne—sandalwood and something darker, like storm clouds over the Atlantic. My body ached in places that had nothing to do with dancing at the reception.
The guest suite was bigger than my entire flat back in Surulere. Marble floors, a king bed that could swallow me whole, a walk-in closet already stocked with clothes in my size (how did he know?). It felt like a gilded cage.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes, and caught my reflection in the mirrored wardrobe doors. Makeup smudged, hair escaping the updo, lips still swollen from last night's kiss. I looked like a bride who'd been thoroughly ruined. Except nothing had happened. Not really.
A soft knock on the door made me jump.
"Breakfast is ready," Kian's voice came through, low and neutral. "Downstairs. Whenever you're decent."
I didn't answer. Instead, I showered—hot water pounding away the remnants of yesterday—then slipped into one of the outfits from the closet: a simple silk camisole and wide-leg trousers in soft cream. Expensive. Effortless. Not me.
Downstairs, the penthouse kitchen was all sleek lines and chrome. Kian stood at the island in gray sweatpants and a fitted black T-shirt, scrolling through his phone while coffee brewed. He looked unfairly good in casual—like the boy I'd known before the suits and secrets swallowed him.
He glanced up. Eyes flicked over me once, twice. Something flickered in his expression before he masked it.
"Sit," he said, nodding to the stool opposite him. A spread waited: fresh akara, pap, sliced mango, boiled eggs, even moimoi wrapped in leaves. Lagos breakfast, but elevated.
I slid onto the stool, keeping distance. "You cooked this?"
"Chef delivered at dawn. Figured you'd want something familiar."
I picked at the akara. "Trying to play nice husband now?"
He poured coffee into two mugs, slid one toward me. Black, just how I liked it. Memory or coincidence? I didn't ask.
"Rules," he said, leaning against the counter. "We need ground rules if this is going to work for a year."
I sipped the coffee—strong, perfect—and met his gaze. "I'm listening."
"Rule one: No disappearing. You tell me where you are. Security detail if you go out alone."
I bristled. "I'm not your prisoner."
"You're my wife. Publicly. There are eyes on us now—paparazzi, competitors, family. One slip and the deal crumbles."
"Fine. Rule two: No touching unless cameras are rolling."
His lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Agreed. Except..."
"Except?"
"In public, we sell it. Hand-holding. Kisses on the cheek. Whatever looks natural."
Heat crept up my neck remembering last night's kiss. "Natural," I echoed flatly.
"Rule three: No questions about the past. We don't talk about five years ago."
My spoon clattered against the plate. "You don't get to dictate that. You owe me answers, Kian."
His jaw tightened. "I owe you a clear debt paid and a clean divorce. That's the contract."
I stood up. "Then add rule four: Don't pretend you care. Don't act like you remember how I take my coffee or what breakfast I like. It makes this harder."
He straightened. "It makes it believable."
"Believable to who? The maids? The tabloids? Or to yourself?"
Silence stretched. Thick. Electric.
He stepped closer—slow, deliberate. Close enough that I could see the pulse at his throat. "You think I don't remember everything? Every late-night call, every laugh in traffic, every promise I broke?"
My breath caught. "Then why break them?"
He looked away first. Toward the lagoon view, glittering under the morning sun. "Because staying would have destroyed you."
I laughed—sharp, pained. "You did that anyway."
He turned back. Eyes darker now. "Ada... if I tell you the truth now, you'll hate me more. And I need you to hate me just enough. Not too much."
Before I could respond, his phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at it, face hardening.
"Father," he muttered. "Meeting at the office in an hour. He wants us both there. Photo op for the investors—'the happy newlyweds' blessing the new merger."
I crossed my arms. "Great. More performance."
He reached out—hesitated—then tucked a stray braid behind my ear. The touch was light. Almost careful.
"Get ready. We leave in thirty."
He walked away, leaving me standing there with cooling coffee and a heart that refused to stay cold.
Upstairs, I changed into a power suit from the closet—tailored navy, heels high enough to feel like armor. When I came down, Kian was waiting by the elevator in a charcoal suit, tie knotted perfectly.
He offered his arm. Professional. Polite.
I took it.
As the doors closed, trapping us in the small space, he spoke quietly. "One more thing."
I looked up.
"Last night... the kiss. It wasn't all pretend."
My pulse spiked. "Don't."
He leaned in—just enough that his breath brushed my ear. "I know. But you kissed me back like you meant it."
The elevator dinged. Doors opened to the lobby.
He stepped out first, hand still on my arm.
I followed, heart hammering, wondering how long I could pretend the fire between us was only hate.
And how much longer before it burned us both.
End of Chapter 4