It was strange how fast routine could become a mask.
Two months into the marriage, and I knew exactly how Damien liked his coffee (black, no sugar), how he hated lateness, and how he always re-knotted his tie twice before leaving for work—like perfection was the only thing that kept him sane.
But what I didn't know—what I couldn't know—was why he never smiled. Never laughed. Never relaxed.
And why I was starting to care.
I told myself I wouldn't. That it was all for Deji. That I'd take the money, play the part, and walk out after a year without looking back.
But something was changing.
Something was cracking.
And it terrified me.
"Wear something red tonight," Damien said one morning without looking up from his tablet.
I paused mid-sip. "Why?"
"My mother's hosting a charity gala. You'll be introduced formally as my wife."
I choked on my tea. "Wait… formally?"
He raised a brow. "We've made several appearances, but never with my family. They want details."
"I don't have any 'details,' Damien. You barely talk to me."
He tilted his head slightly, like the thought had never occurred to him. "Make them up. You're smart enough."
A beat passed.
Then he added, almost softly, "You'll do fine."
It wasn't a compliment.
But it felt like one.
The gown Damien's stylist picked out for me that evening was a statement—deep scarlet silk with a sweetheart neckline and a thigh-high slit that felt more daring than I was comfortable with.
"You'll draw attention," she'd said while pinning my hair in soft waves. "That's what the Odukoyas want. A wife who can hold her own."
The gown certainly did that.
The moment we stepped into the Hilton ballroom, all eyes turned. Conversations paused. Forks froze mid-air. And somewhere in the background, a soft gasp echoed as if society itself had just gotten wind of a scandal.
Damien didn't flinch.
He placed his hand lightly on the small of my back and guided me forward with the same calm he wore like armor.
"This way," he murmured.
I couldn't tell if he was proud or simply playing the part.
The room was everything I expected from Lagos elite: glittering chandeliers, tables wrapped in velvet, and people whose laughter sounded like practiced performances. But the energy shifted when we approached the head table.
Because seated there—regal, poised, and intimidating—was Damien's mother.
Madam Ifeoma Odukoya.
And next to her…
A woman with ocean-blue contact lenses and a designer smile.
"Zara," Damien said, voice low. "Meet my mother."
Madam Ifeoma looked at me like she was assessing merchandise at an auction.
"So," she said, sipping champagne. "This is the girl."
Not daughter-in-law.
Not wife.
Just "the girl."
"Yes, ma," I said respectfully, offering a polite smile. "It's lovely to meet you."
She didn't smile back.
Her gaze dropped to my gown, then flicked back up to my face with razor-sharp precision.
"I suppose you're comfortable playing dress-up," she said casually.
"I am," I replied, steady. "And I play to win."
Something flickered in her eyes—surprise, maybe. Or warning.
Damien said nothing.
But I noticed the smallest curve in the corner of his mouth.
Amusement.
Or admiration?
I didn't have time to dwell. Because the woman seated beside his mother leaned forward, her manicured nails tapping the rim of her wine glass.
"I'm Amara," she said, voice sweet as honey but twice as sticky. "We used to be very close, Damien and I."
Used to be?
I kept my expression neutral.
But my stomach twisted.
"Nice to meet you," I replied with a practiced smile. "You must have been important. He doesn't mention many people."
Her smile dimmed.
Checkmate.
We moved through the evening like it was a chess match.
Every question from the guests was loaded with subtlety:
"How did you meet?"
"How long have you known each other?"
"What made you fall in love?"
Love.
I was dangerously close to laughing.
Damien's fingers grazed mine under the table as if reminding me: stay on script.
So I lied.
Gracefully.
"Oh, he chased me," I said with a coy laugh. "Hard. I said no twice."
That got a genuine chuckle from one of the older men beside us.
Damien leaned closer and added, "And she made me work for it."
A beat of tension passed.
Then the table roared with laughter.
But under the table, I felt Damien's hand brush mine again. A silent apology. Or was it a thank you?
I didn't know what scared me more.
After dessert, the live band played a soft instrumental, and couples began filling the dance floor.
"I hate dancing," I muttered under my breath.
"Pity," Damien replied, already standing. "Because we have to."
He held out his hand.
And I took it.
Because that was the deal.
Because that was the mask.
But when we moved onto the dance floor, something shifted.
His touch was warm.
Grounding.
His hand rested lightly on my waist, and for once, the silence between us wasn't cold—it was… magnetic.
"You handled my mother well," he said finally.
"She doesn't like me."
"She doesn't like anyone."
I let out a breath of laughter, surprised.
And he smiled.
Really smiled.
Not the polite, tight-lipped kind. But a soft, real one that made something flutter dangerously in my chest.
I looked away too quickly.
Because if I looked too long, I'd forget that none of this was real.
Later that night, back at the mansion, I stood in front of the vanity brushing my hair when Damien appeared at the doorway.
He didn't enter.
He just… lingered.
"You surprised me tonight," he said softly.
"How so?"
"You weren't just convincing. You were... natural."
I shrugged. "Lying comes easy when survival depends on it."
His gaze lingered a little too long.
And then—just like that—he left.
No explanations.
No goodnight.
Just silence.
But for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like I was living someone else's life.
I felt... visible.
Seen.
And I hated that I wanted more of it.
I couldn't sleep.
Not after the gala. Not after Amara's smile or Damien's silence. Not after the way his hand had lingered a beat too long on my waist during that dance.
I hated how my mind played the memory on loop like it meant something. Like it had significance.
This wasn't love. This wasn't a marriage. It was a business transaction with a one-year expiration date and a hundred million naira payout.
So why did I feel like I was losing something I never had?
I pulled on a silk robe and padded downstairs to the kitchen. Cold water, maybe tea—anything to quiet the questions spiraling in my head.
I wasn't alone.
Damien was there too, standing barefoot by the marble island in a black T-shirt and lounge pants, nursing a glass of whiskey like it was a coping mechanism. His hair was messier than I'd ever seen it.
It made him look human.
Vulnerable, even.
"You drink?" I asked softly.
"Only when I remember I'm married."
I winced. "Nice."
He glanced at me, eyes unreadable. "What are you doing up?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"Because of my mother?"
"Because of your ex," I said bluntly.
He tilted his head slightly. "Amara's not a problem."
"Right. Just a ghost who shows up wearing diamonds and saying you were 'very close.'"
He looked away.
And that told me everything I needed to know.
"You loved her?" I asked before I could stop myself.
A pause.
Then, "Once."
That one word hit harder than it should have.
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold. "Why did it end?"
"She wanted things I couldn't give."
"Like?"
"Emotion. Marriage. A future." He drained his glass. "I don't do those things, Zara. You know that."
"Right," I said quietly. "Just contracts and public appearances."
He didn't deny it.
And maybe that hurt more than I expected.
The next morning, the air between us was stiff.
I retreated to my study, flipping through my calendar, pretending I had a real reason to be there. When Mrs. Ayoola, the housekeeper, brought in breakfast, I barely touched it.
But when I opened my email, I paused.
A message from the Children's Literacy Foundation.
They'd accepted my volunteer proposal—the one I submitted before the marriage. I'd almost forgotten about it.
My heart lifted slightly.
This was something mine. Away from Damien. Away from the Odukoyas. Away from the lies.
I replied immediately, accepting their orientation invite.
And for the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe.
Later that evening, Damien found me in the reading nook, curled up with a novel.
"I'm coming with you tomorrow."
I blinked. "To where?"
"The literacy event."
My spine straightened. "How did you know about that?"
"I monitor all official activity under our name. You're registered as my wife, Zara. It's part of the contract."
"Of course it is," I muttered.
He studied me for a moment. "You look disappointed."
"I just… wanted something for myself."
"You still have that," he said, softer than I expected. "But you also have this."
"This?"
He stepped closer, eyes steady. "Us. The arrangement. The image."
"Is that all we are? An image?"
He didn't answer.
And that silence was its own kind of confirmation.
The next day, we arrived at the outreach program to find excited children swarming the outdoor library. The moment they saw Damien's sleek black Range Rover, whispers rippled through the air.
"That's him! The CEO!"
"He's so tall!"
"Is that his wife? She's pretty!"
I smiled despite myself.
The kids were curious, bold, and full of questions. I loved it.
For a moment, I forgot about Damien watching me. I forgot about the contract. I was just… Zara.
The girl who loved books.
The girl who used to dream.
I sat cross-legged with a little boy who reminded me of Deji and read him The Magic Treehouse. His eyes lit up with every twist in the story.
And that was everything.
"You're good with them," Damien said later, after the crowd had dispersed and we were packing up.
"They remind me of my brother."
He didn't ask more.
But then he said, "You smiled. A real one."
I looked up. "And you noticed."
"I always notice."
I didn't know what to say to that.
That night, it rained.
The storm was loud, thunder shaking the windows.
I woke up disoriented, wrapped in silk sheets and memories I couldn't explain. My heart beat too fast.
A nightmare.
I stumbled out of bed and, without thinking, walked to Damien's room.
The door was ajar.
He was awake too, staring at the ceiling, shirtless, a glass of water by his bedside.
"Can't sleep?" he asked.
"Bad dream," I admitted.
He didn't laugh or mock me. Just nodded once, then shifted over.
"Get in."
I froze.
"What?"
"You're trembling. I won't touch you. Just… stay."
Maybe I should've said no.
Maybe I should've walked away.
But I didn't.
I climbed into bed beside him, heart pounding.
And for a long time, we said nothing.
Just lay there, listening to the rain.
At some point, his hand brushed mine.
I didn't pull away.
And he didn't either.