By the time I got home, my wig had shifted so far back I looked like a village masquerade. I didn't even bother adjusting it. I stormed into Sophia's flat, dumped my bag on the couch, and collapsed like someone whose destiny had just been rearranged.
Sophia was waiting. Of course she was. Arms folded, eyes sharp, lips twitching like she'd been holding in gist for hours.
"Well?" she demanded, leaning forward. "Tell. Me. Everything."
I groaned, covering my face with both hands. "You don't want to know."
"Correction... I need to know." She grabbed a throw pillow and smacked me with it. "Talk, woman, before I explode."
So I talked. Against my better judgment, I told her everything. The café. The wig-as-disguise. The moment Adrian sat across from me like he owned the table, the café, and my oxygen supply. And finally... the bombshell.
"He asked me," I whispered dramatically, "to be his girlfriend."
Sophia blinked. Then she shrieked so loud that NEPA probably heard and decided to cut the light in protest.
"Wait—WAIT. Back up. He asked you to WHAT?"
"Girlfriend," I muttered into the pillow. "Fake. For the weekend."
Sophia threw herself across the room like a Nollywood actress in part three of a family saga. "Jesus, take the wheel! Amara, do you know what this means? This is not the gist. This is destiny. This is Netflix original material!"
"It's madness," I corrected. "Why would a billionaire want me to pretend—"
"Babe," she cut me off, eyes gleaming like Christmas lights. "Forget logic. This is the opportunity of your lifetime. You can't buy this kind of blessing at Balogun market. Do you understand what this could do for your life?"
I tried to protest. I really did. But Sophia was already pacing like a motivational speaker at an empowerment seminar.
"Six months of luxury. Designer clothes. Private jets. Connections, babe! You'll never have to fight tomato sellers again. Do you want to keep eating bread and sardines, or do you want brunch in Dubai?"
Her words hit me like bullets. Because the truth? I wanted caviar—even if I couldn't spell it without autocorrect.
Still, my pride put up a fight. "What if I embarrass myself again? What if I trip and land face-first in soup in front of his family? What if—"
"Then you'll get up gracefully and ask for more soup," Sophia snapped. "But you cannot, I repeat, CANNOT, let this chance pass you by."
I stared at her. She stared back, deadly serious. And that's how I knew my fate was sealed.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling like it held answers. My heart was tap-dancing against my ribs. On the nightstand, Adrian's business card sat there, shining under the dim bulb like it had mystical powers.
I reached for it with trembling fingers. My thumb traced the letters of his name: Adrian Cole. Billionaire. Nightmare. Potential sugar-daddy-with-benefits.
I clutched the card to my chest. "God, if I die from shame, please let it at least be in a silk dress."
Finally, with courage, I grabbed my phone and dialed.
It rang once. Twice. Then—
"Amara," his voice rasped through the speaker. Smooth. Deep. Like midnight radio hosts who know too much. "I knew you'd call."
I froze. My whole spirit did a backflip. How did he even know it was me on the line? "Excuse me?"
"I said," he repeated, drawl deliberate, "I knew you'd call."
See ehn, if arrogance were a fragrance, this man was bathed in it.
I swallowed, forcing my voice to behave. "Well. I thought about it. And... fine. I'll do it."
"Good," he said simply, like I'd just confirmed his dinner reservation. "We'll make this official. Six months."
"Six months?" I squeaked. "As in, one, two, three, four, five, SIX?"
"Yes." He sounded amused. Of course he did. "And don't worry. You'll be compensated."
"Compensated?"
"Triple your salary."
I sat bolt upright. "Triple?"
"Yes."
"Triple as in... triple?"
"Yes."
"Like—buy-my-mama-a-new-generator triple?"
His chuckle was low and sinful. "Exactly that."
My mouth went dry. Sophia's words echoed in my skull: bread and sardine or brunch in Dubai?
I cleared my throat, trying to sound composed. "Okay. Fine. Triple. That's... acceptable."
Inside, though? I was screaming, YES LORD, YOU STILL ANSWER PRAYERS!
I tried to pivot to practical matters. "So... about clothes. How do you expect me to dress for this... arrangement?"
"Don't worry about that," Adrian said smoothly. "My assistant will handle everything."
I blinked. "Your... assistant?"
"Yes. He'll get it ready. He'll also need your address."
I almost dropped my phone. My address. Meaning his people would roll up to Sophia's compound, in all their billionaire glory, and hand-deliver a gown.
"Uh..." I hesitated. "Are you sure that's... necessary?"
"Completely. Text it to me. The driver will pick you up at four p.m."
And just like that, he ended the call. No goodbye. No have-a-nice-night. Just billionaire efficiency, like I was item number twelve on his to-do list.
I lowered the phone slowly, staring at the ceiling.
Six months. Triple my salary. A billionaire's fake girlfriend.
I buried my face in my pillow and screamed. Because somehow, I'd just agreed to change my entire life.
The next morning, a sharp knock rattled Sophia's front door.
Sophia jumped up like a soldier on duty. "Who's that?"
Another knock followed, firm and deliberate.
"Are you expecting anyone?" she whispered, eyes wide.
I shook my head, my stomach flipping. "Uhh no?"
Sophia shot me a look, then tiptoed to the door and yanked it open.
A tall man stood there, sharply dressed in a black suit, polished shoes gleaming, and an aura that screamed professional.
He held a big white box like it contained the cure for heartbreak.
"Good morning," he said smoothly. "Miss Amara?"
I scrambled upright. "Uh—yes?"
He nodded once. Then did a double take as recognition dawned in his eyes. He remembered me from the cafe.
If only he knew the drama behind it.
"I'm Mr. Jacob. Mr. Cole's assistant. He sent this for you." He extended the box toward me like it was a holy offering. "And he asked me to remind you—the driver will pick you up at 4 p.m. sharp."
I blinked. "Four... p.m.?"
"Yes. Mr. Cole is punctual." His gaze was steady, unreadable. The kind of look that made me wonder if he could see through my wig to all my secrets.
Sophia, meanwhile, was clutching her chest like she'd just witnessed an angel descend. "Ha! Sir, God bless you! God bless your children's children!"
Mr. Jacob inclined his head politely, then turned on his heel and left. Smooth. Efficient. Gone before I could even blink properly.
The moment the door clicked shut, Sophia pounced.
"OPEN IT!" she shrieked. "Amara, open it right now before I open it with my teeth!"
With shaky hands, I placed the box on the coffee table and lifted the lid.
Sophia gasped.
Then she gasped again, louder.
Then she clutched the hem of her nightie like she was about to faint. "Jesus. Mary. Joseph. Babe... this gown..."
My breath caught.
It was silk. Pure, liquid silk that shimmered even in the dull morning light. A sleeveless, high-neck maxi dress with a daring side slit that whispered elegance and screamed money. The kind of gown you only saw on red carpets, worn by women who had stylists and contracts with L'Oréal.
Sophia pressed both hands to her mouth. "Amara. Do you realize this is worth more than my rent? For the next two years."
I swallowed, My fingers trembled against the smooth fabric. It felt... dangerous. Like temptation woven into cloth.
"Try it on," Sophia breathed. "Try it on right now."
"I—what if it doesn't fit?"
"Shut up and wear it."
So I did.
Ten minutes later, I stepped out of the bedroom, the gown clinging to me like it had been born with me.
Sophia gasped so loudly I was certain the neighbors heard. She staggered back, clutching her imaginary pearls. "How did he—how does it—Amara, DID HE ASK FOR YOUR SIZE?"
I shook my head, mumbling, "No."
Sophia's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Then how... how did he get it this perfect?"
I didn't answer. Because honestly, I didn't know.
Instead, I turned to the mirror.
And I gasped too.
Because staring back at me was... me, yes. But not regular Amara. Not rent-stressed Amara. Not wig-slipping Amara.
This was a new version. A silk-draped goddess with curves hugged in all the right places, legs for days, and the kind of elegance that made me whisper under my breath:
"Damn. The outfit makes the person."
Later, Sophia fluttered around me like a stylist on a movie set. She powdered my face, lined my eyes, and brushed my wig into perfection. Every time she stepped back, she squealed.
By the time she was done, I didn't even recognize myself.
I wasn't just Amara anymore.
I was Amara, the fake Girlfriend of a Billionaire.
And soon, the world was going to see it too. Not the fake part of course.
The driver knocks on the door at exactly 4 while I'm still staring at myself in shock.