The boardroom smelled faintly of leather and coffee—clean, rich, expensive.
Amira Yusuf had never been inside a room like this. Every surface gleamed; even the silence sounded polished.
Across the table sat Leonardo King, the man who could decide her future with a single word.
He looked younger than the newspapers made him seem, but colder too—sharp cheekbones, grey eyes like uncut steel, a calmness that felt more dangerous than anger.
He slid a folder across the glass.
"That's the contract," he said. "Read it. Sign if you agree. Walk away if you don't."
The folder landed beside her elbow with a whisper. Her hand hovered above it, unsure whether to open it or run.
Inside lay the strangest proposal she had ever seen
Duration: One year.
Condition: No emotional attachment, no physical relationship.
Expectation: Appear in public as husband and wife.
Compensation: All her father's medical bills settled, plus an investment in the failing family business.
Amira's throat tightened. The letters blurred until she blinked hard. "You're serious about this?"
Leonardo leaned back in his chair. His expression didn't shift.
"I don't joke about business. My shareholders expect stability. A wife gives that image. You, in turn, get what you need—money."
He said it like he was ordering office supplies.
Amira pressed her palms together to stop them shaking. "You could marry anyone. Why me?"
"Because you're clean," he said. "No scandals, no paparazzi, no family looking to exploit me. And—" he paused, eyes narrowing— "you're desperate enough not to fall in love."
She flinched. He was right, but hearing it hurt.
Her father's hospital bills had drained everything. The last loan officer had smiled politely before saying no for the third time. She had pawned her late mother's wedding ring yesterday. There was nothing left to sell except herself.
Still, she asked, "You don't believe in love at all?"
A humorless smile touched his mouth. "Love complicates deals. I prefer things that can be signed and sealed."
"And what happens when the year ends?"
"We divorce quietly," he replied. "You walk away richer. I walk away free."
Amira looked down at the pen beside the folder. A single signature could save her father—and chain her to a stranger.
The city glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Lagos alive and indifferent. She imagined her father in that hospital bed, the slow beep of the monitor. You can fix this, Amira, a voice whispered. You just have to be brave once.
She lifted the pen. "If I sign, there's no going back."
Leonardo's eyes softened for half a heartbeat. "There never is."
The sound of the pen scratching her name seemed louder than traffic outside. When she finished, he reached for the folder, his cufflinks catching the light.
"Congratulations," he said. "You're now Mrs. King."
He stood and extended his hand. His grip was firm, steady; her fingers barely fit around his. For a moment she felt the heat of his skin, human beneath all that ice, and it startled her.
Then he released her. "My assistant will contact you about the wedding. Tomorrow, nine a.m. sharp. Dress appropriately."
No thank you, no smile—just instructions.
Amira gathered her bag and stood. Her knees wobbled, but pride kept her spine straight. "For someone who doesn't believe in love, you're very good at breaking hearts before breakfast," she said quietly.
Something flickered in his eyes, gone too quickly to name. "Careful, Mrs. King. Sarcasm isn't in the contract."
She left before he could see the tears threatening to fall.
Outside, the afternoon sun hit her face, hot and merciless. The city noises rushed back—horns, chatter, vendors calling—and she realized how small she was compared to this world she had just stepped into.
She walked to the bus stop instead of calling a cab, needing the noise, the people, something real. Her phone buzzed with a new message from an unknown number:
From Sophia (Mr. King's Assistant):
Wedding scheduled for Friday, 11 a.m. Venue: Private Garden, King Estate. Outfit will be provided. Welcome to the family.
Amira stared at the text until the words blurred again. A week ago, she had been a job-hunting law graduate. Today, she was engaged to one of the richest men in Africa.
She whispered to herself, "It's just a year. I can survive a year.
But deep down, something uneasy stirred—a feeling she couldn't explain. Maybe fear. Maybe curiosity.
Or maybe it was the quiet realization that deals written in ink can still bleed into the heart.