I waited until the next evening to contact him. Not because I was ready, but because I needed the whole 48 hours to gather myself, my thoughts, and most importantly — my questions.
Damian answered the call on the second ring.
"Amara," he said, like he already knew it was me.
"I want to meet you again," I said. "I have questions."
"Same café?"
"Yes," I replied. "6 PM."
He didn't argue. "I'll be there."
When I arrived, he was already seated. This time, two cups of coffee were on the table.
"You look more awake today," he noted.
"I came prepared," I said, sitting down. "And thanks for the coffee, but I'll pay for mine."
He pushed the cup closer to me. "Consider it part of the conversation."
I exhaled and opened my tote bag, bringing out a small notebook. As someone who loves writing notes — school subjects, thoughts, plans — it felt safer to have everything written down.
"Ask," he said.
I didn't waste time.
"What exactly is this role I'm playing?"
"What happens after 12 months?"
"Is there a penalty if either of us wants out early?"
"Do I get a lawyer to look at this?"
"And most importantly… why are you doing this?"
He listened without interrupting. Then he took a slow sip of coffee and answered in order:
"You'll be introduced as my wife publicly, nothing more, nothing less. No bedroom expectations tied to this agreement."
"After 12 months, we go our separate ways. The marriage dissolves quietly. No headlines, no fights."
"If anyone wants out early, we renegotiate. No penalty unless someone breaks confidentiality."
"Yes, you can get a lawyer. In fact, I insist on it."
Then he paused at the last question.
"Why?" I repeated.
He looked at me properly — really properly this time.
"My family business is forcing a marriage I don't want. I need someone strong enough to handle pressure, smart enough not to embarrass us both, and discreet enough to walk away when it's over."
I frowned. "So I'm your escape plan?"
"No," he corrected. "You're my solution. And I'm yours, if you choose it."
The café door chimed behind us as people walked in and out. For the first time since this started, I felt like I had control of the conversation, not the other way around.
"So basically," I said slowly, writing in my notebook, "we're helping each other out of different storms."
"Exactly," he replied.
I closed the notebook and finally looked at him without fear, suspicion still there but softer now.
"Thanks for answering," I said. "I'll take the paper home again. My lawyer will see it. Then I'll give you a final answer."
He nodded. "Fair."
Then, almost casually, he added: "You're stronger than you think, Amara."
Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn't. But I was finally thinking again.
And that was progress.