The morning of the wedding dawned too bright, too cruel. Sunlight sliced through the curtains of the guest suite at The Palms like it was trying to expose every lie we'd built. I stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring at the woman in white who looked nothing like me.
The gown was a masterpiece—ivory lace over soft chiffon, off-the-shoulder sleeves that whispered elegance, a train long enough to make a statement. Chioma had cried when she helped zip it up, whispering, "You look like a queen, Ada. Even if it's pretend."
Pretend. That word tasted bitter now.
Downstairs, the ballroom had been transformed into a fairy-tale version of Lagos luxury: white roses everywhere, gold accents catching the light, a string quartet playing soft highlife tunes. Guests filled the seats—business associates, distant family, a few curious socialites who'd come for the gossip. No one from my side except Chioma and a couple of aunties who'd been paid off with promises of "family support."
Kian's side dominated. His father at the front, looking pleased as if this were a merger closing. His mother absent—rumor had it she disapproved of "the help's daughter" even if the help had become indispensable.
I walked the aisle alone. No father to give me away; he'd been too weak to leave the hospital bed. Chioma squeezed my hand at the start, then stepped aside.
Kian waited at the altar in a charcoal suit that made him look like sin wrapped in silk. His eyes tracked every step I took, unblinking. When I reached him, he offered his hand. I took it because I had to.
The officiant spoke words about love and commitment that felt like mockery. We repeated vows that weren't ours—stolen from some script, empty as the promises he'd broken five years ago.
"Do you, Adanna Okoye, take this man..."
I hesitated. Just a second. Long enough for Kian's fingers to tighten around mine in warning.
"I do," I said, voice steady despite the storm inside.
He said the same. No hesitation. No emotion.
Rings slid onto fingers—his platinum band simple, mine heavy with diamonds that felt like shackles. The officiant pronounced us husband and wife.
Kian lifted my veil slowly, like he was unwrapping something fragile. Our eyes locked. For a moment, the room disappeared. It was just us—two people who'd once dreamed of this day for real, now playing at it for survival.
He kissed me again. Softer this time. Less performative. His lips lingered, tasting of champagne and unspoken apologies. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed my cheek—almost tender.
The crowd applauded. We turned, smiled, waved like the perfect couple.
But as we walked back down the aisle, his hand at the small of my back, he leaned close and murmured, "You hate this as much as I do."
I shot him a sideways glance. "Then why do it?"
He didn't answer. Not then.
The reception was a blur of toasts, forced laughter, and photos that would plaster tomorrow's society pages. I danced with him once—the first dance, slow and intimate under the spotlight. His hand on my waist burned through the fabric.
"You still smell the same," he said quietly. "Vanilla and rain."
My heart stuttered. "Don't."
"Don't what? Remember?"
"Don't pretend this is real."
He spun me out, then pulled me back in closer than necessary. "Who says I'm pretending?"
I searched his face for the lie. Found only shadows.
Later, when the guests thinned and the music slowed, Chioma pulled me aside in a quiet corner.
"Ada, are you okay? Really?"
I forced a smile. "It's just a year. I'll survive."
She hugged me tight. "If he hurts you again, I'll burn his empire down myself."
I laughed—genuine this time. "Noted."
Kian found me minutes later. "Time to go."
We left in a shower of rice and cheers, climbing into the waiting Bentley. The drive to his penthouse in Banana Island was silent. Rain had started again—Lagos' favorite soundtrack.
The elevator ride up felt endless. When the doors opened to his sprawling apartment—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lagoon, minimalist furniture that screamed wealth—I froze.
He shrugged off his jacket. "Your things are in the guest suite. Second door on the left. You have your own space. No pressure."
I nodded, throat tight. "Good. Because there won't be any."
He studied me for a long moment. "Ada... about five years ago—"
"Don't." I cut him off. "We agreed. Business only."
He exhaled sharply. "Fine. But one rule: no secrets in public. We present a united front. Always."
"Deal." I turned toward the hallway.
"Ada."
I paused.
"If you ever need anything—anything at all—my door is open."
I didn't look back. "I won't need you, Kian. Not like that."
I closed the guest room door behind me, leaned against it, and let the tears come. Silent. Hot. For the girl who'd once believed in forever with him. For the woman who'd just sold her future to save her family.
Outside, the rain pounded harder.
And in the quiet, I heard him—still in the living room—pour a drink. Glass clinking. A heavy sigh.
Maybe he wasn't as cold as he pretended.
Maybe neither was I.
But tonight, the walls stayed up.
Tomorrow? Who knew.
End of Chapter 3