Novels by Awoyode Dolapo

If anyone had told me that being married to a billionaire would mean spending most of my time dodging conversations, I would’ve laughed. But that’s exactly what it was like with Adrian, like living in a house made of glass where every word had weight and and could shatter everything. The morning started like most others. I poked at my cereal, trying not to look at him too long. The clink of his spoon against the coffee cup was the only sound between us. He looked tired like he’d been carrying a hundred silent things around and forgot to put them down. He was sitted across me scrolling through something on his tablet. I cleared my throat. “Do you ever take a day off?”. The words came out smaller than I meant. He didn't look up, "From what?" “From all this" I waved vaguely He finally looked at me amused, “Is that a complaint, Mrs. Kingsley?” I winced. “You really like using saying that" He smirked faintly. “You started it.” “I did not—” I began, but then stopped wh

“A house can be perfect, but it’s the small, clumsy moments that make it feel like home.” Three weeks. That’s how long it had been since the wedding. Since I moved into the palace that Adrian called “home.” Three weeks it was since my life became a strange rhythm of piano notes, half-finished breakfasts, and the sound of his footsteps disappearing down the hallway before dawn. You’d think living with someone meant knowing them. But Adrian Kingsley was a tough riddle to be solved written in silk and steel and I was just beginning to learn the alphabet. The first thing I had to get used to was the silence. No traffic noise. No neighbors arguing. No roommate humming off-key. Just air-conditioning hums and the faint scent of the garden. The second thing? The staff. They were polite, efficient, and unsettlingly good at appearing and disappearing like ghosts. I once sneezed, and before I could grab a tissue, one had magically appeared on the counter. “Do they live here?” I whisp

If I had known that Sunday brunch with my family would feel like a full-blown interrogation, I might have faked a fever. Or a trip to Mars. But my mother’s text was as impossible to ignore as always: Mom: “You and your husband must come over this weekend. Everyone’s is excited to meet him!” Me: “Everyone?” Mom: “Yes. And you don't have any reason to say no, you shouldn't even try to.” So now, I was sitting at my parents’ dining table, the same one that had seen countless Sunday roasts, birthday cakes, and awkward silences, watching my mother slice roast chicken like she was dissecting my life choices. Adrian slid into the chair beside me, calm as ever. His posture was unnervingly straight with his shirt neat and sleeves rolled just so... Every movement made was measured He looked like he’d stepped out of an expensive magazine and into my family’s chaos. “So,” my mother said, setting down her knife with a delicate clink, “tell us about yourself, Adrian.” Adrian smiled

“Sometimes the smallest smile can feel like a key opening ". I don’t know when I started watching him like this ;quietly, secretly, as if the entire world had shrunk to the distance between us. It’s only been three days since we signed that marriage certificate. Three days since I said yes to a stranger. But every time I look at him, my husband I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve known him before. That I should remember something. That this wasn’t as random as it seemed. first morning after our “official” move-in, I woke up to the faint sound of piano music echoing through the house. Soft but hesitant, almost like the person was playing to remember, not to perform. For a second, I thought I was dreaming until the scent of coffee hit me. I got up, tiptoeing barefoot to the doorway, my robe half-tied. Adrain, still in his shirt from last night, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his fingers brushing across the piano keys. Morning light spilled through the window and caught his fac

“Married life of my kind starts with silence, i think.” If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be spending my first night in a billionaire’s house as his wife, I would’ve laughed maybe cry in disbelief. But here I was, Mrs. Adrian Kingsley standing awkwardly in the middle of a living room so big holding a toothbrush I’d just bought from a convenience store. The night stretched out in a quiet tension. The city lights sparkled through the tall windows like silent witnesses. Adrian hadn’t said much since the paperwork was done just the occasional, perfectly polite question about dinner or allergies. He didn’t need words to fill a room; his presence did that on its own. “Do you usually look that tense when you’re standing still?” he asked suddenly, his tone so casual it made me jump. I turned to find him leaning against the doorway, jacket off now, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. “I’m not tense,” I lied quickly, clutching the toothbrush like a weapon. “I’m just… processing.” Hi

“This is really happening. I’m actually doing this.” The morning sunlight cut through the windows of the penthouse, reflecting off the polished surfaces It should have felt luxurious, like a dream I’d walked into but all I felt was dread. Today, the blindest of my impulses was becoming official or to say Legal and irrevocable. I sat on the edge of the sofa, my knees bouncing like they had a mind of their own. The folder on the coffee table stared back at me, my fingers trembling nervously, and running didn’t even make sense; there was nowhere to run to. This was Adrian’s world now. And apparently… my life, too. Adrian appeared from the kitchen, dressed in a suit as if he had been born in it. His presence filled the silent room without him even speaking making my heart pound. “You look nervous,” he said, his voice low, almost teasing. “I..I'm not,” I lied, straightening my back and pretending to adjust my hair. “Totally calm. Just… ready.” He raised an eyebrow. “Ready.” T