The Wedding Nobody Wanted

The ceremony took eleven minutes.

No cathedral. No white gown. No guests except two witnesses, Tobi and a registry clerk who kept glancing between the bride and groom as though she were trying to decide which of them was more frightening.

Ada wore a cream dress she had bought that morning and a face she had spent an hour painting into calm. Damian wore the same black suit as at the funeral.

"Do you take this man," the registrar began.

"I do."

"I haven't finished the sentence."

"I do," Ada said again, and the clerk gave up.

When it was Damian's turn, his voice did not waver. "I do."

Two words. No emotion. And yet something in the way he said them made the hair on Ada's arms stand up.

"You may kiss the bride."

Ada froze.

The contract said public contact only. The contract had not mentioned this.

Damian stepped closer. She could smell his cologne, something clean and cold like rain on stone. He lifted one hand, slowly enough that she could have stopped him, and rested two fingers under her chin.

"Look at me," he murmured, so low that only she could hear. "Pretend."

"I am pretending."

"Then pretend better."

His mouth brushed hers.

It was brief. It was barely a kiss at all. But it hit her like a current under the skin, a bright, unwelcome jolt that left her lips tingling and her heartbeat tripping over itself.

He stepped back as if nothing had happened.

Ada hated that she wanted to touch her mouth to check.

* * *

The Okafor residence sat behind iron gates in a quiet street in Ikoyi, three storeys of pale stone and tall windows, lit up like a ship at night.

"Welcome home," Damian said flatly as the car stopped.

"This is not my home."

"For twelve months it is."

A line of staff waited in the hallway, a housekeeper, a driver, two maids, a gardener. They bowed their heads in perfect unison. Ada felt like a guest at her own execution.

"This is Mrs. Bankole," Damian said, nodding at an older woman with kind eyes and a severe bun. "She runs the house. Anything you need, ask her."

"Welcome, ma," Mrs. Bankole said.

"Thank you."

"Dinner is at eight. Your room is ready."

My room. Ada followed her up a sweeping staircase, past a hall lined with portraits of stern men in stiff collars. At the end of the corridor, Mrs. Bankole paused beside a heavy wooden door at the far end of the west wing and lowered her voice.

"Madam, I will say this once. The east wing is closed. Please do not go there. Please."

"Why?"

But the housekeeper only shook her head and hurried away.

* * *

The dinner was a disaster.

It began well enough. Damian sat at the head of a table long enough to seat twenty, and Ada sat at the other end, and for ten minutes they ate in absolute silence while a candle flickered between them.

Then the front door slammed.

"Where is my daughter-in-law?"

The voice rolled down the hall like thunder. Ada knew it before the speaker appeared in the doorway. She had seen that face on billboards, in company brochures, in the background of photographs from her father's old business days.

Chief Emeka Okafor.

Seventy years old, broad-shouldered, silver at the temples, with a smile that did not touch his eyes. A gold ring on every finger. A cane he did not seem to need.

"Father," Damian said, rising. "You were not invited."

"A man does not need an invitation to his son's wedding night." The Chief swept into the room and took Ada's hand in both of his. "Ah. So this is the bride."

"Chief Okafor," Ada said carefully.

"Please, call me Father." He bent and kissed her hand. His lips were dry. His grip was iron. "I am so very sorry for your loss."

Ada's pulse hammered. "Thank you."

"Samuel Bello was a good man. Foolish, but good."

"Foolish?"

"He trusted the wrong people." The Chief released her, his smile deepening. "Many do."

Behind him, in the doorway, a woman leaned against the frame with her arms folded. She was tall and flawless, in a red dress that cost more than Ada's annual salary, with the cool, appraising stare of someone assessing a rival.

"Vivian," Damian said, and his voice went carefully neutral. "I didn't know you were coming."

"I wouldn't miss it." Vivian Adeyemi swung her gaze to Ada and let it travel slowly from her face to her shoes and back. "Is this really what you chose over me, Damian?"

"Vivian."

"I'm only asking." She smiled, bright and brittle. "Congratulations, darling. I do hope it lasts longer than twelve months."

The room went still.

She knows about the contract.

Ada's eyes flicked to Damian. His jaw had gone rigid. He had not told anyone. He had said so, in the contract, in clause nineteen. Nobody was to know.

And yet.

"That's enough," Damian said. "Both of you will leave."

"We are family," the Chief said smoothly. "We stay for dessert."

It was the longest hour of Ada's life. The Chief talked about business, about Lagos, about the weather, with every word polished and meaningless, while Vivian watched Ada over the rim of her glass like a cat watching a bird.

When it was finally over, the Chief rose and kissed Ada on both cheeks, and as he did, he leaned in so that his mouth was a breath from her ear.

"You have your father's eyes," he whispered. "What a pity."

Then he was gone, cane tapping, with Vivian trailing behind him in a cloud of perfume.

Ada stood frozen in the empty dining room, her heart pounding, the echo of those four words ringing in her ears.

What a pity.

Not what a gift. Not how lovely.

What a pity.

Like a man looking at something he had already decided to destroy.