The Marriage Clause

The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle by the time Amara managed to peel herself off the couch. The moment Ezekiel left her flat, it felt like oxygen had returned to the room—but not her mind. That part was still spinning.She walked slowly to her old laptop, still propped on the paint-splattered stool by her makeshift workspace. The screen glowed faintly, casting long shadows on the canvas she hadn’t touched in days.The email stared back at her, cold and surreal.From: bensonchambers@law.ngSubject: Private Letter from Ifeanyi ObiShe clicked on the attachment again, even though she’d already read it five times.There it was—her father’s handwriting, scanned perfectly. Every curve of the letters looked like him. Slanted, precise, as though each word was a small rebellion against the world.“If anything happens to me, go to the Kalus. They owe you more than they know.”Ifeanyi Obi. March 7, 2020.Amara covered her mouth with one hand as memories flooded in. Her father’s laughter. Th

Amara had never felt more overdressed or more underprepared.The ballroom of The Kalu Foundation Building shimmered in soft amber lighting, casting golden reflections across the marble floors and crystal chandeliers. Waiters in white gloves floated by with silver trays, and the clinking of glasses danced beneath a soft jazz band tucked neatly into one corner.She stood just outside the double doors, her breath caught in her throat.The dress Ezekiel had chosen fit her like liquid fire—deep emerald green, silk, with a thigh-high slit and backless design that made her feel entirely unlike herself. Diamonds sparkled at her neck and ears, foreign against skin that had rarely seen more than paint-stained shirts and secondhand jackets.Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her clutch.“Breathe,” Ezekiel said from beside her.“You breathe,” she snapped. “You were born into this circus. I just got dragged into the ring.”He smirked, amused. “You look powerful.”“I feel like I’m being fe

The double doors swung open, and Amara felt the weight of every gaze in the room snap toward her. The air was thick with perfume, ambition, and unspoken judgments. Ezekiel’s hand rested lightly on the small of her back, guiding her forward with a touch that was both possessive and performative. She straightened her spine, her heels clicking against the marble floor like a metronome counting down to chaos. The board members rose—some reluctantly, others with practiced smiles—as Ezekiel led her to the head of the table. A seat had been reserved for her, right beside him, with a name card that read *Amara Obi, Fiancée*. The word felt like a costume she hadn’t fully zipped up. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Ezekiel began, his voice smooth and commanding, “allow me to introduce Amara Obi, my fiancée.” The room murmured. Some clapped politely. Others, like Maya, seated near the center with a glass of red wine in hand, didn’t bother hiding their smirks. Her eyes locked onto Amara’s, sharp as a

Amara’s fingers trembled as she stared at the screen, the marriage certificate burning into her retinas. Ifeanyi Obi and Maya Kalu. 1995. The year before Amara was born. Her mother—the woman who’d raised her, who’d died when Amara was twelve—had never mentioned a previous marriage. Never hinted at a connection to Kalus. Yet here it was, in black and white, with Maya’s signature curling like a venomous snake.She slammed her laptop shut, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The study, with its towering bookshelves and cold leather furniture, felt like it was closing in. The folder Ezekiel had given her lay open on the desk, her father’s name scattered across pages like a ghost refusing to stay buried. Consultant. Payments. A photograph with Maya lurking in the background. And now this—a marriage certificate that rewrote everything Amara thought she knew.Was Maya her mother? The thought made her stomach churn. Maya, with her icy disdain and calculated cruelty, couldn’t be. But

The gunshot echoed in Amara’s ears as glass rained down like jagged confetti. She dropped to the floor, her hands shielding her head, the letter from her father clutched tightly against her chest. Ezekiel was beside her in an instant, his body half-covering hers as he scanned the room, his eyes sharp and predatory. “Stay down,” he hissed, his voice a low growl. Benson wasn’t so quick. He stumbled backward, his chair tipping over as he clutched his arm, blood seeping through his fingers. “They found me,” he gasped, his face pale with shock. “Who?” Amara demanded, her voice trembling but fierce. She crawled toward him, ignoring Ezekiel’s warning grip on her arm. “Who’s ‘they’?” Benson’s eyes darted to the shattered window, where the night air poured in, cold and unforgiving. “I—I can’t,” he stammered. “They’ll kill me.” “You’re already bleeding,” Ezekiel snapped, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it against Benson’s wound. “Talk, or I let you bleed out.” Ama