CHAPTER ONE: The Proposition

The storm had no business arriving in the middle of a Lagos afternoon. Yet, as Amara Obi stared out of her cracked window, the sky split open and wept like it knew her eviction notice was still pinned to the peeling paint of her door.

Three months behind on rent. Her commissions had dried up. Her last exhibit had been a disaster—her pieces unnoticed, her account drained, her pride kicked in the teeth.

She had one canvas left, half-finished, and nowhere to put it.

The knock came at 4:47 PM. Sharp. Measured. Nothing like her landlord’s usual fury.

She opened the door slowly, expecting threats.

Instead, a man in a crisp navy suit stood there, flanked by two intimidating men in black. The main figure was tall, sculpted, and disturbingly calm. His presence swallowed the narrow hallway.

"Amara Obi?" he asked, voice smooth like aged whisky.

"Yes…?"

"My name is Ezekiel Kalu. I’m here to offer you a business proposition."

She blinked. The name hit her like an electric jolt. Kalu—as in KaluTech? As in Forbes-list, cover-of-Entrepreneur-magazine, never-seen-smiling billionaire?

This had to be a prank.

"A business proposition?" she repeated warily.

"Somewhere more private," he said, glancing at the peeling wall behind her.

She almost laughed. "You think this is some sort of upscale lounge?"

Still, she stepped aside.

The moment he walked in, her tiny flat seemed to shrink. He remained standing, towering over her scattered paintbrushes and the broken mug she'd used as a water cup.

"I'm not here to waste your time," Ezekiel said, pulling out a file from his briefcase and setting it on her cluttered table.

"And I’m guessing this isn’t about buying art," she muttered.

He gave no smile, no nod—just unflinching eye contact. “My father passed away a month ago. His will has conditions.”

He flipped open the file. Inside was a marriage contract.

"Excuse me?"

She choked on air. “Are you insane?”

His face didn’t twitch. “The contract is legally binding. No physical intimacy required. We maintain appearances. After a year, we divorce. You keep the money, I secure my inheritance. It’s business.”

Amara walked to the window, heart pounding. The rain was harsher now, like it, too, wanted her to decide fast.

"Why me?"

“Because you’re discreet. Desperate. And no one will suspect this is a setup.”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came. He wasn't wrong.

"And if I say no?"

"You’ll still be evicted by Friday.”

Silence. The kind that stretched and coiled like a snake.

He didn’t plead. He simply adjusted his cufflinks.

Amara walked back, eyes scanning the contract. The numbers danced. So did the risk. Her name, pre-written. The clause: One year, cohabitation required, no intimate obligation unless mutually agreed.

She looked up. “This is insane.”

“Life is insane,” Ezekiel replied. “I’m offering control.”

He turned to leave. “You have 48 hours. My driver will wait.”

That night, as the rain stopped and the city lights flickered back to life, Amara opened her email to find something else—a scanned letter addressed to her, from a Mr. Benson.

It was her father's signature.

And the letter was dated three days before he vanished five years ago.

It bore the Kalu family seal.