Chapter Four: The Dinner Trap

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 fed to lions.”

He glanced through the glass doors ahead. “You are.”

Amara shot him a look, but he didn’t return it. His eyes were trained on the board members seated at the long banquet table inside. Twelve people. Twelve stakes in the company. Half aligned with Maya. The other half… undecided.

“Keep your head high. Smile only when necessary. Speak only when addressed. And don’t drink anything unless it comes from my hand,” he said.

“Paranoid much?”

“Cautious,” he corrected. “There are people in that room who’d kill my inheritance—and maybe even me—for a signature.”

“That’s comforting,” she muttered.

He turned to her fully then, and for a moment, the weight of his cold exterior cracked. “I need you to survive this. For both our sakes.”

Her stomach twisted.

He wasn’t being dramatic.

The doors opened, and the murmurs began immediately.

Cameras flashed. Heads turned.

As Ezekiel led her through the room with a hand light on the small of her back, Amara forced herself not to flinch. The warmth of his touch was the only thing anchoring her as she faced the devouring gazes of Lagos’ most powerful elite.

One woman at the table—older, sharp-nosed—leaned into another man’s ear and whispered something. They both chuckled.

“She’s beautiful,” said another, loudly. “But can she spell ‘merger’?”

Amara’s jaw clenched. She said nothing.

At the head of the table sat Chairman Adewale, a gray-haired former politician with a soft belly and steely eyes.

“Mr. Kalu,” he said as Ezekiel approached. “And this must be… the bride.”

“Fiancée,” Ezekiel corrected. “This is Amara Obi.”

“A pleasure,” Amara said, offering her hand.

The chairman took it gently and inspected her the way a farmer might inspect a goat he didn’t trust. “Artist, is it?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Though I hear tonight’s event might inspire a few surrealist paintings.”

A chuckle rippled down the table. Half polite, half mocking.

Ezekiel raised a brow at her. She had taken his “speak only when addressed” rule and lit it on fire.

She didn’t care.

They were testing her.

She planned to test them back.

They were seated mid-table, directly across from Maya.

Maya wore midnight blue, her hair swept into a tight chignon. She didn’t speak at first—just stared, swirling her wine, smile twitching at the corners like she knew something no one else did.

“You clean up well,” she finally said.

Amara matched her gaze. “So do wolves.”

Maya’s smile widened.

Chairman Adewale lifted his glass. “To the future of KaluTech—and its next generation.”

Everyone raised their glasses. Amara hesitated—until Ezekiel gently placed a fresh drink in front of her. She saw it come straight from the server to his hand.

He gave her a subtle nod.

She drank.

The food arrived in waves—caviar, roasted lamb, yam crisps shaped like roses. Amara barely touched her plate.

Beside her, Ezekiel remained calm. Immaculate.

But she could feel the tension radiating off him.

As the dinner stretched on, questions began to flow.

“How did you two meet?”

“Was it love at first sight?”

“When’s the wedding?”

“Where’s the prenup?”

Amara held her own. She smiled where necessary, threw in a sarcastic jab when it helped, and let Ezekiel handle the political answers. They worked as a team—not affectionate, but united. Every time Maya tried to needle, Amara met her eyes and said nothing.

That, somehow, was worse.

By dessert, she felt the tide shifting.

Until—

A waiter stepped forward and whispered something into Chairman Adewale’s ear.

The chairman frowned.

“What is it?” Ezekiel asked.

The chairman motioned, and a file was brought to the table. He opened it, scanned it, and then passed it to Ezekiel.

Amara caught a glimpse—photos. Of her.

Taken two weeks ago. Her in front of her crumbling flat. Carrying canvases. Arguing with her landlord.

Someone had dug up her entire life.

Maya sipped her wine with smug delight.

“Seems our bride has a history of unpaid debts and a temper,” the chairman murmured. “Did you vet her properly, Ezekiel?”

Amara’s throat went dry.

Ezekiel didn’t flinch. He scanned the file, shut it, and passed it back.

“Yes. I did.”

“She’s broke,” another board member said.

“So was I,” Ezekiel replied. “Until I wasn’t. We’re marrying, not merging bank accounts.”

“But what if she’s after more than money?”

Amara finally spoke. “You think I’m marrying him for love?”

A silence fell over the table.

She met every pair of eyes, unflinching.

“Please. Let’s not pretend any of you believe in that. This is business. I’m here to help him win. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

Maya laughed, slow and elegant. “At least she’s honest.”

Amara turned to her. “You should try it sometime.”

Gasps. Stifled chuckles. A low whistle.

The chairman raised a brow. “Spirited one, isn’t she?”

Ezekiel placed a hand over Amara’s, squeezing lightly. It was the first time he’d touched her that way.

It steadied her.

“She’s what the company needs,” he said. “Fresh perspective. Fierce loyalty. And zero ties to the old power games.”

“You’ll need more than loyalty to lead,” Maya said coldly.

Ezekiel looked at her. “We’ll see about that.”

The dinner ended with a tense air of civility. Half of the board shook Amara’s hand. The other half avoided her entirely.

Outside, in the waiting car, Amara slumped into the leather seat.

“What the hell was that?” she asked.

“A test,” Ezekiel replied.

“Did we pass?”

“We survived.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

He chuckled once—dry, tired. “No. It’s not.”

She turned to him. “They had photos of me. My landlord. My debts.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Do you think it was Maya?”

“I know it was Maya.”

Amara exhaled. “I think I hate her.”

Ezekiel stared out the window. “Good. You’ll need that.”

Back at the mansion, Amara walked into her assigned bedroom—grand, sterile, and cold.

But on the bed was something she hadn’t expected:

A single envelope. No stamp. No address.

Just her name, scrawled in a shaky, familiar hand.

She tore it open.

Inside was a photo—her father. Sitting beside a younger version of Maya Kalu.

On the back:

“Trust no one. Not even him.”