Chapter Two: The Seal

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: [e-mail]

Subject: Private Letter from Ifeanyi Obi

She 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. The way he hummed Fela songs when he cooked. The night he left for “a quick trip” and never returned.

No one had ever found him. The police closed the case within three weeks. “Adult disappearance. No foul play confirmed.”

But now—this letter.

And Ezekiel Kalu.

She reached for her phone instinctively. It buzzed just as her fingers brushed the screen. A message. Unknown number.

Ezekiel: I assume you've seen the letter. It changes nothing. The offer stands.

She jerked back.

How the hell did he know?

She hadn’t told anyone about the letter—not Chioma, not even the neighbors. Had he planted it? No. It was her father’s real signature. She would bet her soul on it.

Before she could reply, another message arrived.

You have 24 hours now.

Not forty-eight?

Her heart picked up speed. A shorter deadline? Why? What game was this?

She called the number. It rang once.

Disconnected.

“Bastard,” she muttered, slamming the phone down.

Amara paced her small apartment. Her slippers squeaked against the wet tiles, and her thoughts screeched louder.

She didn’t believe in coincidences, not when it came to the Kalus. Not after what she remembered. Not after her father’s warning, hidden until now.

Could her father’s disappearance be tied to them?

Did Ezekiel know more than he was saying?

She considered going to the press—but laughed at the idea. What would she say? “A billionaire asked me to marry him and also may have something to do with my missing father?”

They’d laugh her out of every newsroom. Worse—they’d say she was desperate, looking for attention or money.

And maybe she was desperate. But she wasn’t stupid.

She reopened the contract and read through it slowly this time. Every clause was meticulously written. No touching. No romantic obligation. No inheritance claims after divorce. NDA enforced.

₦100 million.

Her rent was ₦220,000. She owed two million in debts. She hadn’t had electricity in four days.

The numbers made her head hurt.

And her father’s name—it glowed in the background like a warning and a map at once.

She picked up her phone again, this time calling the only person she could trust.

“Chioma?” she whispered.

“Amara? Babe, you sound like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I think I just did.”

There was a pause. “Talk to me.”

Amara hesitated. “What would you do if a billionaire offered you ₦100 million to marry him for one year, no sex, no romance, just… appearances?”

Chioma, as expected, screamed.

“₦100 million? Babe! Marry him today! This night! With ring pop sef!”

“I’m serious.”

“I am too! Who is this billionaire?! Send me his LinkedIn, let me apply!”

Amara chuckled, but her voice faltered. “It’s Ezekiel Kalu.”

Dead silence.

“…Wait, the KaluTech guy?”

“Yeah.”

“Why you?”

Amara paused. “I don’t know yet. But my father… he left a letter. Said the Kalus owe me.”

Another silence.

Chioma spoke carefully this time. “Babe, are you saying this might be connected to your dad’s disappearance?”

“I don’t know.” Her throat tightened. “But I need to find out.”

“You think marrying this guy will give you answers?”

“No. But being close to him might.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Amara exhaled. “Then I’ll take the money, disappear, and finally breathe again.”

There was a long pause. Chioma’s voice softened. “I’ll support whatever you decide. Just… don’t let him break you.”

“I won’t,” Amara whispered.

The next day, at exactly 3:12 PM, a black Mercedes pulled up to her compound. Same driver, same intimidating aura.

The driver rolled down his window. “Miss Obi?”

She nodded.

“Mr. Kalu is expecting you.”

Amara stepped into the car with nothing but her handbag and a folder of documents—birth certificate, national ID, and a photo of her father, folded carefully in a paper she’d once scribbled on as a child.

As the car sped through Lekki’s bustling roads, her heart raced faster than the raindrops sliding down the window.

They drove past billboards with Ezekiel’s face.

“Innovation. Power. Legacy.”

The irony wasn’t lost on her.

They stopped in front of a towering mansion in Banana Island, the gates taller than anything she’d seen in person. Security guards with guns, a biometric scanner, and camera drones all waited silently as the gate creaked open.

She stepped out slowly.

The mansion was more fortress than home—steel and glass, with sharp corners and no warmth.

Ezekiel stood on the front steps, arms crossed, dressed in another expensive suit that somehow made him look like a king and a warden all at once.

“You came,” he said simply.

“I haven’t signed anything yet,” she replied.

“You will.”

He turned and walked inside without looking back.

She followed.

The walls inside were bare. Cold marble. Clean art. No family photos. No laughter. No humanity.

They entered a room that looked like a boardroom—long table, glass windows, contract waiting.

“Why did you send that letter?” she asked, sitting down.

He blinked. “I didn’t.”

“But you knew about it.”

He didn’t deny it. “It’s not relevant to our deal.”

“It’s relevant to me.”

“Then investigate it on your own time,” he said, cold and final. “Right now, I need your decision.”

She stared at him.

“You get married a hundred times a day in this country. Why me?”

“Because you don’t trust me,” he replied. “And that’s exactly what I need.”

The room chilled.

Amara reached for the pen.

Just as she was about to sign, the door burst open.

A woman stood there—tall, elegant, and furious.

“You’re making a terrible mistake,” she spat at Ezekiel.

Then she turned to Amara with eyes full of disdain.

“And you… don’t even know who he really is.”