Chapter 5

Zara didn’t expect peace when she came downstairs, but she also didn’t expect the bomb her father was about to drop. The living room was filled with cheerful voices—Chief Kareem’s deep laugh, her mother’s polite chuckles, and her father’s barely hidden pride. Everyone was drinking tea like it was a regular Sunday morning.

Until her father cleared his throat and said, “We’ve decided the wedding will be next month. Just enough time for proper preparations.”

Zara froze.

Kemi’s voice in her head whispered breathe, but it was already too late.

“Excuse me?” she said aloud, blinking like she’d misheard.

Her father didn’t even look at her. “You heard me. It’s final.”

She stood, heart pounding. “And I don’t get a say? You’re just going to marry me off like—like some business deal?”

Chief Tunde’s eyes snapped to hers, hard and warning. “Zara. Sit down.”

“No,” she said louder now. “You can’t just decide my future without me!”

Chief Kareem’s smile stiffened. Mrs. Tunde looked away, pretending to sip her tea. Regan, sitting too casually across the room, just watched her. Calm. Too calm. That smug look again, like he was already ten steps ahead of her.

Chief Tunde slammed his hand against the arm of the chair. “You will marry Regan, Zara. This is not a debate!”

The words hit like gunshots. Zara’s throat tightened, but she refused to cry in front of them. Not this time.

She turned sharply and stormed upstairs, her blood boiling, her skin hot with humiliation. They were selling her off like a peace offering. Like her dreams meant nothing. She didn’t even look back when her mother called after her.

Later that day…

Zara sat on the cold floor of her room, back pressed to the bed frame, phone cradled between her shoulder and ear. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her T-shirt as Kemi’s voice buzzed through the line.

“Okay, you want revenge? Fine. Let them plan the damn wedding. We’re going to blow up your modeling career behind their backs.”

Zara let out a short, dry laugh. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is. There’s a big photoshoot next weekend in Lekki. Influencers, photographers, stylists—all of them. I already signed you up under a fake name. All you need to do is show up.”

She chewed her lip, torn between fear and excitement. “What if someone finds out?”

“Then we deny, deny, deny. And if that fails, we blame Regan. He looks like a villain anyway.”

Zara actually chuckled. “You’re insane.”

“I’m your best friend,” Kemi said sweetly. “Let them play their game. We’ll play ours.”

That night…

There was a knock on her door. Not a loud one, just soft and deliberate.

She opened it to find one of the staff holding a sleek black bag with gold embroidery. No words, no explanation.

Inside: four designer outfits, matching heels, luxury makeup products. The kind of stuff that sat behind glass walls in boutiques she only dreamt of entering. And tucked into the corner, a white card with sharp black handwriting:

You’re not the only one living a double life.

Zara’s pulse spiked.

She stared at the message, unease prickling her skin. Someone knew. Someone was watching. And she had a feeling who that someone was.

She didn’t wait.

Fueled by anger and confusion, she stormed down the hallway barefoot, card in hand, heart pounding like a drum. If this was another sick joke from Regan or his father, she was going to end it tonight.

Without thinking, she swung open Regan’s door.

And stopped.

Dead.

He was standing by the bed, steam still rising from his skin, towel low on his hips. Water glistened across his chest, dripping from his hair. His hand paused mid-motion, drying his arm with another towel. His brows lifted slowly when he saw her.

Zara blinked.

Opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Her voice cracked. “What… what the hell?” she stammered, spinning around so fast she nearly tripped. “I didn’t—I mean—you could’ve—why the hell is your door unlocked?”

Regan’s voice was calm. Too calm. “I don’t usually lock it. Not used to people barging in.”

She held up a shaky hand, eyes squeezed shut. “Just… put on some damn clothes, God!”

A pause.

A slow, deliberate pause.

Then came the soft sound of a drawer opening.

“You came into my room, Zara. Not the other way around.”

She stiffened.

Then turned her head halfway, still looking away but now with her chin up.

“Uhmm—point of correction,” she snapped. “My father’s house. Don’t forget.”

A low chuckle rumbled behind her. “Touché.”

She didn’t wait for him to get dressed completely. She tossed the card onto the bed with a flick of her wrist, still not turning fully. “You’re the only snake I know with access to luxury clothes. Just answer me—what the hell are you hiding?”

There was silence. Heavy and cold. She could hear the rustle of fabric as he pulled on a shirt.

Then footsteps behind her.

She felt his presence at her back, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.

His voice was low, smooth, and deadly confident.

“You sure you want to play this game, Zara? Because I never lose.”

Her breath hitched.

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t answer.

She just walked out, leaving the door wide open behind her.