The wedding was nothing like the romantic fantasies I'd read about. There was no music, no flowing flowers, no golden glow of candlelight. Just a small civil office, sterile walls, a clerk shuffling papers, and two witnesses who seemed more interested in their phones than the solemnity of the occasion.
I sat stiffly in my simple white dress, feeling like a mannequin displayed for judgment rather than a bride entering a marriage. My hands twisted nervously in my lap. My stomach churned, my heart hammered, and I wondered if I'd made the right decision.
And then there was Jamal.
He stood tall, immaculately dressed, the perfect image of composure and power. His presence filled the room, heavy, magnetic, almost suffocating. I wanted to look away but found myself unable to. Even with the papers between us, he radiated authority, control, and… something else I couldn't name.
When the clerk asked if we understood the terms of the contract, I nodded, my voice dry. "Yes."
"Yes, sir," I added automatically, the words tasting strange on my tongue.
Jamal glanced at me briefly, his dark eyes assessing, calculating. "I hope you understand the rules," he said softly, the faintest edge of warning beneath the calm. "No emotional attachments. No secrets. We maintain appearances. That is all."
"Yes, sir," I whispered again. My throat was tight.
And just like that… we were married.
The ride home was silent, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows. I couldn't stop thinking about what I had just agreed to, six months of being bound to a man I barely knew. A man who was frightening in his perfection, terrifying in his control, and utterly… captivating.
The penthouse was enormous. Too enormous. Polished marble floors reflected every movement, floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of Lagos, and furniture gleamed like art rather than something to live on. I felt small, invisible, and hopelessly out of place.
Harper, Jamal's assistant, gave me a polite tour of the rooms I would rarely enter: the office where Jamal spent endless hours, the library lined with leather-bound books, the gym that seemed larger than my apartment at home.
"This is your room," Harper said finally, gesturing to a bedroom that looked more like a five-star hotel suite than a personal space. "You'll have everything you need. Meals, schedules, tasks will be arranged."
I nodded silently, my hands shaking slightly as I looked around. Everything here screamed perfection, wealth, and power, all things I was painfully aware I did not belong to.
Once Harper left, the silence of the penthouse settled over me like a heavy blanket.
Jamal appeared in the doorway. Tall, imposing, his sharp suit pressed and perfect, he leaned against the frame, studying me. Every glance from him felt like it was meant to read my soul.
"You're settling in well?" he asked, voice calm, measured.
"I… I think so," I replied, trying to sound composed. My voice sounded small in the vast, silent space.
He handed me a folder. "This is your schedule. Tasks, meetings, responsibilities. I expect professionalism, Arata. Nothing else."
I flipped through the papers, my mind spinning. Reports, corporate meetings, tasks I barely understood, routines that felt foreign. My chest tightened with a mix of anxiety and awe.
"Don't worry," he said quietly. "You'll learn. You're capable."
His words struck me. Nobody had ever said that to me so calmly, so assuredly. His tone didn't demand obedience, didn't belittle. It was simple recognition, and it hit me harder than I expected.
The first night was impossible. The room was vast, the silence deafening. My mind replayed the day over and over: the contract, the wedding, the long drive, the intimidation, the magnetic pull of a man I was supposed to keep at arm's length.
And then there was him.
By morning, exhaustion and anxiety clung to me. I dressed carefully, trying to appear normal as I stepped into the shared spaces.
Jamal was already in the kitchen. His presence was calm but commanding. "Good morning," he said, his voice low, almost intimate.
"Morning," I whispered, my heart thudding.
The days that followed were a delicate balance of routine, silence, and subtle observation. Meals were shared but rarely conversational. Work and schedules dominated our time. Yet, beneath the structured professionalism, I noticed small cracks in his icy demeanor:
• A faint smile when he thought I wasn't looking.
• A careful question about my comfort or preferences.
• Eyes lingering a moment too long when I passed him in the hallway.
Every detail, every gesture, felt charged. My pulse betrayed me, though I tried to pretend it did not.
By the end of the week, I realized two things: I was slowly adapting to this life, and I was… noticing him.
And that scared me more than I cared to admit.