Chapter 2: The Contract

Chioma stared at the message until the letters blurred.

“Marriage. For six months. On paper only. A contract with no love allowed.”

She read it again. And again. The phone felt heavy in her hands, like it might burn her if she held it too long.

This had to be a scam. Some Yahoo boy trying to play with her emotions because she looked desperate. Lagos was full of men like that — they preyed on struggling women and disappeared with their money.

But the name… Emeka Okonkwo. That wasn’t a random name. That was the billionaire who owned half of Lekki Phase 1 and was on every business channel last week. His face was on billboards with the caption “Building Lagos, Building Dreams.”

Chioma’s thumb hovered over the block button. One tap and this would all disappear. She could go back to worrying about ₦300,000 and her mother’s hospital bill like normal.

Her phone buzzed again. Another message from Emeka: “I know about your mother at Lagos University Teaching Hospital. I know about the ₦300,000 rent due Friday. I know your shop at Balogun is your only source of income.”

Chioma’s blood ran cold. How did he know all that? Had someone been watching her?

She typed quickly, anger mixing with fear: “Who are you? How do you know about my mother?”

“I have people,” Emeka replied. “That’s not important. What’s important is that I’m offering you a way out. ₦10 million after six months. No questions asked.”

Chioma sank onto the steps outside the bank. People were walking past her, rushing to catch buses, arguing with hawkers, living their normal lives while her world had just tilted sideways.

₦10 million. That was more money than she’d seen in her entire life. Enough to pay Mama’s surgery bill with ₦2 million to spare. Enough to move her shop to a better location at Ikeja City Mall. Enough to never worry about rent again.

But marriage. Even if it was fake.

Her mother’s voice came to her mind from last night: “Chioma, I don’t want to be a burden to you, my daughter. If anything happens to me…”

Chioma couldn’t let anything happen to Mama. Not when she was the only family she had left.

“What’s the catch?” she typed. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped the phone.

Emeka’s reply came instantly: “Meet me at Oriental Hotel, 7pm. We’ll discuss the terms. Come alone.”

Chioma looked up at the sky. The Lagos sun was starting to set, turning the clouds orange over the high-rises of Victoria Island. In a few hours, she’d either walk into the biggest opportunity of her life or the biggest mistake.

She had no other options left.

“I’ll be there,” she typed back.

The three blue ticks appeared immediately.

Chioma stood up, slipped her phone into her bag, and started walking toward the bus stop. Her legs felt weak, but her mind was made up. If this billionaire wanted to play games with a broke shop owner from Surulere, then she’d play too. But she wouldn’t be the one who lost.

Not when her mother’s life was on the line.

The danfo bus she boarded was packed and hot, smelling of sweat and fried plantain from the vendor at the front. Chioma held onto the metal bar, staring out at the traffic on Ikorodu Road. Every few minutes she checked her phone, expecting Emeka to send another message or for this whole thing to turn out to be a prank.

Nothing came.

By the time she reached her small room in Surulere, it was 6:15pm. She had 45 minutes to get to Oriental Hotel on the Island. The traffic at this hour would be mad — but she couldn’t afford to be late.

She opened her small wardrobe and stared at her clothes. Everything she owned was either Ankara for the shop or simple cotton for home. Nothing fancy enough for a hotel where billionaires met.

In the end, she chose her best Ankara dress — the blue one with gold patterns that she wore to church on Sundays. It was clean, pressed, and the only thing that looked somewhat presentable. She washed her face, applied a thin layer of Vaseline to her lips, and tied her hair neatly with a headscarf.

This wasn’t a date. It was a business meeting. She had to keep reminding herself of that.

At 6:40pm, Chioma stood outside Oriental Hotel, looking up at the glass building that touched the clouds. The security guard at the entrance eyed her dress, then her sandals, and his expression said everything without words: You don’t belong here.

Chioma straightened her back. “I have an appointment with Mr. Emeka Okonkwo. 7pm.”

The guard’s eyes widened. He picked up his radio and spoke quietly. Thirty seconds later, the glass doors slid open automatically.

The air conditioning hit her like a cold wave. The lobby was so luxurious it didn’t feel real — marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and staff in black suits moving silently like they were in a movie.

“Penthouse suite,” the receptionist said after confirming her name. “The elevator is to your right.”

Chioma walked to the elevator with her head held high, even though her heart was beating so fast she was sure everyone could hear it. The gold doors reflected her image back at her — a young woman from Surulere about to step into a world she never thought she’d enter.

The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse.

Emeka Okonkwo was waiting.

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