Chapter 3: The Signature

Emeka’s penthouse smelled of expensive cologne and leather. The Lagos skyline stretched behind him through floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights beginning to flicker on like stars.

“You’re early,” he said, his voice low and measured. He wasn’t smiling.

Chioma stepped inside, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield. “I don’t like being late.”

Emeka walked past her to the glass table where a thick document lay with a gold pen on top. “Have a seat, Miss Adeyemi.”

Chioma didn’t sit. “Don’t call me that. Call me Chioma.”

Emeka’s eyes were dark and unreadable. “Fine. Chioma. Read the contract before you sign anything. My lawyer drafted it.”

Chioma picked up the first page. The legal terms made her head spin — confidentiality clauses, non-disclosure agreements, financial penalties for breach of contract. But the key terms were simple: six months, separate residences, public appearances only, ₦10 million after divorce, and no romantic relationship during the contract period. Violation meant immediate termination and no payment.

Chioma closed the contract, her fingers trembling against the glossy paper. “Why me? There are thousands of women in Lagos who would kill for this opportunity. Beautiful women. Educated women. Women from your own social class.”

Emeka was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the skyline. “Because you didn’t ask for money when I sent the first message. You asked who I was and how I knew about your mother. That tells me you have integrity. That’s rare in this city.”

She thought of her mother in the hospital bed at LUTH, tubes in her nose, breathing with difficulty. She thought of the landlord’s warning text from this morning: Pay by Friday or I change the lock. She thought of her empty shop at Balogun with unsold Ankara fabrics gathering dust in the corner.

Chioma took the gold pen. The metal felt cold against her palm. Her hand trembled as she signed her name on the dotted line: Chioma Adeyemi.

Emeka signed right after her with a smooth, confident stroke. The pen made a soft scratching sound that echoed in the silent room. “It’s done,” he said, placing the contract in a black leather folder and locking it in the drawer. “We’ll announce the engagement to the press tomorrow morning.”

“What do I call you now?” Chioma asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Emeka put the pen down. For the first time, something like a smile touched his lips — but it didn’t reach his eyes. “In public? My husband. In private?” He paused, studying her face. “Mr. Okonkwo. Don’t forget it, Mrs. Okonkwo.”

Chioma’s heart skipped. Mrs. Okonkwo. The words felt foreign and heavy on her tongue, like wearing someone else’s clothes.

The door clicked open behind her. A woman in a designer suit walked in — tall, beautiful, with perfect makeup and heels that probably cost more than Chioma’s monthly rent.

“Emeka, darling,” the woman said, wrapping her arms around him from behind. “I heard you had a guest. I didn’t know you were entertaining this early.”

The woman’s eyes slid to Chioma and narrowed, sharp as glass. “And who is this?”

Emeka didn’t pull away from the woman’s embrace. Instead, he pulled Chioma closer to his side and put his arm around her shoulders, his grip firm and protective.

“This,” Emeka said firmly, his voice carrying authority, “is my wife.”

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