I should have known it was real the moment I signed the contract. But it didn't fully hit until I stood in front of the mirror in a borrowed cream gown, a bouquet of lilies in hand, and a heart heavier than stone.
No friends.
No family.
Just me, Damien, and a cold legal ceremony in a private hall that smelled more of polished wood and expensive cologne than celebration. There was no aisle. No love songs. Just a registrar flipping papers and asking if I "solemnly swore" to take a man I barely knew as my lawful wedded husband.
"I do," I said, my voice more steady than I felt.
Damien barely looked at me when he repeated the words. His tone was flat, uninterested, like someone reading from a business memo.
By the time the documents were signed and the registrar offered a polite, "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Odukoya," I felt more numb than relieved.
We were married.
On paper.
In name.
For a year.
The car ride back to the Odukoya mansion was silent, except for the low hum of the AC and the occasional buzz of Damien's phone.
He didn't acknowledge me. Not once.
Not when I entered the car. Not when the staff opened the gates and welcomed us "home." Not when I stumbled slightly on the marble steps of his towering estate.
It wasn't until we reached the grand bedroom—our bedroom—that he spoke.
"You'll sleep on the left side," he said. "I wake up at 5 a.m. sharp. Don't expect conversation."
"Noted," I replied, keeping my tone just as flat.
He looked around the room, then glanced at me. "If you ever speak to the media, leak a photo, or pretend this is anything more than business… the contract is void."
I bristled. "I'm not interested in fame or attention."
"Good. Then we'll get along just fine."
He turned and left, leaving me alone in a room fit for royalty. Crystal chandeliers. Silk sheets. A walk-in closet that looked like a mini boutique. And yet I'd never felt smaller.
I sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the bouquet like it could anchor me to reality. Was this what I'd become? A woman married to a stranger for money? A walking secret?
I wasn't even ashamed.
I was exhausted.
Because when your younger brother is on the verge of dying, pride becomes a luxury you can't afford.
The next morning, I woke up before Damien.
Or maybe he never slept.
He was already dressed in a crisp charcoal suit, adjusting his tie in front of the floor-length mirror. His features were unreadable—sharp like a statue, distant like a winter sky.
"You'll come with me to the board dinner tonight," he said without turning. "We'll be seated together. Smile. Laugh once or twice. Be charming."
"Understood."
"You'll wear something black. Elegant. Not flashy."
"Got it."
"And don't drink more than one glass. People will be watching."
"I can handle myself, Damien."
He finally looked at me, and for the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes—surprise? amusement? Annoyance? I couldn't tell.
"You better," he said, then walked out.
I called Ifeoma later that morning, pacing in my new bedroom, feeling like a prisoner in a golden cage.
"So… how's married life?" she asked in a singsong tone.
"Quiet. Cold. Awkward."
"Well, you didn't marry him for his warmth."
"No, I married him so Deji could live."
There was a pause.
"You're doing the right thing, Zara. I know it doesn't feel like it now, but this deal will save lives—yours, your brother's. You just have to survive it."
I nodded, swallowing hard. "Any news from the hospital?"
"Treatment starts tomorrow. The ₦3 million already cleared."
Relief swept over me like a crashing wave.
"He's going to be okay," I whispered.
"He is," she replied gently. "And so will you."
By 6 p.m., I was dressed in the most elegant black gown I'd ever worn—courtesy of Damien's stylist, who dropped off six designer options before disappearing like a ghost.
The dress fit like it was sewn into my skin. Simple, off-shoulder, with a high slit that hinted more than it revealed. I wore minimal jewelry, slicked my hair into a low bun, and applied lipstick the color of quiet confidence.
Damien didn't say anything when he saw me.
He just gave a subtle nod, then offered his arm.
I took it.
Not because I wanted to.
Because the cameras were already waiting.
The board dinner was held in an upscale private restaurant in Ikoyi, with candlelight, low jazz music, and enough money in one room to build a hospital.
Damien introduced me as "his wife."
The men looked impressed. The women looked suspicious. And every word out of my mouth felt like it was being weighed, measured, and judged.
I smiled.
Laughed at jokes that weren't funny.
Commented on art pieces I didn't understand.
Played the part of the doting wife.
But beneath the polished surface, my thoughts drifted to Deji—how he used to tease me about marriage, how he'd laugh if he saw me now. Married to Nigeria's most emotionally unavailable billionaire.
Halfway through dinner, Damien leaned toward me and whispered, "Well done."
I blinked.
Was that… praise?
"Thanks," I said softly.
His eyes lingered on me for a second longer than necessary, then he turned back to his wine.
By the end of the night, I was exhausted. Pretending was harder than I thought. Every smile cost energy. Every nod required calculation.
Back at the mansion, I peeled off the gown and stepped into a steaming bath. For ten minutes, I let myself breathe. Let my shoulders drop. Let the silence fill me like oxygen.
And then—out of nowhere—I heard a knock.
It was soft.
Tentative.
I wrapped myself in a robe and opened the door.
Damien stood there, still in his suit, his jaw tense.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," he said quickly. "I just wanted to say… you were impressive tonight. Better than expected."
I blinked, caught off-guard.
"Thanks," I said again, unsure what else to say.
We stood there awkwardly.
Two strangers married by paper.
United by circumstance.
Bound by desperation.
"Good night," he said eventually, then turned and walked away.
I closed the door, heart pounding for no reason I could explain.
The next few weeks blurred into routine.
Fake smiles at family brunches.
Polite small talk at corporate events.
Brief morning conversations about schedules and public appearances.
Damien never crossed the line. Never touched me. Never pried into my life. And yet, somehow, I felt like he saw more of me than anyone else ever had.
He noticed when I didn't eat.
When my smile was strained.
When I stared too long at nothing.
One afternoon, I received a call from the hospital—Deji had a rough reaction to one of the chemo drugs. Nothing critical, but they needed consent to switch medications. I rushed to my room, trembling as I signed the documents digitally.
When I came out, Damien was standing by the window, his hands in his pockets.
"Your brother?"
I nodded.
"He'll be fine. You're doing everything right."
It was the first time he'd offered comfort. The first time he spoke with warmth.
I almost cried.
But I didn't.
I nodded and whispered, "Thank you."
Later that night, I found a small envelope on my bedside table.
Inside was a receipt for an anonymous donation to the hospital—₦5 million.
No note.
No signature.
Just quiet, invisible help.
That was Damien Odukoya.
Cold on the outside.
But maybe—just maybe—not entirely made of ice.