DARA'S POV
The thing about agreeing to be a billionaire's fake fiancée is that the universe suddenly assumes you're prepared for nonsense.
I wasn't.
By 6:45 p.m., I was standing in front of the mirror wearing the black dress that was given to me. knee-length, simple, but extremely beautiful I was afraid to ruin it just screaming in my head, "I tried, please don't disgrace me."
My makeup was light.
My hair, freshly straightened by the stylist I was taken to, he framed my face in a way that made me look like I had my life together even though the only thing together was the beautiful black dress holding my life at that moment.
I kept repeating to myself:
It's just one month.
One contract.
One merger.
No emotions.
No touching unless necessary.
No falling in love.
Simple.
Until I saw him.
Kamsi's driver picked me up and took me straight to the CEO's penthouse the place where the pre-dinner briefing would happen.
Before the driver even pressed the doorbell, the door opened as if Kamsi had been waiting.
And then I forgot how lungs worked.
Black suit.
Black shirt.
No tie.
Top button undone.
Beard trimmed to dangerous perfection.
Shoulders built for trouble.
Eyes darker than Lagos electricity bills.
He looked at me once…
Head to toe…
Slowly…
Like he was memorizing me.
His voice dropped an octave I didn't know existed.
"Dara."
Just my name.
But suddenly the dress felt too tight.
"You look…" He paused, searching for the right word.
I held my breath.
"…prepared."
Prepared.
Not beautiful.
Not stunning.
Prepared.
God, why am I doing this?
He stepped aside and gestured for me to enter. "Come in. We need to go over the conditions before the dinner."
Ah, yes.
The contract.
The rules.
The emotional handcuffs.
His penthouse was a mixture of glass, steel, and money.
Minimalist but tasteful.
Cold… until he walked into the room and suddenly everything felt warmer.
We sat across from each other at his kitchen island.
He slid the contract toward me again.
"Let's review the rules verbally," he said. "Just so we're clear."
His voice was steady.
Mine was still boarding a flight from shock.
"Rule one: professional boundaries. No real emotions."
I nodded. "Of course."
He studied my face too intently.
"Good."
"Rule two: physical contact only when necessary. No… extra."
Extra.
The way he said it made my skin warm.
I cleared my throat. "Yes. Only necessary touching."
"Rule three: public affection will be controlled and planned. If I put my hand around your waist, it's part of the act."
Hand on my waist?
My brain started writing fan fiction.
"Understood," I managed.
"Rule four," he continued, leaning in slightly.
"No jealousy."
I blinked. "I'm not a jealous person."
"Good," he said, though something in his eyes looked unconvinced.
"Because tonight, a lot of people will try to get my attention. It's… normal."
Normal?
If any woman hugged him for too long, I wasn't sure what part of me would react but I didn't like the possible options.
"Rule five," he said quietly.
"No falling in love."
That one hit me right in the diaphragm.
It wasn't the words.
It was the way he said them.
Controlled.
Firm.
Like he was reminding himself, not me.
I tried to sound unaffected.
"No problem."
His gaze softened.
For a second.
A flash.
"I don't intend to hurt you, Dara," he said suddenly.
"I want this to be clean. Easy. Mutually beneficial."
His voice…
Soft but guarded.
Warm but cautious.
Like someone who had loved before
and gotten burned deeply.
The realization tightened my chest.
"I know," I said.
We both looked away.
Too much honesty in the air.
He broke the silence first.
"We should practice."
"Practice what?" I asked.
He stood.
I stood too.
Mistake.
We were suddenly too close.
He lifted his hand slowly.
Gave me time to move.
I didn't.
His fingers brushed my waist
barely
and my breath tangled itself.
"This," he murmured, voice lower than the Lagos thugs at midnight.
"This is how I'll hold you tonight."
My pulse sprinted.
His hand was warm.
Firm.
Gentle.
Terribly illegal.
"And this," he continued, taking my hand in his,
"is how we'll walk into the press dinner."
The air between us changed.
Thick.
Charged.
As if someone turned up gravity.
I swallowed.
He heard it.
"We good?" he asked softly.
I should have said yes.
Or stepped away.
Or broken the spell.
But instead
I whispered, "We're good."
A knock on the door broke everything.
His driver.
"Sir, the car is ready."
Kamsi stepped back immediately, professionalism snapping back into place like armor.
"Let's go," he said.
But his eyes lingered on me for just one heartbeat too long.
And that tiny moment…
That one-second pause…
Told me something neither of us was allowed to say yet.
This contract was already dangerous.
And we hadn't even left the house.
KAMSI'S POV
If anyone had told me a week ago that I'd willingly involve myself in a fake engagement with a woman who wasn't part of my carefully planned life, I would have fired them on the spot.
Yet here I was, standing in my penthouse, adjusting a shirt I never cared to adjust before, waiting for a woman who had already disrupted my life more than the board, the media, and my ex combined.
Dara.
I heard her before I saw her the soft straightening of a simple dress, the quiet inhale of someone trying not to appear intimidated.
But then she stepped inside… and the world tilted.
Black dress.
Soft makeup.
Hair falling around her face like it was made for my hands to touch.
She looked nothing like the Lagos socialites I was used to.
She looked real.
Unpolished.
Honest.
Dangerous.
"Dara," I said.
I didn't plan for my voice to drop that low.
Didn't plan for the warmth in my chest.
Didn't plan for anything, apparently.
She looked up at me with those wide, unsure eyes… and something inside me tightened sharply.
I scanned her slowly.
Not because I wanted to
but because I couldn't stop myself.
She was trying.
Trying hard.
Trying to impress.
Trying not to seem out of place.
That effort alone…
It did something ugly and protective to me.
"You look… prepared," I said, grabbing the safest word before anything else slipped out.
Prepared.
Not breathtaking.
Not distracting.
Not beautiful in a way that made my discipline fold in half.
She exhaled disappointed.
I felt the sting in her silence.
I shouldn't care.
But I did.
I led her in, trying hard to keep distance between us.
The penthouse suddenly felt too small, too warm, too aware of her presence.
I sat down.
She sat opposite me.
Like a negotiation table.
Like a battlefield.
I slid the contract over.
"Let's review the rules."
I needed structure.
Boundaries.
Walls.
Because something told me Dara would accidentally walk through all of them.
Rule one: No emotions.
I watched her eyes when I said it.
She agreed too quickly.
Rule two: No physical contact unless necessary.
My gaze drifted to her lips when she raised her chin.
I forced myself to look away.
Rule three: Public affection must be strategic.
She nodded… but her ears turned red.
How does someone blush that easily?
Rule four: No jealousy.
I watched her carefully.
Women always got jealous.
Always.
But Dara?
Her eyes flickered, but she held firm.
Interesting.
Rule five: No falling in love.
This one I said for myself.
And I meant it.
The last thing I needed was complications.
I'd been down that road.
I paid the price.
My heart learned discipline the hard way.
She didn't flinch at the rule.
If anything, she seemed relieved.
Good.
I needed her distant.
Predictable.
Safe.
Then came the worst part.
Practice.
I reached for her waist.
Slowly.
Carefully.
My hand inches away from her body.
Her breath hitched.
Just touching her felt like crossing an invisible line.
Her waist was warm.
Soft.
Alive beneath my palm.
Her body stiffened… then relaxed into me.
I felt it.
All of it.
Her nervousness.
Her awareness.
Her trust.
It took every shred of discipline I had to stay composed.
"We good?" I asked, pretending like my pulse wasn't betraying me.
She whispered, "We're good," in a voice that almost made me forget every rule.
A knock interrupted us.
Thank God.
I stepped back so fast I almost got dizzy.
Distance.
Control.
Professionalism.
I needed all of it.
As we walked to the door, I stole one last glance at her.
Not at her body.
Not at her dress.
Her face.
And the insane thought hit me
If I wasn't careful, I could like this woman.
Which meant one thing:
This fake engagement needed to end cleanly.
Before she become too real.
Before I become too invested.
Before the rule I said out loud become the rule I failed to keep.