DARA'S POV
When Kamsi said, "My family wants to meet you,"
what my brain heard was:
Prepare for war.
Because Nigerian families especially wealthy ones don't "meet."
They interrogate, evaluate, scan, and x-ray your destiny.
And judging by the mansion we drove into that Sunday evening, this family didn't play small.
The Okwara residence wasn't a house.
It was an entire geographical location.
A compound with a fountain taller than my future and a gate so big it could block village gossip for generations.
Inside, everything gleamed
marble floors, walls decorated with art that probably cost more than my mother's full hospital history.
"This is a lot," I whispered to myself.
Kamsi glanced at me.
"You okay?"
"No," I muttered. "But I'll pretend."
"Good," he said, offering his arm.
"You're getting better at pretending."
The small smile on his lips made my stomach flip.
Were we still talking about the engagement… or something else?
Before I could decode that, the door opened and a woman who could only be his mother walked in.
Elegant.
Tall.
Expensive.
Eyes sharp enough to cut diamonds.
She looked at me from head to toe like she was scanning for spiritual signatures.
"So," she said. "This is the woman you're marrying?"
I froze.
Kamsi didn't.
He stepped slightly in front of me, voice respectful but firm.
"Mum, this is Dara."
I smiled.
A polite, please-don't-eat-me smile.
She blinked once.
Slowly.
"Hmm."
Just "hmm."
Not good.
Not bad.
Just the kind of "hmm" Nigerian mothers use when they're trying to figure out which prayer point you require.
Before the silence could choke me, someone ran down the stairs like an excited tornado.
A girl, maybe twenty-one wearing oversized glasses and a grin too bright for the Okwara palace.
"Daraaaa!" she squealed.
I blinked. "Do I… know you?"
She laughed.
"Nope! But I've seen your pictures online and I already like you."
She hugged me before I could prepare.
I melted into the hug partly because she was sweet,
mostly because I needed oxygen that wasn't filled with judgment.
"That's my little sister, Nnenna," Kamsi said with something close to fond annoyance.
"She's beautiful!" Nnenna declared.
"Better than those fake fiancées Aunt Ngozi kept trying to set you up with."
His mother shot her a warning glare.
Nnenna ignored it.
I liked her immediately.
The dining room was set like a royal banquet—long table, candles, plates arranged with military precision.
I sat beside Kamsi.
His mother sat across, watching me like I might steal the cutlery.
"So, Dara," she said, voice cool.
"What do your parents do?"
I swallowed.
"My mother is retired. And my father passed."
"Oh."
She said it like she was marking a scorecard.
"And what do YOU do?"
"I work in operations," I replied, feeling small under her gaze.
"At BlackShield?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am."
"So you're… staff."
Staff.
As if it was a contagious disease.
Before I could respond, Kamsi reached under the table and squeezed my hand.
I nearly levitated.
"Mum," he said, tone low.
"Dara is not defined by her job."
She raised a brow.
"Everything is defined by something, Kamsi."
The tension was so thick you could slice it and serve it with stew.
Nnenna leaned toward me and whispered,
"Don't mind her. She judged my last boyfriend because he drove a Corolla."
I choked on my water.
His mother continued,
"And how did you two meet?"
I panicked.
This wasn't in the contract.
We didn't rehearse this part.
But before I could invent a fairy tale, Kamsi answered smoothly:
"She tripped. I caught her."
Nnenna gasped.
"That's so cute!"
His mother frowned.
"Very un-CEO-like."
"It was instinct," Kamsi replied.
"Anyone would've done the same."
"No," his mother corrected.
"You wouldn't have wasted time on someone who could blackmail you with a scandal."
My stomach dropped.
But Kamsi's voice became ice.
"Dara didn't blackmail me."
"Then why accept the engagement?" she pressed.
He looked at me.
Like really
At me.
He looked like he saw something only he understood.
"Because she's genuine," he said quietly.
"And I trust her."
I swear the room went silent.
Even the AC paused.
His mother studied us both… then finally nodded.
"We will see," she said.
Dinner continued—awkward questions, judgmental pauses, disapproving eyebrow raises.
But every time I looked flustered, Kamsi brushed his hand against mine under the table.
A silent reassurance.
A quiet "I'm here."
When dinner ended, Nnenna dragged me upstairs to show me her painting collection.
Halfway up the staircase, she whispered:
"You know… I've known my brother all my life… and I've NEVER seen him look at someone the way he looks at you."
My heart tripped.
Just like I did when this whole mess started.
I swallowed. "He doesn't look at me in any special way."
Nnenna smirked.
"Oh, Dara. You have no idea."
KAMSI'S POV
I should've canceled dinner.
The moment the announcement slipped from my mother's lips
"Bring your fiancée on Sunday"
I knew the evening would be a battlefield disguised as a family gathering.
My family doesn't "meet."
They assess.
They evaluate.
They dissect.
Then they decide.
And Dara…
She's too soft-hearted for that kind of scrutiny.
Too honest.
Too unfiltered.
Too… real.
Which is why, when the black SUV pulled into my parents' compound and she whispered, "This is a lot,"
I almost told the driver to turn around.
Instead, I offered her my arm
something I've never done for any woman in my life.
And when she took it…
her hand trembling just a little…
something in my chest tightened.
She shouldn't affect me like this.
But she does.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Inside the house, my mother's eyes landed on her like a scalpel.
I knew that look.
I've seen it all my life.
It's the look she gives anything — or anyone — she considers unworthy of the Okwara name.
Dara didn't cower.
She didn't shrink.
She smiled.
Soft.
Polite.
Hopeful.
And I hated how much I wanted to protect that smile.
When my mother said that "hmm,"
I felt Dara go still beside me.
So I shifted forward, blocking some of the scrutiny.
An instinct.
Pure reflex.
That scared me more than anything.
Then Nnenna flew down the stairs like the cure little sister she is.
Thank God for her.
Dara's shoulders dropped in relief.
She even laughed and hell, that sound did something to me I wasn't prepared for.
Dinner was worse than expected.
My mother asked question after question, each one carefully designed to undermine.
To test.
To push.
Dara answered with dignity.
But when my mother said,
"So you're… staff."
something inside me snapped.
I felt Dara stiffen.
Her hand twitched under the table.
Before she could speak, I took her hand.
She froze — but she didn't pull away.
Her hand was small in mine.
Warm.
Alive.
And that single touch…
made my voice colder than I intended when I said:
"Dara is not defined by her job."
The look my mother gave me was a warning.
A reminder of expectation.
Legacy.
Duty.
But I wasn't thinking about legacy.
I was thinking about the way Dara looked down at her lap
like she thought she wasn't enough.
And I hated that.
More than I should.
Then came the question we didn't plan for:
"How did you two meet?"
Dara panicked.
I saw it in her eyes.
So I answered.
Honestly.
"She tripped. I caught her."
And for a moment
just a fraction of one
I let myself remember the feel of her body in my arms.
Soft.
Shaken.
Warm.
Something I haven't been able to forget.
My mother didn't approve.
Of course she didn't.
But when she asked why I chose Dara
why I accepted this engagement
I looked at Dara.
She wasn't pretending then.
Her eyes were questioning.
Nervous.
Vulnerable.
Brave.
So I said the truth.
Or the part I could explain.
"Because she's genuine. And I trust her."
The room fell silent.
My mother searched my face for a lie.
Found none.
And didn't like it.
She nodded only because she had no choice.
But the moment Dara left with my sister,
my mother leaned in and said quietly:
"She will complicate things, Kamsi."
I didn't respond.
Mostly because…
she was right.
Dara is a complication.
But when she came back downstairs, smiling at something Nnenna said,
I realized something terrifying:
I didn't mind the complication.
Not even a little.