The billionaire Lagos bride book

Chapter 4: The Dance of Deception

​The morning sun in Ikoyi didn't scream like it did in Mushin; it didn't come with the sound of generators and neighbors arguing over water. Instead, it filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the guest suite like a silent, golden intruder. Amaka lay in the middle of the king-sized bed, her body aching in places she didn't know existed. The "refinement" of the previous day had left her soul feeling bruised, but there was no time for self-pity.

​A sharp knock at the door startled her. Before she could answer, Marcus stepped in, looking as though she hadn't slept a day in her life.

​"Up," Marcus commanded. "The choreographer is here. Mr. Sterling's parents expect a traditional waltz at the engagement gala. If you step on his toes in front of the Lagos elite, the scandal will be the end of this contract."

​Amaka groaned, sitting up. "A waltz? Marcus, I grew up dancing to Afrobeats in the street. I don't know anything about a waltz."

​"Then you had better learn fast," Marcus said, tossing a pair of silk training slippers onto the bed. "And put these on. Mr. Sterling is waiting in the ballroom. He decided to join the session today to ensure you aren't... 'hopeless.'"

​The ballroom was a vast expanse of polished white oak and crystal chandeliers that hung like frozen rain from the ceiling. At the far end, Alexander stood with his hands in his pockets, his back to the door. He had traded his suit for a black turtleneck and slacks, looking less like a CEO and more like a predator at rest.

​The choreographer, a small, nervous man named Julian, hurried over. "Ah, the future Mrs. Sterling! Come, come. We must find your rhythm."

​For the first hour, Julian tried to teach Amaka the steps. One, two, three. One, two, three. But Amaka felt like a wooden doll. Her feet felt heavy, and her mind was elsewhere-thinking about the 5 million Naira she had sent to the hospital and whether Chidi had eaten breakfast.

​"Stop," Alexander's voice rang out, cold and sharp. He walked toward them, the sound of his shoes echoing like a heartbeat. "Julian, leave us. I'll handle this."

​Julian bowed and scrambled away, leaving Amaka alone with the man who owned her year.

​"You're overthinking it," Alexander said, stopping right in front of her. He was so close she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "You're treating the dance like a chore. It's not a chore, Amaka. It's a performance. You have to convince the world that you want to be in my arms."

​"Maybe I'm a bad actress because I don't want to be in your arms," Amaka shot back, her chin tilted up defiantly.

​Alexander's eyes narrowed. Without a word, he reached out and grabbed her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. Amaka gasped, her hands instinctively flying up to rest on his broad shoulders. The heat from his body seeped through her thin training clothes, making her skin prickle.

​"Follow my lead," he whispered, his voice vibrating against her forehead.

​He began to move. Unlike Julian, Alexander didn't count. He simply moved with a brutal, graceful efficiency. Amaka had no choice but to follow. If she didn't move, she would fall. If she didn't lean into him, she would lose her balance.

​"Relax," he murmured. "Your heart is beating like a trapped bird. If you're this stiff tomorrow, everyone will know this is a lie. They will see the Mushin girl under the silk gown."

​"Is that all I am to you?" Amaka asked, her voice trembling as they spun across the floor. "A project to be managed? A lie to be told?"

​Alexander slowed his pace, but he didn't let go. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the mask of the ruthless billionaire slipped, and Amaka saw a flash of something else-something dark and lonely.

​"In Lagos, Amaka, everyone is a lie," he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "The politicians, the billionaires, the socialites. We all wear masks to survive. You're just learning how to wear yours. This contract isn't just about money; it's about protection. My parents want me married to keep the board of directors happy. You need the money to keep your mother alive. We are two people using each other to survive. Don't make it more complicated than it is."

​"And what happens when the year is over?" Amaka whispered. "When you take off the mask, who is left?"

​Alexander stopped moving entirely. His hand on her waist tightened for a split second before he abruptly let go. The sudden loss of his warmth made the air-conditioned room feel freezing.

​"No one," he said coldly. "There is no one left. Now, again. From the top. And this time, try to look like you love me."

​They spent the next three hours dancing in silence. Every time their bodies touched, Amaka felt a surge of something she didn't want to name. It wasn't love-it couldn't be. It was the adrenaline of the lie. It was the danger of the man.

​By the time the session ended, Amaka was exhausted. She walked to the edge of the room to grab a bottle of water, but her eyes caught sight of a small, leather-bound book sitting on a side table near Alexander's discarded jacket.

​Curiosity, her greatest weakness, won. She opened it. It wasn't a notebook; it was a photo album. Inside were pictures of a younger Alexander, smiling-actually smiling-next to a beautiful woman with a gentle face. She looked nothing like the "models" Marcus usually brought around.

​"What are you doing?"

​Alexander's voice was like ice. He was standing right behind her.

​Amaka jumped, nearly dropping the book. "I... I just saw it. Who is she?"

​Alexander snatched the book from her hand, his face pale with rage. "That is none of your business. Your contract covers your presence in this house, not your curiosity into my past."

​"She looks like she actually cared about you," Amaka said softly, braving his anger.

​"She's dead," Alexander snapped, his eyes flashing with a pain so raw it made Amaka flinch. "And she is the reason I don't believe in anything that isn't written on a legal document. Do not touch my things again, Amaka. Stick to the script, or I'll find someone who can."

​He turned and stormed out of the ballroom, leaving the heavy doors to slam shut behind him.

​Amaka stood in the center of the vast, empty room. She looked at her reflection in the mirrors-the messy hair, the silk shoes, the girl who was slowly disappearing into a billionaire's shadow. She realized then that Alexander Sterling wasn't just a cold man; he was a broken one. And broken things were the most dangerous of all.

​She walked to the window and looked out toward the Lagos lagoon. She was 4,800 words into her new life, and for the first time, she wasn't just afraid for her mother. She was afraid for her heart