The courtroom smelled like old leather and burnt dreams. Amara Evans sat on the cold bench, knees pressed together, hands trembling in her lap. The judge's voice echoed through the chamber as if sealing the coffin of her past.
"Divorce granted."
Those two words ended her five-year marriage, one built on nothing but pain, betrayal, and disappointment. Her now ex-husband didn't spare her a glance as he stormed out, his lawyer trailing behind like a shadow.
Amara didn't cry.
Not because she wasn't broken. She was. But her tears had dried up long before today.
Outside, the sky opened up, releasing a torrent of rain like it was mourning with her. She didn't have an umbrella. She didn't have a home. Her parents had disowned her when she married against their will, and the man she chose turned out to be a monster.
At twenty-four, she was alone, broke, and starting over.
"Miss Evans?"
She turned at the sound of her name. A man in a charcoal suit, sharp as a blade and just as cold, stood beside a sleek black car. He held a black umbrella over his head, not caring that she was getting drenched.
"Yes?" Her voice was hoarse.
"I'm here on behalf of Mr. Zayn Callahan. He asked me to deliver this."
He handed her a cream envelope, sealed with gold foil. Amara stared at it, water dripping from her eyelashes. "What is it?"
"A proposal."
He didn't wait for her to respond. The car door opened and closed, and he was gone.
Amara ripped the envelope open with trembling fingers. Inside was a letter written in bold, clinical print:
Miss Evans,
I require a wife. You require money. Let's not pretend this is anything more than business.
Marry me. Stay for one year. Fulfill a few public appearances. In return, I'll clear your debts and deposit ten million naira into your account upon completion.
Say yes, and we sign the contract tomorrow.
— Zayn Callahan
Her breath caught.
Zayn Callahan.
CEO of Callahan Holdings. The youngest billionaire in the city. Cold. Arrogant. Rumored to be heartless. And the same man who had once ruined her father's company without blinking.
She had hated him for years.
Now he wanted her to be his wife?
Was this some kind of cruel joke?
But then she remembered the eviction notice on her apartment door, the job interviews that ended in rejection, the empty bank account, and the sleepless nights. Pride was a luxury she could no longer afford.
And hatred… well, it didn't pay bills.
The next morning, she walked into Callahan Towers in a secondhand blouse and worn heels. The receptionist barely looked at her before pointing to the elevator.
Floor 55.
The top.
When the elevator doors opened, she stepped into a world that smelled like power and polished marble. The walls were lined with sleek art pieces. The silence was thick, broken only by the click of her heels.
And then she saw him.
Zayn Callahan stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, hands in his pockets, tailored suit clinging to every muscle like it had been stitched by the gods. His black hair was perfectly combed, and his eyes—icy gray and emotionless—met hers without flinching.
"You came."
"I read your letter."
He turned slowly, walking toward her like a lion surveying prey. "And?"
"I have questions."
"Ask."
"Why me?"
"You're desperate. And you hate me. That makes things simple."
Her brow furrowed. "You want a wife who hates you?"
"I want a wife who won't expect love."
Amara swallowed.
"Why do you need a wife?"
Zayn's jaw tightened, just barely. "To close a merger
"So I'm a prop," she repeated, her voice quieter now.
He gave a slow nod. "But one that gets paid well."
Amara hesitated. "I'm not a toy, Mr. Callahan."
He walked past her, picked up a folder from the polished glass desk, and held it out. "That's the contract. You can read it."
She opened it with trembling fingers. The clauses were clear: No physical relationship required. Public appearances mandatory. Discretion absolute. One year, ten million naira. No early exit without forfeiture.
"Clause ten," she muttered. "'No falling in love.'"
Zayn didn't flinch. "Feelings complicate business."
"And if I refuse?"
"You walk out that door, and I'll never contact you again. But I know you won't."
Her fingers clenched the paper. "You're arrogant."
"I'm realistic." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You're out of options, Amara. But I'm offering you one."
She hated that he was right.
She hated more that she was considering it.
"One year," she said slowly. "No more."
"One year."
"No touching."
He smirked. "You're not my type."
She signed the papers.
As she lowered the pen, a strange chill slid down her spine. She had just sold herself—her name, her freedom, her image—to a man who had destroyed her father's legacy and felt nothing about it.
And now she was his wife.
The wedding was private and fast.
No chapel, no flowers, no family.
Just signatures, a silver ring, and Zayn's expressionless face beside her as the officiant declared them husband and wife.
"You may kiss the bride," the man said.
Amara turned her cheek before Zayn could move. He paused, then leaned in and whispered, "Smart."
After the ceremony, he led her to a waiting car. Inside, a diamond-studded bracelet sat in a velvet box.
"What's this?" she asked.
"A gift. For public display."
She stared at it but didn't touch it. "Do you always buy your wives jewelry?"
"You're my first," he said without emotion. "And my last."
They arrived at a penthouse that overlooked the city skyline—sleek, modern, and too cold to feel like home. The walls were glass and silence. No photos. No warmth.
"This is your room," he said, opening a door at the end of the hall. "We won't share."
"Good."
"Breakfast is at seven. We'll dine together for appearances. After that, you're free to live as you please, as long as you play your part when needed."
"And what do you do all day, Mr. Callahan?"
He gave her a sharp look. "I build empires."
Amara watched as he walked away, the door shutting softly behind him.
She sat on the edge of the plush bed and exhaled. The sheets smelled like lavender and steel. Her reflection stared back at her from a full-length mirror—same eyes, same scars, but something had changed.
She was no longer Amara Evans, the girl who begged for love.
She was now Amara Callahan, the woman who had married the devil.
And the world would watch.
But they wouldn't see her break.
Not this time.