I woke up to the scent of cedarwood and something distinctly masculine.
Damien.
My eyes fluttered open to pale morning light filtering through sheer curtains. I was still in his bed, the sheets tangled between us like threads we couldn't unwind.
He was already awake.
Lying on his side.
Watching me.
I tensed instinctively. "What time is it?"
"Seven."
His voice was low, husky with sleep.
I sat up too fast, embarrassed. "I should go."
"You didn't snore, if that helps," he said casually, reaching for his phone.
I ignored the warmth spreading across my cheeks. "Last night was… a mistake."
He arched a brow. "Nothing happened."
"But it could've," I muttered, sliding off the bed.
There was silence.
Then his voice—measured, careful.
"Would that have been so bad?"
I froze halfway to the door.
"I'm not your wife," I said quietly. "Not really."
He didn't respond.
And that silence felt heavier than any argument.
I avoided him for most of the day.
I told Mrs. Ayoola I'd be working from the second-floor study, but truthfully, I just needed space.
Time to breathe.
Time to figure out why a moment of stillness beside a man I barely knew felt more intimate than anything I'd had with my late fiancé.
Deji had been warm.
Damien was ice.
And yet, it was Damien's presence I couldn't stop thinking about.
By noon, I was on a video call with the Foundation's director, who gushed about the upcoming literacy drive in Ajegunle.
"We'd love for you to be our keynote speaker," she said.
I hesitated. "Me?"
"You've got charisma," she smiled. "And the kids adore you. Besides, with your husband's backing, the press will be all over it."
I forced a smile. "Right. The press."
My stomach turned.
Even here, I couldn't escape the contract.
The lie.
Downstairs, I finally left the study just in time to hear voices from the foyer. The front door was wide open, and Damien stood rigid, his entire frame stiff as a man in a battlefield trench.
Across from him stood a woman I hadn't seen in years.
My chest caved.
It couldn't be.
But it was.
"Zara!" she shrieked.
Sade.
My former best friend.
The same one who kissed Deji a week before he died.
I didn't move.
Couldn't.
Her braids were longer now, her makeup flawless, her body draped in an Ankara two-piece that screamed designer chic.
"What… are you doing here?" I managed.
Damien stepped aside, arms crossed. "She said she's your friend."
"Was," I corrected.
Sade clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes like the past was water under a bridge. "Still dramatic, I see."
I wanted to slap her.
Instead, I forced civility. "Why now, Sade?"
She smirked. "You're trending. Mrs. Damien Odukoya. Imagine my shock."
"I didn't invite you."
"I came to talk."
Damien's phone rang then. He looked between us—two women with tension thick as glass between them—before stepping away.
Sade walked in uninvited and dropped her clutch on the marble console like she owned the place.
"What do you want?" I asked sharply.
She shrugged. "Closure. Gossip. Maybe both."
I folded my arms. "I see nothing's changed."
"Oh, something has," she said, looking around. "You traded grief for luxury."
Her words cut.
"You kissed my fiancé a week before he died."
"And then he died. Not because of me," she said coldly.
I couldn't breathe.
Sade leaned in. "You think I came to hurt you. I didn't. I came to say… I forgive you."
"For what?"
"For keeping Deji from me. For pretending you were the only one he loved."
That did it.
I slapped her.
The sound echoed off the marble walls.
She left without another word.
Damien returned just after, brows raised.
"Everything okay?"
"No."
But I walked away before he could ask more.
My hands were shaking.
Later that night, Damien appeared in my doorway again.
"You hit her?"
"Wouldn't you?"
He gave a single nod of approval. "I might've done worse."
We stood in silence, neither knowing what to say next.
Then he added, "If you want to talk about it…"
"I don't."
He nodded once, then turned to go.
But I stopped him.
"She kissed Deji. My fiancé. One week before he… before he got hit by that car."
He turned slowly.
"And she showed up today acting like I stole his life."
Damien was quiet, then walked over and sat beside me on the bed.
"I hate people who rewrite history to serve their guilt," he said softly.
I looked at him. "You have people like that?"
He stared straight ahead. "My father."
Another shard of truth. Unprompted.
I studied him. "What happened?"
He let out a breath. "Another time."
But his hand was near mine again.
And I didn't move away.
By morning, the internet had caught fire.
#ZaraOdukoya was trending.
Pictures of Sade walking out of our mansion, followed by "sources" claiming Damien's wife had a "violent temper" and "attacked a visitor."
I stared at the screen, cold horror crawling up my spine.
"She planned it," I said out loud.
"She leaked the photos," Damien confirmed from behind me. "That angle's from the hedges. Paid paparazzi."
I looked up. "What do we do?"
He handed me his phone. "Read the statement before I post it."
I took it.
And read:
> Zara Odukoya is the kindest woman I know. Strong, grounded, and deeply loyal. Anyone who misrepresents her character for clout will be handled legally and without mercy.
— Damien Odukoya
I stared.
"You wrote this?"
"Yes."
"You barely know me."
"I know enough," he said. "And I won't let anyone soil your name."
My heart ached.
Because for a moment, I wanted that statement to be real—not just strategic damage control.
"Thank you," I said.
He nodded. "You're my wife, Zara. Even if it's a lie… the world doesn't get to treat you like one."
The statement went viral within hours.
Everyone—from gossip blogs to respectable news sites—was quoting Damien's words. Some accused him of trying to soften his image. Others said the "ice CEO" finally had a heart.
But none of it mattered to me.
What mattered was that, for once, someone stood up for me.
Publicly. Loudly. Without shame.
I didn't know how to handle that.
By evening, the PR team was in overdrive.
"We recommend a controlled media appearance," the lead strategist, a severe woman named Nene, advised. "Maybe a charity event. Something that shows unity. You need to be seen holding hands."
Damien's voice was cold. "I don't perform affection like a circus act."
I half-smiled at that.
But Nene wasn't fazed. "Then do it for the brand. Right now, you two are the most talked about couple in Lagos. Use it."
I saw Damien glance at me.
He was asking without words.
And I answered with a small nod.
"Fine," he said.
"Great," Nene smiled. "The gala for Lagos Children's Hospital is this Saturday. You'll walk in together. Smile. Dance. Hold hands. Maybe kiss her cheek."
My stomach flipped.
Damien's expression didn't change.
But he nodded.
The rest of the week passed in a blur of fittings, makeup trials, and rehearsals. I was exhausted by Friday, and still jumpy every time I opened Instagram.
Sade had gone quiet.
But I knew it wasn't over.
Girls like her didn't play fair.
They waited for silence before striking again.
On Saturday night, I stood in front of the full-length mirror in a deep emerald gown that shimmered under the soft bedroom lights. My hair was swept into a sleek bun, and emerald earrings Damien had sent earlier hung from my ears.
A note had been tucked in the jewelry box.
> "Green suits you. – D"
Just that.
No cold signature. No formalities.
Just Damien.
And I didn't know why it made my pulse flutter.
He knocked once before entering my room.
His eyes raked over me, and for a moment, his lips parted like he might say something—something real.
But instead he said, "The car's ready."
I followed him silently.
But in the elevator, I couldn't resist asking, "Do I look okay?"
His gaze held mine in the mirrored wall.
"You look unforgettable."
I turned away too quickly.
Because that wasn't in the script.
The gala was held at a five-star hotel in Ikoyi, and as expected, flashbulbs went off the moment we stepped onto the red carpet.
Damien reached for my hand.
And I let him.
His grip was warm, firm, protective. Nothing like the cold CEO I'd first met. This wasn't for show—at least not entirely.
He leaned toward me just as we passed the crowd of photographers.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"Cameras make me nervous."
His thumb brushed mine gently. "Then look at me. Not them."
I did.
And just like that, the noise faded.
Inside the ballroom, we were ushered to the front table. Everyone wanted a moment with Damien. Every woman wanted a second glance. But he didn't let go of my hand once.
At one point, I leaned in and whispered, "Are you this clingy with all your fake wives?"
He chuckled under his breath. "Only the ones who slap people for them."
I smiled.
Real this time.
And I hated that I wished it wasn't fake.
After dinner, a slow song played, and the MC called us out by name.
"Damien and Zara Odukoya—our most gracious donors this year. Let's give them the dance floor."
Applause. Spotlights. Expectant eyes.
I swallowed hard.
Damien stood and extended a hand.
"Shall we?"
I took it.
His other hand settled on my waist as we moved to the center of the floor. The music swelled, romantic and slow.
"You don't dance," I said.
"I make exceptions."
We swayed in silence for a moment.
Then he leaned closer. "Why Deji?"
My chest tightened. "He was kind. Safe."
"But not passionate?"
"He was enough."
"And me?"
I looked up, heart thudding. "You're complicated."
"That's not a no."
"I don't do complicated," I said softly.
"Neither do I," he whispered. "But here we are."
He dipped his head closer—so close I could feel the brush of his breath. "Zara…"
My lips parted.
And then—just before I could back away—he kissed me.
Slow. Intentional.
Not for cameras. Not for show.
For us.
When he pulled back, the world had shifted.
And I didn't know if I was ready.
We didn't speak in the car ride home.
Not really.
Our fingers remained loosely intertwined, resting between us like a secret no one else knew.
When we reached the mansion, I stepped out first.
But Damien's voice stopped me. "You kissed back."
I turned.
"So did you."
He gave a short nod. "Let's not lie to ourselves anymore."
I didn't know what to say to that.
So I didn't say anything at all.
I dreamt of Deji that night.
But he wasn't angry.
He was smiling.
Standing beneath a tree, dressed in white.
"You've done enough mourning," he said.
"You're allowed to feel again."
I woke up crying.
But the tears were different this time.
Not from pain.
But release.
At breakfast, Damien joined me without a word. We ate in silence until he finally said, "My mother wants to host a family brunch next week."
I blinked. "Why?"
"She says it's time you met the real Odukoyas."
My fork hovered mid-air. "Is this another test?"
"No," he said. "It's a warning."