THE FAKE FIANCÉ CLAUSE

The rain had no mercy that evening. Zara Oke sprinted across the soaked pavement, shielding her sketchpad under her handbag like it was her last meal. Her once-white sneakers were now stained brown with Lagos mud. She reached the rusted door of her workshop and slammed it shut behind her, breathless. Inside, everything looked exactly how it felt-tired. A sewing machine sat quietly on the corner table, half-covered with fabric. Her mannequin wore a half-finished gown, pinned clumsily in a moment of frustration. The overhead bulb flickered.

And on the tiny wooden table sat a red eviction notice. Zara tossed her soaked bag aside and stared at the notice again, like maybe this time it would read something else. But it didn't. *"You have seven days to vacate the premises."* She sat slowly on the floor, back against the wall, legs stretched out. Her bones ached, not just from the run in the rain, but from months of trying-trying to build her brand, trying to pay rent, trying to be someone. All the while, Lagos laughed in her face. Zara Oke wasn't the kind of woman who cried easily. But tonight, her eyes stung. Not because she was weak-but because she was tired of pretending she was strong. She was still on the floor when her best friend, Tara, barged in with a black nylon bag and soaked scarf. "You look like you just got hit by a danfo," Tara said, dropping the food on the table. "Eat. You need energy to overthink." Zara gave a weak laugh. "You're late." "I stopped to buy jollof rice. And also, you're welcome," Tara replied, unwrapping the nylon. "So... what's the plan?" Zara pulled herself up. "Same plan as always. Hustle. Pray. Repeat." Tara watched her quietly. "What if it's time to ask for help?" "From who? My parents? They don't even know I quit the tailoring job at Auntie Esther's to start this." She gestured around the workshop. "They think I'm still there, learning 'stability.'" "And you're sure struggling in silence is a better plan?" Zara turned away, biting back the lump in her throat. She wasn't ready to admit it, but something had to give. She just didn't expect it to come so soon. *** The next day, fate arrived in the form of a fashion gala. Zara had sewn a last-minute dress for a client who couldn't afford a high-end designer. The lady, a rising influencer, offered Zara two things: a discounted price... and one free ticket to the biggest industry event of the month. "You might meet someone important," she'd said cheerily. Zara had laughed. "Like who? A billionaire looking to adopt a broke designer?" Still, she went. The hall was golden. Not just in colour-but in class. Men in black tuxedos, women in shimmering gowns, photographers clicking at every corner. Zara stood near the wall, clutching a glass of water she hadn't sipped, wearing a gown she stitched herself the night before. She felt like a fraud in a fairytale. Then she saw him. Tall. Sharp suit. Brooding eyes. Alone, despite the crowd. He stood like someone who didn't come to mingle-but people mingled around him anyway. "That's Tari Amadi," someone whispered near her. "The tech guy. Multi-millionaire. Cold as ice, but rich like sin." Zara looked again. Tari's face was unreadable, like his emotions had been hidden and locked far away. But his eyes scanned the room like a man searching for an answer-or a way out. She turned away. He was not her world. She was not his class. But the universe had other plans.