Chapter 2 The Billionaire's Proposition

The crisp, cool banknotes in Zara's hand felt alien, almost dreamlike. N500,000. It was the exact amount Dr. Adebayo had demanded as the upfront deposit for Amaka's surgery. She stared at the stack of cash, her fingers tracing the familiar patterns, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. It was enough. Enough to buy her mother a fighting chance. But it came from a stranger, a man whose golden eyes had pierced through her carefully constructed defenses and whose presence exuded an unsettling power.

"Zara? You alright?" Bimpe's voice, concerned and slightly muffled, pulled her back to the present. Zara had rushed straight to the hospital room, the money a tangible weight in her purse, but hadn't been able to bring herself to hand it over yet. Her best friend, Bimpe, was sitting by Amaka's bedside, gently stroking her mother's hand.

"Yes, I... I think so," Zara replied, her voice distant. She glanced at her mother, so frail against the crisp white sheets, a thin tube disappearing into her nostril. Amaka's chest rose and fell with a shallow rhythm, each breath a painful reminder of Zara's race against time.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Bimpe said, her dark eyes scanning Zara's face with a shrewdness born of years of friendship. "And what's that in your hand? Looks like... a lot of money."

Zara hesitated, then sank into the chair beside Bimpe. She recounted the surreal encounter at the hospital entrance, the collision, the intense gaze of Darius Kane, and the unexpected delivery of the money. She omitted, however, the strange, visceral spark she'd felt in his presence. That was a secret she couldn't even admit to herself, let alone Bimpe.

Bimpe listened, her expression shifting fromconfusion to disbelief. "A billionaire? Just hands you money for your mum's surgery? And wants to meet you? Zara, this sounds like something out of one of those romance novels Mama Nkechi reads! What's the catch? Nothing in Lagos comes free, especially not from someone who looks like he owns half the city."

"That's what I keep asking myself," Zara murmured, rubbing her temples. "He said it was a 'proposal that benefits both parties.' It feels... too good to be true. Like a deal with the devil."

Bimpe, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward. "Look, I get your reservations. But your mother, Zara. This is her life. If this man, whoever he is, can provide the help you need, then you have to at least hear him out. What's the worst that can happen? He tries to offer you a job? A business deal? You can always say no."

Zara knew Bimpe was right. Her mother's fading breath was a constant, urgent drumbeat in her ears. She couldn't afford the luxury of suspicion, not when Amaka's life hung in the balance. With a deep, fortifying breath, she stood.

"You're right," she said, her voice firmer than she felt. "I'm taking this to Dr. Adebayo. Then, tomorrow, I go to Kane Tower."

Handing over the deposit was a surreal experience. Dr. Adebayo's expression, previously stern, softened with relief. "Excellent, Miss Okafor. We'll schedule the surgery for first thing tomorrow morning. This is good news." His words, usually cold and detached, now held a hint of genuine warmth. Zara felt a fleeting sense of gratitude towards the enigmatic Darius Kane, even as a knot of apprehension tightened in her stomach.That night, sleep was a distant luxury. Zara lay on her thin mattress in her modest Surulere apartment, the city's nocturnal symphony of generators and distant traffic a muted lullaby. Her mind replayed the scene at the hospital entrance: Darius Kane's impossibly tall frame, the expensive cut of his suit, and those piercing golden eyes. She tried to dismiss the strange current that had passed between them as a figment of her stressed imagination, a desperate mind grasping at straws. But the memory persisted, unsettling and potent.

She thought about her past, the wound that still festered deep within her, a trauma she had buried under layers of resilience and ambition. That betrayal, long before Emeka, had taught her to lock her heart away, to never be vulnerable. She had sworn off relying on anyone, especially powerful men. Yet here she was, about to walk into the lair of one.

The next morning, Zara dressed with meticulous care. She chose a tailored skirt suit in a deep emerald green, a color that always made her feel powerful and composed. It was one of her own designs, sleek and modern, designed to project confidence she didn't quite feel. She needed to look the part, to project an image of a woman who was in control, despite the chaos of her life. She applied a bold red lipstick, a defiant splash of color against her pale skin.

The journey from Surulere to Ikoyi was a stark reminder of the vast chasm between her world and Darius Kane's. The bustling, chaotic streets of her neighborhood gradually gave way to wide, tree-lined avenues, manicured lawns, and imposing gates. The air seemed to grow quieter, cleaner, laden with the scent of money and privilege.

Kane Towerloomed against the sky, a monolithic structure of gleaming glass and steel, soaring into the heavens like a testament to unchecked power. It was an architectural marvel, intimidating in its sheer scale. Inside, the lobby was a cathedral of marble and polished chrome, hushed and cavernous. A chic receptionist, whose smile seemed surgically precise, directed her to the private elevators.

"Mr. Kane is expecting you on the penthouse floor, Miss Okafor," she said, her voice smooth as silk.

As the elevator ascended, a knot formed in Zara's stomach. The silence was profound, broken only by the faint hum of the machinery. Each floor clicked past, bringing her closer to the man who held her mother's future in his hands. She clutched her small handbag, her knuckles white. Be strong, Zara. Be smart. Don't let him see your desperation.The elevator doors opened onto a private foyer that was as breathtaking as it was intimidating. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Lagos, a sprawling tapestry of concrete and coastline stretching to the horizon. It felt like being on top of the world, far removed from the struggles of everyday life.

A man stepped forward, Tunde, Darius Kane's PA, the same discreet man who had handed her the envelope at the hospital. He was younger than she expected, perhaps late twenties, with an intelligent gaze and a faint, almost imperceptible air of amusement about him. He was dressed in a sharp, modern suit, less formal than Darius's, but equally well-tailored."Miss Okafor, welcome," Tunde said, his voice warm and surprisingly friendly, a stark contrast to his employer's demeanor. "Mr. Kane is ready for you. Please, this way."

He led her down a short corridor into an office that defied imagination. It was vast, sleek, and minimalist, yet undeniably luxurious. Dark wood, polished metal, and rich leather created an atmosphere of understated power. A wall of windows provided an even more spectacular view, making the city below seem like a tiny, insignificant toy.

Darius Kane stood by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to her, his hands clasped behind him. He was a dark, imposingsilhouette against the brilliant Lagos skyline. He didn't turn immediately, seemingly absorbed in the view, or perhaps deliberately making her wait. Zara felt a fresh wave of irritation mingle with her anxiety. This man clearly enjoyed exerting control.

Finally, he turned.

His golden eyes, framed by those thick, dark lashes, met hers. The intensity was immediate, palpable. He took her in with a single, sweeping gaze, from her emerald suit to her carefully applied lipstick, a silent assessment that made her feel both scrutinized and strangely aware. There was no warmth in his expression, only a cool, unwavering focus. He was even more striking in this setting, the aura of wealth and authority around him amplified by the opulence of his office."Miss Okafor," he stated, his voice the same deep, resonant rumble she remembered, devoid of any pleasantries. He didn't offer a hand, didn't invite her to sit. He simply stood there, a formidable presence. "Thank you for coming."

"Mr. Kane," Zara replied, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. "I appreciate your... generosity with my mother's hospital bill. But I must confess, I don't understand why."

He finally moved, walking slowly towards the large, executive desk, his movements fluid and purposeful. He sat, gesturing to the chair opposite him with a slight incline of his head. Zara took it, trying to appear nonchalant, but her heart hammered against her ribs.

"Direct, I like that," he said, his lips curving into a slight, almost imperceptible smirk that did nothing to soften the chill in his eyes. "Very well. Let's not waste time, Miss Okafor. I have a proposition for you. A business arrangement, if you will."

He leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers steepled, his golden gaze never leaving hers. "My grandfather, the late Chief Matthew Kane, was a man of... particular eccentricities. Before his death, he stipulated a clause in his will. To secure my full control over Kane Enterprises – a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate, I assure you – I must be married. A real marriage, not a paper one. And it must happen within the next six months."Zara stared at him, dumbfounded. Married? To him? It was absurd, outlandish. She almost laughed, but the seriousness in his eyes silenced her.

"I find myself in a peculiar position," he continued, his voice calm, almost detached, as if discussing the weather. "My manipulative stepmother, Lady Caro, is vying for control, and she will stop at nothing to see me fail. She has powerful allies on the board. Fulfilling this clause is imperative. Time is running out."

He paused, letting his words sink in. Zara's mind raced. A forced marriage for corporate control? It was like something out of a movie.

"And what does this have to do with me?" she managed, her voice a little breathless.

"You, Miss Okafor, are conveniently available," he stated, his bluntness bordering on offensive. "You are currently unencumbered by romantic attachments. You have a pressing financial need that I have already demonstrated I can meet. And you are, if you'll forgive my candor, attractive enough to be a convincing partner. You also possess a certain... resilience. I need someone who can handle the scrutiny, the public eye, and the demands of this arrangement."

His gaze sharpened. "I require a wife. Not for love, or companionship, or any of the sentimental nonsense associated with marriage. But to fulfill a legal obligation and secure my empire. In return, I will provide full financial support for your mother's medical treatment, clearing all outstanding debts and guaranteeing her long-term care. I will also provide you with a substantial annual stipend, a comfortable residence – my residence, actually – and the resources to restart your fashion brand, debt-free, with a significant investment."

Zara's head spun. It was a Faustian bargain, laid bare in the gleaming opulence of his office. Her mother's life. Her dreams, resurrected. All for a marriage of convenience to a man who was a complete stranger, a man who saw her as nothing more than a strategic asset.

"A real marriage?" Zara finally asked, her voice barely a whisper. "What does that... entail?" The question hung in the air, loaded with implications.

Darius's eyes flickered, a momentary shift in their golden depths that she couldn't decipher. "It means we will live under the same roof. We will make public appearances as a married couple. We will maintain the façade of a normal marriage. There will be no questions, no public scandals. And yes, to satisfy the terms of the will, it will need to be... consummated, at some point."

The last word hung between them, a cold, clinical declaration that sent a shiver down Zara's spine, despite the heat that suddenly flared in her cheeks. He spoke of intimacy as if it were another clause in a contract, an item to be checked off a list.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low, intense rumble. "Think carefully, Miss Okafor. This is not a proposal for love. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement. You gain financial security, your mother's life, and the chance to rebuild your future. I gain my legacy. The alternative, for both of us, is far less appealing."

He pushed a thick, leather-bound document across the polished desk. "The prenuptial agreement. My lawyers have drafted it. It's ironclad. Read it. Consider it. I need your answer by tomorrow morning."

Zara looked down at the document, then back at Darius Kane, whose expression remained impassive, unreadable. He was a force of nature, utterly detached, completely in control. And he was offering her salvation, at an unbearable price. Marrying a stranger. Living under his roof. And the chilling implication of a "consummated" marriage.Her heart screamed in protest. Her spirit recoiled from the transactional nature of it all. But then she pictured her mother's pale, vulnerable face in the hospital bed, the relentless beeping of the machines, the impossible debt.

She closed her eyes briefly, a battle raging within her. Pride against desperation. Independence against survival. The fear of vulnerability against the primal instinct to save the one person who mattered most.

When she opened her eyes, her gaze met his, still unwavering, still assessing. There was no escape. She was trapped between a rock and a hard place, and the hard place was offering her a lifeline, albeit a gilded cage.

"I'll read it," she said, her voice strained but clear. "I'll give you my answer tomorrow."

Darius simply nodded, a flicker of something almost akin to satisfaction in his eyes. He didn't press. He didn't need to. He knew, just as Zara knew, that she had no real choice at all. The die, it seemed, was already cast.