Chapter 3 The Wedding Of Strangers

The opulence of the dress Zara wore felt like a cruel joke against the hollowness in her chest. It was a masterpiece of cream lace and delicate beadwork, a cascading waterfall of silk that shimmered under the grand chandeliers of the opulent ballroom. It was the kind of dress a woman dreamed of wearing on the happiest day of her life, a day filled with love and hope. But for Zara, it was a costume for the most elaborate charade of her existence.

She was marrying a stranger, a cold, calculating billionaire named Darius Kane, and there was not a single shred of love, or even affection, involved.

Just twenty-four hours had passed since Darius had laid out his shocking proposition. Twenty-four hours of agonizing internal debate, sleepless hours spent staring at the ceiling, her mind a battlefield of pride, fear, and desperate hope. She had read the prenuptial agreement – a thick, dense document filled with legal jargon that solidified the cold, transactional nature of their union. It stipulated everything from asset division (she would get nothing if they divorced unless it was Darius's fault, and even then, only a fraction of what he was worth) to confidentiality clauses, public conduct, and even the clause about "consummation" that still made her skin prickle with unease.

Her pride screamed at her to refuse. To walk away from the gilded cage he offered. To face her debts and her mother's illness with whatever dwindling strength she had left. But then, she'd visited Amaka, weak and pale, her breathing labored. She'd remembered the doctor's grim prognosis without the surgery. And the image of Emeka, smirking as he vanished with her dreams and her money, solidified her resolve. She was at rock bottom, and Darius Kane was offering a hand, even if it was a cold, gloved one. She had no choice.

So, here she was, standing before a room filled with Lagos's elite, a carefully curated guest list of business magnates, politicians, and socialites who looked at her with a mixture of curiosity, speculation, and thinly veiled disdain. This wasn't her world. She was Zara Okafor, the fashion designer from Surulere, not a high-society bride.

Bimpe, looking stunning in a royal blue bridesmaid dress Zara had designed, stood beside her, her hand gripping Zara's tightly. "You okay?" she whispered, her eyes full of concern.

Zara managed a weak smile. "As okay as I can be when marrying a man I met less than forty-eight hours ago."

The ceremony itself was a blur. A respected, albeit discreet, pastor officiated, his words echoing hollowly in the vast space. Zara remembered the vows, the solemn promises of 'love, honor, and cherish,' and the bitter irony almost made her laugh. She certainly didn't love Darius. She didn't even know him. Honor? Perhaps, in the sense of upholding her end of the bargain. Cherish? Impossible.

Then came the moment for the rings. Tunde, Darius's ever-present PA, stepped forward with two velvet boxes. Darius took a ring from one, a thick platinum band, and slid it onto Zara's finger. It was cold, heavy, and felt less like a symbol of union and more like a shackle. As his fingers brushed hers, a familiar current, unsettlingly potent, sparked between them. Zara quickly pulled her hand back, her breath catching. Darius, however, remained impassive, his expression unreadable.

She then took the matching, simpler platinum band for him. As she slid it onto his finger, his skin felt cool against hers, firm and unyielding. Their eyes met again, and in that brief, intense gaze, Zara felt a spark of something almost defiant flare within her. He might own her financially, but he wouldn't own her spirit.

"You may now kiss the bride," the pastor announced, his voice booming.

Zara's heart leaped into her throat. This was it. The moment of public declaration, the physical manifestation of their farce. She braced herself, expecting a quick, chaste peck, a mere formality.

Darius's hand reached out, cupping her jaw gently, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. His touch was unexpected, surprisingly warm despite his icy demeanor. His golden eyes, which had been so cold, seemed to soften for a fleeting instant, a deep, unsettling glimmer that Zara couldn't fathom. He leaned in, and Zara held her breath.

His lips met hers. It wasn't a chaste peck. It was firm, deliberate, and undeniably sensual. A jolt of electricity shot through Zara, startling her. Her senses were overwhelmed: the clean scent of his expensive cologne, the surprising softness of his lips, the faint pressure of his fingers against her skin. It was a kiss meant to convey passion, to convince every skeptical guest in the room that this was a love match. And for a terrifying, exhilarating moment, Zara almost believed it herself. Her own lips parted slightly, an involuntary response to the intensity.

Then, just as quickly, it was over. Darius pulled back, his eyes once again masked, unreadable. He looked at her for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, and Zara felt a flush creep up her neck. He had taken her breath away, in every sense of the word.

The crowd erupted into applause, a polite, well-rehearsed sound. Flashbulbs popped, recording the moment for society pages and gossip columns. Zara forced a smile, her cheeks aching from the effort. She was Mrs. Darius Kane. Just like that.

The reception was an even grander affair. The ballroom, adorned with white roses and crystal, buzzed with hushed conversations and the clinking of champagne flutes. Zara found herself navigating a sea of unfamiliar faces, offering polite smiles and vacant nods. Every word felt rehearsed, every gesture a performance. She was acutely aware of Darius by her side, a silent, imposing presence, his hand often resting lightly on the small of her back as they mingled, a possessive gesture that felt both alien and strangely anchoring.

She spotted Vanessa Chike across the room, a stunning woman in a dangerously red dress. Vanessa was Darius's ex-fiancée, a well-known socialite and heiress. Her eyes, narrowed and sharp, were fixed on Zara with an unmistakable glare of hostility. Vanessa made her way towards them, a predatory smile on her perfectly painted lips.

"Darius, darling! Congratulations," Vanessa purred, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. She kissed his cheek, lingering for a moment, her gaze never leaving Zara. "And you must be... Zara. The new Mrs. Kane." Her tone was laced with thinly veiled contempt. "Quite the whirlwind romance, isn't it? I hear you two met just days ago."

Zara felt her temper stir. This was the kind of public scrutiny she had dreaded. But she remembered Darius's warning: no scandals. She forced a smile, her voice steady. "It was certainly unexpected. But when you know, you know, don't you?" She met Vanessa's gaze head-on, a silent challenge. She wouldn't be intimidated.

Darius's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on her back. "Vanessa," he said, his voice a cool warning. "It's been a long day. We'll speak later."

Vanessa's smile faltered, but she held her ground, her eyes still locked on Zara. "Of course, darling. I just wanted to wish the happy couple all the best. Though, I must say, Darius, you always did have a taste for... the unconventional." She delivered the jab with a saccharine smile before gliding away, her venom leaving a bitter taste in the air.

Zara let out a slow breath when Vanessa was out of earshot. "Charming," she muttered under her breath.

Darius's gaze was on her, a faint flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "You handled that well," he said, his voice surprisingly devoid of his usual edge. "She's tenacious. You'll need to be prepared."

Zara just nodded. Prepared for what? A lifetime of pretending, of fending off jealous exes and curious socialites? She felt a sudden, crushing weight of isolation.

Later, the time came for the cake cutting. Zara stood beside Darius, her hand guided by his as they sliced through the multi-tiered confection. His presence was overwhelming, his arm brushing hers, the subtle scent of his cologne enveloping her. Every photographer in the room seemed to zero in on them, flashes illuminating their forced smiles.

As the evening wore on, the exhaustion began to settle deep in Zara's bones. The small talk, the forced smiles, the constant awareness of Darius beside her – it was all draining. She longed for the quiet solitude of her small apartment, for a moment where she didn't have to perform.

Finally, the reception wound down. Darius led her out, a path cleared for them by a phalanx of security. A sleek Rolls-Royce, white and gleaming, awaited them. As the car pulled away from the grand venue, Zara looked back at the glittering lights of the ballroom, a monument to a lie.

The silence in the car was heavy, stretching between them, thick with unspoken thoughts. Zara stared out the window, watching the familiar Lagos streets turn into the unfamiliar, sprawling avenues of Ikoyi. She was heading to Darius Kane's mansion, to a new life, a new prison.

They pulled up to a set of imposing, wrought-iron gates that swung open silently. Beyond them, a long, winding driveway led through manicured gardens, finally revealing a house that was less a house and more a palace. It was a sprawling, contemporary masterpiece of glass, concrete, and exotic wood, bathed in soft, ethereal lighting. It looked like something out of a magazine, cold and majestic.

The car stopped. A uniformed driver opened her door. Zara stepped out, feeling impossibly small against the grandeur of her new reality. Darius followed, his presence a shadow behind her.

As they walked towards the imposing front door, Zara felt a profound sense of dislocation. This wasn't a home; it was an estate. And she, Zara Okafor, was now its mistress, married to its enigmatic, emotionless owner.

The front door opened automatically, revealing a cavernous, minimalist foyer with soaring ceilings and stark, modern art. Tunde was waiting for them, along with a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, dressed in a neat uniform.

"Mrs. Kane," Tunde said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Welcome home."

Home? Zara wanted to scream. This wasn't home. Her home was in Surulere, small and familiar, even if it was about to be taken from her. This was a gilded cage, a monument to a man's power and her desperation.

Darius turned to her, his expression as unreadable as ever. "Tunde will show you to your room. We'll discuss the arrangements tomorrow." His voice was flat, business-like. He didn't say goodnight, didn't offer a gesture of comfort. He simply turned and walked towards a wide staircase, disappearing into the vastness of the mansion.

Zara was left standing in the silent, imposing foyer, the platinum ring cold on her finger, the scent of white roses from her bouquet mingling with the sterile smell of the grand house. She was married. To a stranger. And her new life, a bewildering, terrifying journey into the unknown, had just begun. The overwhelming silence of the mansion seemed to mock her, a deafening reminder of her solitary confinement within this grand, empty facade.