Chapter 4 THE GIRL ON HIS ARM.

Amara never imagined she'd be standing in front of a luxury boutique on Banana Island, staring at her reflection in a glass door, too stunned to move.

Just 24 hours ago, she was wrapping groundnut with her neighbor to make extra change for drugs.

Now she was being fitted for a dress worth more than her rent.

It started that morning with a single text from Damian:

"Clear your evening. You're accompanying me to the Hightower Gala. Dress code: Black Tie."

She had stared at the message for a full five minutes.

The Hightower Gala? The invite-only event for Lagos' elite? CEOs, ministers, foreign dignitaries?

Her?

Surely, he meant something else.

But when she asked for confirmation, all he replied was:

"You'll be representing OrionTech. I expect you to be presentable."

Presentable. Right.

Now here she was, a full hour into fittings, standing awkwardly as a tailor named Miss Phoebe circled her with pins.

"This one," Phoebe declared, motioning toward a satin-black floor-length gown with an open back. "It softens her frame but elongates her figure. Clean. Elegant. Nothing vulgar."

"Agreed," said Damian's assistant, a French-Nigerian named Léon, who had been supervising the process like it was a military operation.

Amara looked at her reflection again. She barely recognized herself. The dress hugged her in all the right places, her makeup was light but radiant, and her braids had been styled into a soft crown around her head.

She looked... expensive.

And also terrified.

The gala was being held at the Grand Pearl Towers-glass chandeliers, black marble floors, and a red carpet lined with paparazzi and publicists.

When Damian's black Bentley pulled up to the entrance, Amara gripped her clutch tightly.

He looked at her, one brow raised. "Nervous?"

"Understatement of the year."

He chuckled softly and stepped out first, walking to her side. When he opened her door and offered his hand, she hesitated-then placed hers in his.

His touch was cool. Firm. Reassuring.

"Smile if you can," he murmured. "The vultures are watching."

She managed a small one, but her insides were screaming.

The flashes from cameras lit up the night like lightning.

"Mr. Okoye! Over here!"

"Is that your fiancée?"

"Who's the stunning woman on your arm?"

Amara fought the urge to turn back. But Damian moved with grace, pulling her close as they stepped through the entrance, past the cameras, past the questions, into a world of opulence she had no map for.

Inside, everything sparkled.

Champagne flutes floated between gloved fingers. Laughter echoed under crystal ceilings. Waiters in white gloves passed hors d'oeuvres she couldn't pronounce.

Amara did what she always did when overwhelmed: watch, learn, and stay silent.

Damian introduced her only once-to a UN ambassador from Kenya-as his executive liaison, whatever that meant. For the most part, people didn't ask. They stared, they smiled, and they noted her.

But she could feel it-the weight of judgment, the curiosity in the eyes of Lagos' elite.

Who was this girl?

Where did she come from?

Why was Damian Okoye, the most notoriously untouchable man in the room, holding her waist like she mattered?

She excused herself to the restroom, needing a break.

That's when Zara appeared.

Like a specter in red.

She was wearing a wine-colored gown that clung to her body like liquid fire. Hair curled in waves, lips lacquered in blood-red gloss, and a gaze that could cut glass.

"Well, well," she said, arms crossed. "Look at you. Cinderella, upgraded."

Amara stiffened. "Zara."

"You're looking lovely. I almost didn't recognize you. Guess money does buy class."

Amara's fingers curled around her clutch. "Did Damian invite you?"

Zara's smile was like a blade. "I don't need an invitation. I belong here."

She stepped closer, voice dropping. "Let me explain something, Amara. These events? These people? This world? It's mine. I've earned my place in it. You're just... passing through."

Amara met her gaze, steady. "That's not what Damian thinks."

Zara blinked once.

Then, coldly: "Enjoy your moment. But don't confuse lust with love. He'll never love you. He doesn't know how."

With that, she turned and walked away, hips swaying like a warning.

Amara stood frozen for a moment.

Then she pulled in a breath, squared her shoulders, and walked back into the gala.

If she had only six months to live, she would not spend it being intimidated by a woman who thought the world owed her everything.

She would live-even if it was borrowed time.

---

The rest of the evening passed in a blur.

People. Music. Photos. Damian's hand on her lower back.

But the real surprise came at the very end, when they were back in the car.

She leaned her head against the window, quiet.

"Zara spoke to you," he said, not as a question.

Amara looked at him, startled.

"How do you-?"

"She always does."

There was silence.

Then he added, "Did she tell you she belonged here?"

"Yes."

"She doesn't. Not anymore."

Amara swallowed. "She said you can't love anyone."

Damian looked at her then-really looked. And for a moment, she saw a flicker of something raw in his expression.

"She's right," he said. "I don't."

But when she looked away, his hand brushed lightly against hers.

And neither of them moved it.