Chapter 2 This is How Girls End Up on True Crime Podcasts

Amara's POV

You ever wake up and just know your life has officially spiraled into a flaming dumpster fire?

Because same.

I woke up the next morning to my sister coughing like her lungs were trying to evacuate her body. The hospital bill from yesterday was lying on my chest like a toxic boyfriend I couldn't block. It felt like it was staring at me with squinted eyes, whispering, "You're broke, sis. Give up."

Zina had barely eaten dinner last night, and even though she was putting on her brave face, I could tell she was exhausted. Pale. Weak. She'd tried to pretend she wasn't in pain, but I knew. I always knew.

I stood in the cramped kitchen staring at a cracked bowl of soaked garri-my "invention breakfast" for the week-thinking: Wow. This is how villains get made. Or maybe desperate heroines in dark romance novels. Either way, I'm cooked.

My fingers grazed the back pocket of my jeans-the same jeans I'd worn for two days straight. And there it was.

The black card.

That man. Tall, too rich for Earth, too quiet, with all the brooding Batman energy... had pressed it into my palm yesterday after witnessing my breakdown.

I stared at the number again. No name. No explanation. Just digits.

I'm not even going to lie, I sat with my thumb hovering over the call button for like ten minutes. Because it screamed sketchy. Who just gives out black cards like they're secret agents from an underground mafia?

But then I remembered Zina's weak voice whispering, "Amara, I'm okay. Don't cry."

She wasn't okay.

So I did the dumbest, bravest thing I'd probably ever do.

I called the number.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three-"Hello."

The voice? Cold. Deep. Almost robotic. Like Siri if she smoked cigars and owned a penthouse in hell.

I cleared my throat. "Hi, uh... good morning. My name is Amara Jones. You-uh-someone gave me your card yesterday at the hospital-"

"13 Roseline Drive. 9 a.m."

Click.

So rude.

I just stood there blinking. Did I just get invited to my own kidnapping?

The address was legit.

Which, in itself, was suspicious.

I stood in front of this bougie eatery with white walls, gold trim, and soft music leaking out like they had a violinist in the kitchen. It smelled like croissants and generational wealth. I hadn't even stepped inside and I already felt judged by the automatic doors.

I looked down at my faded blouse and jeans and sighed. "Fake it till you make it, Amara."

The hostess didn't even flinch when I said my name. Just smiled like I was someone important and led me to a private backroom with dim lighting, a glass chandelier, and walls lined with wine I definitely couldn't pronounce.

And there he was.

The man I am supposed to meet. Black suit, black shirt, not a single wrinkle or flaw. Like a vampire CEO. His eyes flicked up to me like I was an item on a menu he hadn't ordered.

"I came," I said, because duh.

"You did," he said, his voice cold and unreadable.

He gestured for me to sit. I sat, still half-expecting the FBI to burst in and arrest us both for whatever this was.

"I don't want to waste time," he began, sliding a thin file across the table toward me. "You're smart. And desperate. That's a dangerous combination."

"Okay... weird compliment, but go on."

He leaned back in his seat. "I need a wife."

I blinked. "You need a what?"

"A wife. Temporarily."

My laugh was so loud the waitress paused by the door.

"I'm sorry," I said, biting my lip. "Did you say a temporary wife? Is this-like-some weird dating prank show? Am I being pranked? Where's the camera?"

He stared at me. Zero amusement. Zero warmth. "You're broke. You have no family. No backup. You're clinging to a sister with a chronic illness and no health insurance. You need a miracle. I'm offering you one."

I hated that he was right. I hated that I wanted to slap the arrogance off his face and also demand to know what conditioner he used.

I opened the file.

It was a contract. With real paper and ink. Real legal terms.

One year marriage.

Strictly no intimacy.

Must attend events, smile, and pretend.

One million naira. Upfront.

Aside from the monthly $500,000 which summed up to $6,000,000.

I blinked at the figure again. Counted the zeroes. Then blinked again.

Seven. Million. In total.

Was this for real? Was I in a fever dream? Did poverty finally send me spiraling into hallucinations?

"This is insane," I whispered.

"Yet you're still reading," he said calmly.

I looked up. "What's your deal, huh? Who hurt you? Why not pick some rich girl with two last names and a useless art degree?"

"Because I don't want someone who wants me. I want someone who needs me. There's a difference."

Wow.

Wowww.

What kind of villain origin story-

"And what do you get out of this?" I asked slowly.

"A wife. A distraction. Protection."

From who? I didn't ask. I didn't want to know.

And somehow that terrified me more than anything else.

"What's your name?" I finally asked.

He hesitated, then said, "Lucien."

Lucien.

The name suited him. Dark. Dramatic. Probably had a tragic past and a cursed mansion somewhere in the woods.

I stood up. "I'm not doing this. You're insane."

He didn't flinch. "Walk out, and your sister dies slowly in a public hospital ward."

I turned around so fast my curls smacked me in the eye.

"You disgusting, arrogant, emotionally constipated control freak!" I snapped. "You don't get to use my sister like that-"

I slapped him.

I didn't even think. My hand just moved. And when it landed on his cheek with a loud, cinematic clap, I gasped like I was the one who got hit.

His head barely turned. But his jaw tightened.

And I...

I was shaking.

Shaking with anger and shame and the kind of guilt that only comes when you realize you're not the hero in your story-you're the desperate girl making reckless choices.

He turned back to me. Calm. Cold. Like I was just a mild glitch in his system.

"I'll double the amount," he said quietly.

My heart stopped.

Fourteen million dollars?

Why in the actual name of God is he so desperate?

"Sign the contract," he continued. "And you'll have access to the best doctors, private care, and safety. For both of you."

I stared at the file.

Then I sat.

And I signed.

Because the world wasn't fair. And I wasn't made of stone.

And sometimes, you don't get to be the good guy. You just survive.