The Lagos heat was a physical weight, but inside the glass-walled offices of Alexander Holdings, the air was as cold as a morgue.
I smoothed the fabric of my hand-dyed Adire dress. It was the last piece of the "Amara Lagos" collection that hadn't been seized by the liquidators. My family's textile mill, the one my grandfather had built from the red earth of Nigeria, was ten minutes away from being sold for scraps.
"Mr. Alexander will see you now," the receptionist said. She didn't look up from her screen.
I walked into the office. Zane Alexander didn't look like a billionaire; he looked like a predator in a five-thousand-dollar suit. He was looking at a digital stock ticker on his wall, his back to me.
"The Alexander Mill is underperforming by 14.2%," he said, his voice deep and smooth, like expensive whiskey. "Why should I keep a sinking ship afloat, Miss Amara?"
"Because the ship isn't sinking, Mr. Alexander," I said, my voice steady. "It's being sabotaged. If you look at the supply chain logistics—specifically the 4th-quarter textile exports—you'll see a pattern of artificial inflation."
Zane turned around. His eyes were a piercing, icy grey. He looked at me with a mix of boredom and sudden curiosity. "You're a fashion designer. Why are you talking to me about market logistics?"
"I design patterns," I said, stepping closer to his desk. "And markets are just patterns with numbers instead of silk. I saw the sabotage three months ago. You're being robbed by your own board of directors."
Zane went silent. He leaned back, his eyes narrowing. I knew what he saw: a young woman in a colorful dress. He didn't see the woman who could calculate the trajectory of a failing stock in her head faster than his computer.
"You're very observant," Zane said. He slid a thick, leather-bound folder across the desk. "And you're very desperate. My board is trying to force me out because I'm unmarried and 'unpredictable.' They want a stable, family man to lead the merger next year."
"What does that have to do with my mill?"
"Everything," Zane said. "I will save your family's business. I will give you the funding to take 'Amara Lagos' global. In exchange, you will sign this. A one-year marriage contract. You will be the perfect, brilliant, Nigerian-born wife of Zane Alexander."
I looked at the contract. It was fifty pages of rules. No private life. No public mistakes.
"Why me?" I asked.
"Because you saw the sabotage," Zane whispered, standing up and towering over me. "And because I need a partner who can see the patterns I miss. You aren't just a wife, Amara. You're my hidden weapon."
I looked at the pen. I thought about my father's face, the mill workers who had no jobs, and the legacy of my family.
But as I reached for the pen, a small notification flashed on Zane's computer—a file he thought was hidden.
[PROJECT VINCULA: ACCESS GRANTED]
My heart skipped. I recognized that name. My brother, a hacker who vanished a year ago, had mentioned it in his last letter.
I didn't just need the money. I needed to know what Zane Alexander was hiding in his digital vault.
I signed the paper.
"One year," I said.
"One year," Zane replied. He didn't smile. He just took the contract and locked it in his desk.
As I walked out of the office, my phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number—the same one that had guided Sloane in the first 15 chapters.
Unknown: The Designer has entered the game. The Architect is watching. Welcome to the Silk Cage, Amara.