The day my mother died, I discovered that grief had a price tag.
The day my mother died, I discovered that grief had a price tag.
Five hundred thousand naira.
That was the amount the funeral home demanded before they would even prepare her body for burial.
I stood outside the small office with my mother’s death certificate clutched in my trembling hands, staring at numbers that looked impossible. My savings were gone. Every kobo I had earned cleaning offices at Sterling Group had disappeared into hospital bills over the last eight months.
I had nothing left.
No father.
No siblings.
No relatives willing to help.
Only debt.
Only silence.
And my mother’s promise, whispered just hours before she closed her eyes forever.
“No matter what happens, don’t let them throw me away like I never mattered.”
I promised her I wouldn’t.
But promises don’t pay funeral bills.
Three days later, I was back at work.
Not because I was strong.
Because poor people don’t get time to grieve.
At Sterling Group, tears were considered a luxury.
The marble floors still reflected every light perfectly.
Executives still rushed through the lobby with million-naira watches on their wrists.
The scent of expensive perfume floated through the building while I pushed my cleaning cart from one office to another, pretending my world hadn’t just fallen apart.
“Renee.”
I looked up.
It was Mr. Okoro, the housekeeping supervisor.
“Take fresh towels and bottled water to the Chairman’s private suite.”
Every cleaner in the hallway suddenly became quiet.
One of them, Amaka, grabbed my wrist before I could answer.
“Don’t make eye contact,” she whispered.
“And don’t speak unless he asks you something.”
“Who?”
She looked toward the private elevator.
“Mr. Femi Adamola.”
Even his name seemed to lower everyone’s voice.
People called him the youngest billionaire in Lagos.
The man who had transformed Sterling Group into one of Africa’s most powerful companies before turning thirty-five.
Brilliant.
Cold.
Untouchable.
Rumor said he fired executives the same way people deleted spam emails.
Without emotion.
Without hesitation.
I had never seen him before.
Cleaners rarely crossed paths with men like him.
We cleaned the rooms after they left.
Invisible.
Forgotten.
Safe.
At least, that’s what I believed.
The private suite occupied the entire top floor.
Everything inside looked like it belonged in a luxury hotel instead of an office.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Lagos.
Original paintings covered the walls.
Fresh orchids stood beside shelves filled with awards from around the world.
I placed the towels neatly beside the bathroom.
Set the bottled water on the conference table.
Then turned to leave.
“You’re leaving already?”
The voice stopped me.
Low.
Calm.
Controlled.
I turned slowly.
A tall man stood beside the window, removing his cufflinks.
His charcoal suit looked perfectly tailored.
His expression revealed nothing.
Not anger.
Not kindness.
Nothing.
Only sharp gray eyes that studied me with unsettling precision.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said quietly.
“I’ve delivered everything.”
“You’ve been crying.”
It wasn’t a question.
I instinctively looked away.
“No, sir.”
“You have.”
Silence stretched between us.
Finally he spoke again.
“Why?”
The question surprised me.
No executive had ever asked how I was.
Most didn’t even know cleaners had names.
“My mother passed away,” I answered.
“The funeral home won’t release her body until I pay.”
For the first time, something flickered in his eyes.
Not sympathy.
Recognition.
As if grief was a language he understood but refused to speak.
“How much?”
I hesitated.
“It isn’t your concern.”
“I asked a question.”
I swallowed.
“Five hundred thousand naira.”
He didn’t react.
Didn’t even blink.
Instead, he walked toward his desk and picked up a black folder.
“What would you do if someone offered you exactly that amount today?”
“I would thank God.”
“What if it came with conditions?”
My heartbeat quickened.
“I don’t understand.”
He opened the folder.
Inside lay a contract.
“My grandfather’s will requires me to marry within thirty days.”
He spoke as though discussing tomorrow’s weather.
“If I fail, control of Sterling Group passes to my cousin.”
I stared at him.
Surely he wasn’t serious.
“I have no interest in marriage.”
“I have even less interest in pretending to fall in love.”
He slid the document across the desk.
“So I’m offering you a business arrangement.”
I looked down.
CONTRACT MARRIAGE AGREEMENT
Duration: Twelve months.
Compensation: Five million naira paid immediately, plus housing, education, and healthcare.
Rules:
No romantic expectations.
No interference in each other’s private lives.
Absolute confidentiality.
At the end of one year, the marriage ends.
Cleanly.
Professionally.
“I only need a wife on paper,” he said.
“You need money.”
Our interests happen to align.
I stared at the contract until the words blurred.
Five million.
Ten times what I needed.
Enough to bury my mother with dignity.
Enough to leave debt behind forever.
Yet signing would change everything.
“I don’t even know you,” I whispered.
“You don’t need to.”
“I’ve never imagined marrying a stranger.”
“I never imagined asking one.”
He folded his arms.
“You have twenty-four hours.”
“If you decline, I’ll find someone else.”
He walked back toward the window.
Conversation over.
Decision made.
I picked up the folder with shaking hands.
As I reached the door, his voice stopped me one last time.
“Miss Renee.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
The confidence in his voice sent a strange chill through me.
Because somehow…
I believed him.
Outside the suite, my phone vibrated.
The funeral home.
“We’re sorry, Miss Akinwale,” the receptionist said gently.
“If payment isn’t received by tomorrow morning, we’ll have to transfer your mother’s body to the public facility.”
I closed my eyes.
Tears finally escaped.
Twenty-four hours.
That was all I had to choose between the life I’d always imagined…
and a marriage that existed only on paper.
Little did I know that signing that contract would not only make me Mrs. Adamola…
It would uncover a decades-old family secret, bring two unborn children into the world, and force both of us to confront a truth neither of us was prepared to face.
