"If you don't walk down that aisle, your mother dies tonight."
The words hit Amara Kingsley like a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs. She froze in the dimly lit corridor of St. Augustine's Cathedral, the heavy scent of incense and fresh lilies choking her. The voice—low, gravelly, unmistakable—belonged to the one man who could make such a threat feel like gospel: Chief Victor Okoye, her late father's former business partner and the shadow that had loomed over her family for years.
Amara's fingers tightened around the bouquet of white roses until thorns pricked her palms through the satin gloves. Blood welled, warm and sticky, but she barely noticed. Her heart hammered so violently she thought it might crack her ribs.
"You're lying," she whispered, but the words came out weak, trembling. She knew better. Victor Okoye didn't bluff. Not when millions were at stake. Not when old debts demanded payment in blood or bondage.
He stepped closer, his tailored black suit absorbing the light like a void. At sixty, he still carried the broad shoulders of the man who had clawed his way from the oil fields of the Niger Delta to the penthouses of Lagos. His eyes, cold and calculating, flicked over her wedding gown—the ivory silk that clung to her curves like a second skin, the veil trailing behind her like chains.
"Your mother's heart condition is worse than the doctors let on," he continued, voice smooth as polished obsidian. "One phone call, and the medication she needs stops. The private clinic closes its doors to her. Or perhaps something more… immediate. A faulty IV drip. An 'accident' in the night. You choose."
Amara's knees buckled. She caught herself against the cool stone wall, the rough texture grounding her for a fleeting second. Her mother, Ngozi Kingsley, lay in that sterile room across town, tubes snaking from her arms, monitors beeping like accusations. The woman who had raised her alone after their father's mysterious death fifteen years ago. The woman who had sold everything—jewelry, land, dignity—to keep them afloat. And now this.
"Why me?" Amara's voice cracked. "Why not just take the company? The land? You already own half our lives."
Victor's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Because your father owed me more than money, Amara. He owed me a legacy. My son needs a wife who carries the Kingsley name—old money, old blood, even if it's tainted now. You marry Eze Okoye today, and your mother lives. You refuse, and she doesn't see tomorrow."
Eze Okoye. The name alone sent ice through her veins. She had seen him only in tabloid photos and grainy society pages: tall, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, always in bespoke suits that screamed power. Lagos's youngest billionaire heir, ruthless in boardrooms, untouchable in scandal. They called him the Ice King behind his back—beautiful, cold, and utterly without mercy. She had never spoken to him. Never wanted to.
And now she was supposed to become his wife.
The organ music swelled from the sanctuary, a deep, mournful prelude that vibrated through the floor. Guests were waiting—politicians, oil magnates, socialites in glittering aso-ebi, all here to witness the union of two dynasties. No one knew it was a transaction sealed in blackmail.
Amara swallowed hard, tasting bile. "You can't force me. This is the twenty-first century. There are laws—"
Victor laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Laws? In this city? You think the police will touch me? Your mother's doctors report to me. The judge who signed your father's old debts still owes me favors. Walk down that aisle, Amara, or carry your mother's corpse to the grave tomorrow."
He leaned in, breath hot against her ear. "And don't think of running. My men are at every exit. Your phone is monitored. Your mother's room is watched. One wrong move, and it ends."
Amara's vision blurred with tears she refused to let fall. She had dreamed of this day once—not like this, not trapped, but with love, laughter, choice. Instead, she was a pawn in a game she didn't understand. Her father's death had never sat right with her—officially a car accident on the Lagos-Ibadan expressway, but whispers said otherwise. Debts. Betrayals. And now, this.
She straightened, forcing steel into her spine. "If I do this… my mother gets the best care. Unlimited. And you leave us alone after the wedding."
Victor studied her, as if weighing her defiance. "You'll be an Okoye. You'll live in my son's world. But yes—your mother's bills will be paid. Discreetly. Forever."
The organ shifted to the bridal march. The doors would open any second.
Amara's mind raced. She could scream. Cause a scene. But what then? Her mother would pay the price. She could faint, delay—but Victor's men would drag her down the aisle if needed. No escape. Not today.
She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. "I hate you."
"Good," he said softly. "Hate keeps you sharp. Now go. Eze is waiting."
He stepped back, gesturing toward the doors like a gentleman. Amara turned, legs leaden, and began the walk she had never wanted.
The heavy wooden doors swung open. Light flooded the corridor—candles, chandeliers, camera flashes. Hundreds of eyes turned to her. Whispers rippled like wind through leaves.
"She's stunning."
"Poor thing looks terrified."
"Such a perfect match."
Amara forced one foot in front of the other. The aisle stretched endlessly, red carpet muffling her steps. At the far end stood Eze Okoye.
He was taller than the photos suggested, easily over six feet, his black tuxedo tailored to perfection. Dark hair swept back, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. His expression was unreadable—neither welcoming nor hostile. Just… waiting. Like a predator who knew the prey had nowhere left to run.
As she drew closer, their eyes met. His were deep brown, almost black, and for a split second something flickered there—curiosity? Recognition? It vanished as quickly as it came.
Amara reached the altar. The priest smiled benevolently, oblivious or uncaring. Eze extended his hand. Large, steady. She placed hers in it, skin against skin like fire and ice.
The ceremony began.
"Do you, Amara Ifeoma Kingsley, take Eze Chukwudi Okoye…"
The words blurred. Amara's pulse roared in her ears. She thought of her mother's frail smile that morning, promising "everything will be fine." She thought of the life slipping away if she said no.
"I do," she whispered.
The lie tasted like ash.
Eze's voice was deeper, calm. "I do."
Rings slid onto fingers—cold gold, heavy with meaning. Vows exchanged like contracts. The priest pronounced them husband and wife.
Eze turned to her. No smile. No tenderness. He lifted the veil with deliberate slowness, as if unveiling a possession. His gaze swept her face—eyes, lips, the tear tracks she couldn't hide.
Then he leaned down.
The kiss was brief, perfunctory. Lips brushing hers like a signature on paper. But even that contact sent an unwanted jolt through her—heat where there should have been only revulsion.
The crowd erupted in applause. Rice rained down. Music swelled.
Amara felt nothing but the iron band around her chest.
As they walked back down the aisle, arm in arm, Eze spoke for the first time directly to her. His voice was low, meant only for her ears.
"This wasn't my choice either."
She glanced up, startled. His face remained impassive, but there was something in his tone—resignation? Warning?
"Then why go through with it?" she hissed.
He didn't answer immediately. They stepped into the sunlight outside the cathedral, cameras flashing like gunfire.
"Because some debts," he said quietly, "can only be paid in blood… or in marriage."
Amara's stomach twisted. There was more to this—more than Victor's threats, more than her father's ghost. Eze knew things. Secrets.
The reception awaited at the Okoye family estate—champagne, toasts, dancing. A performance she would have to endure.
As the car door closed behind them, sealing them in tinted privacy, Eze finally looked at her fully.
"Welcome to hell, Mrs. Okoye."
Amara stared out the window at the receding cathedral, the life she had known vanishing like smoke.
She had walked down the aisle to save her mother.
But something told her the real price was just beginning.