The black SUV pulled into an underground garage, tires squealing against concrete. Dami's arms ached where they'd gripped her, but she refused to let them see her wince as they hauled her out.

The space was cavernous and dim, lit by harsh fluorescent strips that buzzed overhead. In the center, leaning against a sleek black car with his arms crossed, stood Tyrel Booker.

He looked different from the man she'd pitched to a year ago. The theatrical sunglasses were gone. No toothpick. No performance. Just cold assessment as his men dragged her forward and released her a few feet from him.

"Ms. Agbaje." His voice was flat, businesslike. "You've been avoiding my calls."

Dami straightened, rubbing her arms where bruises were already forming. "I wasn't avoiding—"

"Three months." He pushed off the car, closing the distance between them with measured steps. "Three months since your loan payment was due. Three warnings. Three missed deadlines."

"Mr. Booker, please, I just need more time—"

"Time?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I gave you a year." His jaw tightened. "I took a chance on you. And this is how you repay me?"

The disappointment in his voice cut deeper than anger would have.

"The app just needs a few more months to gain traction," Dami said, hating how her voice wavered. "User growth is up fifteen percent this quarter, and if I can just—"

"Percentages don't pay interest." Tyrel turned away from her, his hand sliding into his jacket. "You know what my partners are saying? That I went soft. That I let a pretty face and a good pitch make me stupid."

He pulled out his phone, scrolled, then turned it toward her. Her own Instagram stared back—her curated feed of success, carefully angled photos suggesting an office she didn't have, a life she couldn't afford.

"Still selling the dream online, I see." His voice was quiet now, which was somehow worse. "While you owe me two hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars."

The number hit her like a physical blow. Two hundred fifty thousand principal, plus a year of compounding interest.

"I don't have it," she whispered.

"I know you don't." He pocketed his phone and called out, "Eniola!"

"Eniola!" Tyrel called out.

From behind the line of armed men, Eni stepped forward reluctantly, looking uncomfortable in a suit that seemed too formal for him, his eyes widening when he saw Dami.

"Dami?" His voice cracked.

"Your referral," Tyrel said coldly, gesturing at her.

"Go get my silent gun from the car. Bottom right compartment." His eyes never left Dami's face. "Very useful for public situations."

Eni froze. "Boss, I—"

"Now."

Eni disappeared back through Tyrel's men, practically running.

Dami's heart hammered against her ribs. "Tyrel, please—"

"You know what I do to people who steal from me?" He stepped closer, and she could smell his cologne—the same one from that first meeting, when everything had seemed possible. "I make examples."

The wall of men opened again. Eni shuffled back in, holding the gun like it was a soiled nappy, his fingers barely touching it as if it were contaminated. "Eeee God," he muttered under his breath, extending it toward Tyrel at arm's length.

Tyrel snatched it with a glare sharp enough to draw blood, and Eni recoiled.

"It's been a year. No profits." Tyrel's voice echoed off the concrete walls as he checked the chamber with practiced ease. "My equity investment turned into a loan three months ago. Interest is now overdue."

"I—I told you," Dami stammered, words tumbling over themselves. "I thought the app would be making money by now, but... it hasn't."

In a blur, Tyrel closed the distance. His hand clamped around her throat—not choking, but controlling—pressing her back against the cold concrete wall. The muzzle of the gun found her temple. Cold metal. Cold eyes.

"Last chance," he said quietly. "Give me one reason I shouldn't end this right now."

Her mind raced, spinning through options, calculations, desperate mathematics. And then—impossibly—she remembered her cousin's wedding last year. The spray money falling like rain. Her aunt bragging about the haul for weeks afterward.

"Let's get married," she blurted out.

Tyrel's grip loosened slightly. His eyes narrowed. "What?"

 "I mean Eni and I" The words came faster now, tripping over themselves as the idea crystallized. "A Yoruba wedding. Traditional ceremony. In Nigeria."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"In my culture—" She swallowed hard, his hand still at her throat. "During Yoruba weddings, guests spray money on the couple while they dance. Cash. Lots of it. I've heard of brides collecting a million dollars in a single reception."

Tyrel stared at her for a long beat, then released her, stepping back. The gun lowered but didn't disappear.

"You're telling me you want to throw a party to pay off your debt?"

"Not a party. A wedding. My father is Chief Agbaje—he's well-connected. Wealthy friends, business associates. If we do this right, the spray money alone could cover everything I owe you."

Eni shifted nervously by the door. "It's true, boss. It's tradition. People really do go wild with it."

Tyrel turned his gaze on him. "And I suppose you'd be the groom in this scheme?"

"I..." Eni's face flushed. He looked at Dami apologetically. "Sis, everyone back home knows I'm gay."

Dami shot Eni a look that could shatter glass, but pressed on. "It would be a fake marriage. Just the ceremony. No legal paperwork. We collect the money, I pay you back, and we walk away."

Silence filled the garage, broken only by the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant drip of water.

Tyrel lowered the gun, tucking it back into his jacket, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he smiled—not the theatrical grin from their first meeting, but something colder, more calculated.

"No," he said.

Dami's heart sank.

"If anyone's marrying you," Tyrel continued, "it'll be me."