Dami stood in the doorway of Tyrel's penthouse office, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Elliott Bay, the minimalist furniture that probably cost more than her failed startup, the abstract art on the walls. This was the legitimate face of Tyrel Booker—no baby sharks, no neon signs. Just money, taste, and power.

"You're late," Tyrel said without looking up from his laptop.

"Traffic," Dami lied. She'd actually spent twenty minutes in her car, rehearsing how to tell a ruthless loan shark that he needed to learn how to properly greet a Yoruba elder without offending her entire lineage.

Eni was already there, sprawled on a leather couch with his own laptop balanced on his knees, looking far more comfortable than he had any right to be given the circumstances.

"We have two weeks," Tyrel said, finally closing his computer and giving her his full attention. "Two weeks before we fly to Lagos and convince your family that we're madly in love. So let's start with the basics." He leaned back in his chair. "How did we meet?"

"At your office. When I pitched—"

"Wrong." Tyrel's voice was sharp. "Your father doesn't know you took money from a loan shark turned VC. Try again."

Dami's jaw tightened. "Fine. We met at... a tech conference?"

"Boring. Next."

"A restaurant?"

"Generic."

"Eni introduced us," she said, frustration bleeding into her voice.

Tyrel considered this, then nodded slowly. "That could work. Eni's your childhood friend. He thought we'd hit it off. When?"

"Six months ago?" Dami offered.

"Make it eight. More believable for a whirlwind engagement." Tyrel pulled out a notebook—an actual physical notebook—and started writing. "Where was this introduction?"

"A networking event," Eni chimed in, not looking up from his screen. "One of those tech-meets-finance mixers in South Lake Union. Very professional. Very appropriate."

"And what did I say to you?" Tyrel's eyes locked on Dami's.

She blinked. "What?"

"When we met. What was the first thing I said that made you interested?"

"I... I don't know. You tell me."

"That's not how this works. You're selling this story to your family. What would make your father believe you'd fall for an American?"

Dami thought about her father, about the way he'd built his empire from nothing, about the values he'd tried to instill in her. "You... you asked about my business. Not in a dismissive way, but like you actually wanted to understand it. Most men at those events either hit on me or try to mansplain my own app to me."

Something flickered across Tyrel's face. "Okay. I can work with that."

"And what did I say to you?" Dami asked, surprising herself.

Tyrel's mouth curved slightly. "You told me my tie was crooked and that if I was going to play venture capitalist, I should at least look the part."

"I would never—"

"You absolutely would." He was right. She would.

Eni's fingers flew across his keyboard. "I'm documenting all of this. We'll need to keep our stories straight."

THREE DAYS LATER

"No, no, no." Dami pressed her fingers to her temples. "You don't shake hands with a Nigerian elder. You prostrate."

Tyrel, who'd been practicing a handshake grip, froze. "I'm sorry, I what?"

"Prostrate. You lie flat on the ground as a sign of respect."

"I am not lying on the ground for anyone."

"Then my father will think you're disrespectful, and this whole thing falls apart before we even get to the wedding."

They were in a dance studio Eni had rented for "cultural training," as he'd diplomatically called it. The space was all mirrors and hardwood floors, and watching Tyrel Booker—a man who'd held a gun to her head three days ago—attempt to learn Yoruba etiquette was surreal enough to feel like a fever dream.

"Show me," Tyrel said finally.

Dami demonstrated, dropping smoothly to the ground in a full prostration. "Like this. It's called dobale. Men do it for elders and important people."

"What do women do?"

"We kneel. It's called kunle." She shifted to demonstrate.

Tyrel stared at her on the ground, something unreadable crossing his face. "Your culture really values respect."

"We value hierarchy. There's a difference." She stood, brushing off her jeans. "Now you try."

"I'm wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit."

"Then take off the jacket. You'll be doing this in traditional agbada anyway."

With visible reluctance, Tyrel shrugged off his jacket and lowered himself to the ground. It was awkward, stiff, like watching a panther try to play dead.

"Flatter," Dami instructed. "Your chest should touch the ground."

"This is humiliating."

"This is my culture. Now do it again."

ONE WEEK IN

"Repeat after me," Dami said, pulling up a chair across from Tyrel in his office. "E ku aaro."

"Eh-koo... arrow?"

"Aaro. It means good morning."

"E ku aaro," Tyrel repeated, his pronunciation surprisingly decent.

"E ku osan. Good afternoon."

"E ku osan."

"E ku ale. Good evening."

"E ku ale."

"Not bad." Dami pulled out her phone, scrolling through her notes. "Now, when someone greets you, you respond with the same greeting and add—"

"Hold up." Tyrel raised a hand. "I thought we agreed I'm playing the American fiancé who doesn't speak Yoruba. Why am I learning the language?"

"Because effort matters. If you can greet my father in Yoruba, even badly, it shows respect. It shows you care enough to try."

Tyrel studied her for a long moment. "You really love your father."

It wasn't a question, but Dami answered anyway. "Yes."

"And you're about to lie to him spectacularly."

The words hit like a slap. Dami looked away. "I'm aware."

Silence settled between them, heavy and complicated.

"E ku aaro," Tyrel said finally, his pronunciation careful. "Teach me how to respond."

TEN DAYS IN

The music blasted through the studio speakers—Afrobeats, the bass line infectious and impossible to ignore. Dami moved her hips to the rhythm, demonstrating the shoulder movements that were essential to any proper Nigerian celebration.

"You have to feel it," she called over the music. "It's not just steps, it's... it's joy. It's celebration."

Tyrel stood against the mirror, arms crossed, watching her with an expression somewhere between amused and bemused. "I don't dance."

"You're going to have to. The spray money happens during the couple's dance. If you stand there like a statue, people won't spray."

"I thought they spray regardless."

"They spray more if you're entertaining. If you look happy. Like you actually want to be there."

"I don't want to be there."

"Then pretend." Dami stopped moving, hands on her hips. "You're good at pretending, aren't you? You pretend to be a legitimate businessman. Pretend to care about your investments. This is just another performance."

His jaw tightened. "Careful."

"Or what? You'll shoot me? We both know you need me alive for this wedding."

The air between them crackled with tension. Eni, who'd been DJ-ing from his laptop in the corner, strategically turned the music down.

"Guys," he said nervously. "Maybe we take five?"

"No." Tyrel pushed off the mirror and walked toward Dami. "Play the song again."

Eni glanced between them, then restarted the track.

Tyrel stopped directly in front of Dami. "Show me."

She demonstrated again—the shoulder roll, the hip movement, the way your whole body should feel loose and joyful.

"Now you."

Tyrel attempted the movement. It was stiff, mechanical, like watching a robot simulate humanity.

"Loosen up," Dami said. "You're at a wedding, not a funeral."

"I'm at a fake wedding to collect a debt. Not a lot of joy in that."

"Then think of something that makes you happy."

"Money makes me happy."

"Then imagine swimming in all that spray money. Now move."

He tried again. Still stiff, but marginally better.

Dami stepped closer, and before she could second-guess herself, placed her hands on his shoulders. "Stop thinking. Just feel the music."

Tyrel tensed under her touch. "What are you doing?"

"Teaching you to dance. Drop your shoulders. You're holding all your tension here."

Slowly, incrementally, she felt some of the rigidity leave his body. The music pulsed around them. She guided him through the movement—shoulders first, then hips, keeping the rhythm simple.

"There," she said. "See? You're dancing."

"I'm embarrassing myself."

"You're learning. There's a difference."

She caught his reflection watching her in the mirror, and for a moment, she forgot to be afraid of him. Forgot about the debt, the gun, the threats. She just saw a man trying awkwardly to dance to Afrobeats in a rented studio, and despite everything, it was absurd enough to make her want to laugh.

"What?" Tyrel asked, catching her expression.

"Nothing. It's just... this is insane."

"Which part? The fake wedding, the international fraud, or me learning to dance?"

"All of it." She stepped back, putting space between them. "But mostly the dancing."

Eni cleared his throat from his corner. "For what it's worth, boss," He said carefully, "you're... actually getting better."

"I'm paying you to manage logistics, not provide commentary," Tyrel said, but there was no real heat in it.

DAY TWELVE

They sat around Tyrel's dining table, a spread of Nigerian food laid out before them. Jollof rice, egusi soup, pounded yam, suya, plantains—Eni had ordered from every Nigerian restaurant in Seattle.

"You need to know what you're eating," Eni explained, playing server. "Nothing screams 'fake fiancé' like not recognizing basic Nigerian food."

Tyrel eyed the spread skeptically. "I've had Nigerian food before."

"Suya from a food truck doesn't count, boss."

Dami picked up a piece of pounded yam, demonstrating. "This is pounded yam. You eat it with your hands, roll it into a ball, dip it in the soup, swallow without chewing."

"Without chewing?"

"It's tradition. Just... trust the process."

Tyrel attempted it, his face going through several expressions as he swallowed. "That's... different."

"Welcome to Nigeria." Dami scooped jollof rice onto a plate. "This is the most important dish. There are literal wars fought over whose jollof is better—Nigeria or Ghana."

"And the answer is?"

"Nigeria," Dami and Eni said in unison.

"Obviously," Eni added.

Tyrel took a bite. His eyebrows rose. "Okay, that's actually good."

"Don't sound so surprised," Dami said. "This is party jollof. At the wedding, it'll be even better."

They ate in companionable silence for a moment, and Dami realized with a start that this almost felt... normal. Like they were friends sharing a meal instead of conspirators plotting an elaborate deception.

"Tell me about your family," Tyrel said.

Dami looked up. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. If I'm marrying into this family, I should know what I'm walking into."

She set down her fork. "My father is... he's everything. Self-made businessman, respected in the community. He expects excellence."

"And your mother?"

Dami hesitated. "My mother is... complicated. She's social, loves parties, loves being the center of attention. But with me, she's always been... distant."

"How distant?"

"The kind of distant where she's physically present but emotionally elsewhere." Dami pushed rice around her plate. "She'll love this wedding though. It's the kind of spectacle she lives for."

"Siblings?"

"Two younger brothers. Youngest is Tobi. He's still in high school. The older one Tade. Just graduated. He's in London, works in finance. We're not close."

"Why not?"

"He's my father's son in all the ways I'm not. Business-minded, strategic, never takes risks he can't calculate." She met Tyrel's eyes. "You'd probably like him."

"I doubt it." Tyrel leaned back in his chair. "I don't like people who play it safe."

"Is that why you invested in me? Because I took risks?"

"I invested in you because you reminded me of myself before I learned better." His voice was quiet. "You had that look—like you believed you could bend the world to your will through sheer determination."

"Had?"

"You still have it. Even now, backed into a corner, you're fighting. Most people would've just run."

"I thought about it," Dami admitted.

"I know. That's why I'm coming to Nigeria."

"Flight leaves tomorrow at six PM," Eni said, breaking the tension. "I've emailed you both the itinerary, your cover story, and a list of family members you need to know. Study it tonight."

"And the guest list?" Tyrel asked.

"Three hundred and forty-seven confirmed. Your father went bigger than expected," Eni said to Dami.

"Of course he did." Dami set down her fork, suddenly losing her appetite. "He thinks his daughter is finally getting married."

"Nervous?" Tyrel asked.

"Terrified. You?"

"I don't get nervous."

"Liar."

His mouth quirked. "Maybe a little."

Dami looked at him—really looked at him. Two weeks ago, he'd been a monster holding a gun to her head. Now he was... what? Still dangerous. Still a threat. But also someone who'd learned to prostrate to Yoruba elders, who'd stumbled through Afrobeats dance lessons, who'd eaten pounded yam without complaint.

"Tomorrow, we go to Nigeria," Tyrel said.

"Tomorrow, we become a couple," Dami agreed.

"And in one week, we either walk away rich—"

"Or this whole thing explodes in our faces."

They stood there, two people on the edge of an elaborate lie and a commitment neither of them wanted.

"See you at the airport," Tyrel said finally.

"See you there."

As Dami left the dining table, she caught Eni's expression—worried, knowing, like he could see something she was trying hard to ignore.

"Don't," she warned.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"You're going to Nigeria with a gangster to fake-marry him in front of your entire family. Trust me, what I'm thinking is the least of your problems."

He wasn't wrong.