Eni leaned over the counter, sliding their passports across to the ticketing agent.

"Checking in for Flight 203 to Lagos," he said.

The agent flipped through the documents, typed efficiently, then printed boarding passes. "Two tickets to Lagos, Nigeria. Safe travels."

Dami watched the transaction with growing unease. Handing over her passport made it feel irrevocable—no turning back from what they'd set in motion.

The airport hummed around them—announcements echoing, travelers rushing past, the familiar chaos of international departures. In a few hours, they'd be on a plane to Lagos. To her family. To the lie they'd spent two weeks constructing.

"You good?" Eni asked, pocketing the tickets.

"Fine," Dami lied.

"Boss is meeting us at security with the guys," Eni said, checking his phone. "Said he's running late."

Movement caught her eye. Right on cue, Tyrel appeared through the crowd, flanked by four men in dark suits. They moved with military precision, carving a path through the terminal. She recognized two of them from the garage—the ones who'd dragged her from her apartment.

Her stomach tightened.

Tyrel stopped in front of her, assessing her with the same calculating look he'd given her pitch a year ago. "Ready?"

"Are they all coming?" Dami gestured at his entourage.

"You said bring groomsmen."

"I meant friends, not your entire crew."

"These are my friends." His tone made it clear the discussion was over.

Dami bit back a retort. Arguing in the middle of the airport wouldn't help. "My family's going to ask about them. What do I say?"

"Tell them we're close. Grew up together." Tyrel adjusted his cufflinks. "They clean up well. They'll behave."

One of the men—broad-shouldered, with a scar above his left eyebrow—caught her staring and smiled. It wasn't reassuring.

"This is Marcus, Joey, Devon, and Trent," Tyrel said, gesturing vaguely at the group. "They know the plan. They'll play their parts."

"And what are their parts, exactly?"

"Marcus is my best man. The others are groomsmen. They'll smile, dance, and make sure nothing goes wrong."

The way he said "nothing goes wrong" sent a chill down her spine. They weren't just there for show. They were insurance. In case she ran, or the plan fell apart, or—

"Dami." Tyrel's voice pulled her back. "We've prepared for this. Stick to the story."

She wanted to snap back, to remind him that she had more at stake here than he did—her family, her father's trust, everything. But the airport wasn't the place.

"I know the story," she said instead.

"Good." He picked up his carry-on. "Then let's go."

The group moved toward security. Eni fell into step beside Tyrel, the two of them discussing logistics in low voices. Dami trailed behind, suddenly feeling very alone despite being surrounded by people.

Two weeks of training, and she still wasn't ready for this.

The line at the security checkpoint inched forward like honey sliding down glass, sticky with impatience and the clatter of roller suitcases. Dami clutched her boarding pass so tightly the edge cut into her thumb.

Tyrel and his entourage had already vanished beyond the body scanners, moving with the confidence and coordination of men used to getting waved through without question. Even Eni, dragging one of Tyrel's designer carry-ons, had slipped out of sight, leaving her to navigate the last stretch alone.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, bleaching everything into sterile white. Dami exhaled and stepped forward, her nerves fraying from the weight of everything: the fake wedding plan, the money, the looming presence of Tyrel.

She handed her documents to the TSA officer, who barely looked up before gesturing her onward. She murmured a polite "thank you" and moved into the winding queue of travelers shuffling through bins and belts and shoeless protocol.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him.

Bolaji Ibrahim.

Of all the airports in the world, of all the terminals and departure gates, he had to be here.

Same broad frame. Same carefully groomed hairline. Same confident gait. He was placing his laptop into a tray and chatting with the person behind him.

Dami's heart kicked. For a second, she debated pretending not to see him, but he turned at that very moment—and their eyes locked.

His reaction was instant. His face lit up with surprise. "Dami?" he said, stepping slightly out of line. "What… What are you doing here?"

Dami forced a smile that came out more like a wince. "I could ask you the same thing."

He chuckled, pulling her into a quick side-hug, the scent of his cologne brushing the edge of memory. "Heading to Lagos?"

"Yeah."

"Same. Not even December yet—what's the rush? No Detty December this year?"

The truth jammed in her throat. Because I'm about to fake-marry a dangerous man to escape his very real threats didn't exactly roll off the tongue. And if Bolaji was going to Lagos, that complicated things. Their fathers had business ties—long-standing ones. Her dad would absolutely send an invite to the Ibrahims. Which meant Bolaji might very well be at the wedding.

She sighed.

"I'm getting married," she said, the words falling heavier than she expected.

His brows lifted. "Really?" The smile faltered, just enough for her to see the flicker of discomfort before he schooled his expression. "Is he here with you?"

"Actually… yeah. He's way ahead of me now—he has PreCheck. I don't." She tried to laugh, like it was no big deal.

Bolaji opened his mouth to respond, but a security agent stepped forward. "Sir, please step aside for secondary screening."

Bolaji rolled his eyes good-naturedly and turned to her. "Downside of having a Muslim last name. I get flagged every time."

Dami smirked. "Doesn't help that you were born in Kano."

He gave her a mock glare. "Very funny."

A moment later, he was led away by the agent, tossing her a casual, "See you at the gate!"

Dami nodded, biting her lip as she watched him disappear behind the frosted glass partition. She felt strangely lighter after the encounter, though her nerves hadn't quite settled.

The gate was packed when she got there. Passengers in varying stages of pre-boarding malaise milled around the seating area—some dozing, some scrolling, some pacing near the windows. She spotted Tyrel and his crew in a corner, Eni talking animatedly while the others looked bored. Tyrel's eyes found hers across the space, a brief acknowledgment before he returned to whatever Eni was explaining.

She dropped into an empty chair away from them, cradling her phone and trying to make sense of her jumbled thoughts. Bolaji showing up had thrown her off balance. One more complication in an already impossibly complicated situation.

Before she could spiral, a voice crackled over the intercom.

"Passenger Damilola Agbaje, please approach the counter. Damilola Agbaje, kindly approach the counter."

Her stomach dropped. She stood, suddenly hyper-aware of everyone around her, and walked cautiously toward the gate agent. In her peripheral vision, she saw Tyrel straighten, watching.

The woman behind the desk greeted her with a pleasant smile. "Miss Agbaje?"

"Yes?" Dami's voice was tight.

"We've just upgraded your ticket to First Class." The agent handed her a new boarding pass.

Dami blinked. "I'm sorry… what? By who?"

"A Mr. Ibrahim."

A familiar voice answered behind her. "That would be me."

Dami turned sharply.

There he was.

Bolaji stood there, hands in the pockets of his jacket, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips.

"Ahh, you made it!" she said, half-laughing, half-flustered. "Hope they didn't give you a colonoscopy back there."

He chuckled. "Just a light pat-down and a lecture on hydration. I'm fine."

They both laughed, the tension between them momentarily dissolved.

Dami held the new boarding pass in her hands like it was made of glass. "You really didn't have to."

Bolaji shrugged. "Well, your husband-to-be seems too far ahead to notice you're still slumming it in economy."

"Call it a wedding gift.” Bolaji continued. Besides, you look like you could use a friendly face for sixteen hours."

His concern landed with a soft thud in her chest. Over Bolaji's shoulder, she could see Tyrel now standing, his expression unreadable as he watched the exchange. His jaw was tight, hands in his pockets. One of his men—Marcus—leaned close, murmured something. Tyrel shook his head once, sharp. Stay back.

He was letting this play out. But she could feel his attention like a physical weight.

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Because even though she was boarding a plane to Lagos with a dangerous man she didn't love, it had taken one unexpected meeting with her ex to remind her what it had once felt like to be truly seen.

"Thanks, Bolaji." Her voice was softer now, touched with something almost like regret.

"Anytime, Dami." He said it like he meant it.

Movement caught her attention. Tyrel was approaching, his crew trailing behind. His stride was measured, controlled, but there was something sharp in his eyes.

"Everything okay?" Tyrel asked when he reached them, his hand settling possessively on Dami's lower back. The touch was casual, practiced—exactly what they'd rehearsed. But there was pressure behind it, a silent message.

Bolaji's eyes flicked to Tyrel, sizing him up. "You must be the groom."

"Tyrel Booker." He extended his hand. "And you are?"

"Bolaji Ibrahim. Old friend." They shook hands, and Dami watched the subtle tension—two men measuring each other, neither willing to yield first.

"The Bolaji?" Tyrel's tone was pleasant, but his grip hadn't loosened on Dami's back. "Dami's mentioned you."

A lie, but a smooth one.

"Has she?" Bolaji smiled, but his eyes had cooled slightly. "Well, congratulations to you both. This is pretty sudden, isn't it?"

"When you know, you know," Tyrel said easily. He pulled Dami closer. "Right, baby?"

The endearment felt foreign in his mouth, rehearsed yet strangely intimate. Dami forced a smile. "Right."

The overhead speaker crackled. "Now boarding Flight 203 to Lagos. First Class passengers may board at this time."

"That's us," Bolaji said, gesturing toward the jetway. He looked at Dami. "I got us seats together. 2A and 2B. We can catch up properly."

Dami's stomach dropped. She glanced at Tyrel, whose expression had gone very still.

"How thoughtful," Tyrel said, his voice pleasant but his eyes hard.

Tyrel's hand slid from Dami's back, but not before his fingers pressed once—a warning, or maybe a reminder. "I'll be right behind you. Go ahead. Don't keep him waiting."

The dismissal stung. Dami wanted to say something—to explain, to remind him this wasn't her fault—but Bolaji was already at the gate, looking back expectantly.

She walked toward him, hyperaware of Tyrel's eyes on her back. The gate agent scanned their boarding passes with a smile. "Enjoy your flight to Lagos."

As they entered the jetway, Bolaji fell into step beside her. "So…he seems intense. Very... protective."

"He cares about me."

"I'm sure he does." Bolaji's tone was unreadable.

Behind them, Dami heard Tyrel's boarding pass being scanned. She didn't turn around, but she felt his presence—a weight, a warning, a reminder that for the next sixteen hours, she'd be caught between her past and her very dangerous present.

The performance had begun, but the script had just changed.