Frankfurt Airport stretched before them like a small city—glass and steel, shops and restaurants, the babel of a dozen languages mixing with gate announcements. After ten hours in the air, the terminal felt both foreign and strangely liberating.

Dami trudged beside Tyrel, dragging her small carry-on and clutching a neck pillow that refused to stay balanced on the handle of her luggage. Every few steps it slid off, forcing her to bend awkwardly, scoop it up, and hook it back again.

She muttered under her breath, half at the pillow, half at her own clumsiness.

Tyrel's stride was smooth, unbothered, his long legs carrying him forward without pause. Behind them, Marcus and the crew kept a discreet distance. Ahead, somewhere in the crowd, Bolaji had disappeared toward the bathrooms.

Then, abruptly, Tyrel stopped.

Before Dami could ask what was wrong, he turned, plucked the offending pillow from her hand, and placed it firmly around her neck. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin just under her jaw as he adjusted the clasp with surprising care.

Dami froze. It was absurd, she told herself, to feel her breath hitch at something so small. But there it was.

Tyrel raised his eyes, catching her startled expression. Without a word, he took the handle of her carry-on from her slack grip.

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

"I'm being nice," he said simply, flashing a smile so wide and boyish it disarmed her.

It was the first time she'd seen him smile like that—without mockery, without calculation. Something unguarded.

Her heart gave a traitorous lurch.

"Five-hour layover," he said, checking his phone as they walked. "Gate's in Terminal 1. We have time."

"Time for what?"

"To eat something that isn't airline food. To stretch." He steered her toward a café with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the tarmac.

They settled into a corner table, far enough from other travelers for privacy. Tyrel ordered coffee in German—smooth, practiced, surprising her.

"You speak German?"

"Enough to get by. Spent some time here a few years back." He didn't elaborate.

The coffee arrived, strong and black. Dami wrapped her hands around the cup, grateful for the warmth.

"Your ex is still watching," Tyrel said without looking up.

Dami resisted the urge to turn around. "Where?"

"Café across the way. He's been there since we sat down."

Her stomach tightened. "What do we do?"

"Nothing. Let him watch." Tyrel leaned back, casual. "Actually, this is perfect. We need to sell this."

Before she could ask what he meant, Tyrel reached across the table and took her hand. His thumb traced circles on her palm—intimate, affectionate, exactly what an engaged couple would do during a layover.

"What are you doing?" Dami asked quietly.

"What we practiced. Now smile at me like you're in love."

She forced a smile, but since his mood was unexpectedly light, she decided to take her chance.

"You know," she began carefully, "there's something else you should understand about Yoruba weddings. The dowry custom."

His brow arched, but he didn't interrupt.

"The groom's family is expected to pay a bride price. It's… symbolic, really, but important. Without it, the union isn't recognized by tradition." She hesitated, then added in a low rush, "It doesn't have to be much, but—"

Tyrel stopped mid-gesture with his coffee cup, setting it down slowly. The easy smile from moments ago vanished. His eyes narrowed, his voice smooth but cutting.

"You mean to tell me," he drawled, "that with all the money you still owe me, I'm now expected to hand your father more money as dowry for your hand in marriage?"

Dami swallowed, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "It's not for me. It's for tradition. If we don't do it properly, people will talk. They'll question the marriage."

"How much?" he cut in smoothly, as though discussing a routine transaction.

She blinked, taken aback by his directness. "It varies. A list of items, money, sometimes both."

He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening, as if weighing whether the request was beneath even his contempt. For a moment she thought he'd refuse, that he'd cut her down with one of his merciless dismissals.

But then he muttered, "Fine. I'll add that to your debt".  His voice carried the clipped finality of a business transaction, not a favor.

The sting of it settled in her chest, but relief came with it. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice softer than she meant.  "I'll make a fuss and have my father return it to you once the wedding is over"

Eni appeared then, looking harried, a bag of duty-free purchases dangling from one arm. "Boss, the guys are getting restless. Joey wants to know if we're eating here or—" He stopped, noticing their clasped hands, and cleared his throat. "Sorry, am I interrupting?"

"Yes," Tyrel said.

"No," Dami said at the same time.

Eni looked between them, clearly uncomfortable. "I'll just... tell them we're eating here. I'll handle it." He disappeared toward another café down the concourse.

The moment broken, Dami tried to pull her hand back, but Tyrel held on.

"Your ex is still watching," he reminded her.

A familiar figure appeared in her peripheral vision. Bolaji, walking toward their café with deliberate steps.

"Incoming," she muttered.

Tyrel followed her gaze, his expression cooling.

But Bolaji was already at their table, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite landing it.

"Dami," he said, barely acknowledging Tyrel. "Can we talk? Privately?"

"We're in the middle of—"

"It's fine." Tyrel released her hand and stood. "I need to check on my guys anyway. Take your time." He walked away, but Dami could feel his attention still on her, watchful even from a distance.

Bolaji slid into the seat Tyrel had vacated. Up close, she could see the exhaustion in his face, the tension in his shoulders.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because everything about this feels wrong." His voice was low, urgent. "You show up at the airport, suddenly engaged to a man I've never heard of. He travels with an entourage. He has his guys intimidate me to take my seat. Dami, what's really going on?"

Her heart hammered. "I told you. We've been dating for eight months. It moved fast, but—"

"Eight months, and you never mentioned him? Not once?" Bolaji leaned forward. "I've known you for years. This isn't you."

"People change."

"Not this much." His eyes searched hers. "If you're in trouble—if he's forcing you to do something—"

"He's not." The lie came easier than it should have. "I love him, Bolaji. I'm sorry if that's hard to hear, but it's the truth."

The word love hung between them, wrong and heavy. She'd never said it aloud before, not about Tyrel. It felt like crossing another line.

Bolaji sat back, something wounded flickering across his face. "Fine. If that's what you want me to believe."

"It's not about what I want you to believe. It's the truth."

He stood slowly. "Your father's a smart man, Dami. I hope he sees what I see." He walked away, leaving her alone at the table with cold coffee and the weight of too many lies.

Tyrel reappeared moments later, sliding back into his seat. "That looked intense."

"He thinks something's wrong."

"Is he going to be a problem?"

"I don't know." Dami pressed her fingers to her temples. "He knows me too well. He's going to keep watching, keep questioning—"

"Then we make sure there's nothing to question." Tyrel stood and extended his hand. "Come on. Let's find our gate."

They walked on in silence until they rounded a corner—and the atmosphere shifted instantly.

The waiting area for the Lagos-bound flight was alive with sound and color, as though a fragment of Nigeria had been transplanted into the sterile airport halls. A woman sat on the floor, balancing a steaming container of amala on her lap. Two men argued passionately about Chelsea's latest match, their voices rising above the din. Another woman stood toe-to-toe with a gate attendant, insisting with unshakable confidence that her clearly oversized bag was "carry-on size, abeg!"

The air was thick with chatter, laughter, and the singsong cadence of Yoruba and pidgin English colliding. It was chaotic. It was home.

Dami stopped at the edge of the scene, her face breaking into a slow, proud smile. "Ah… my people," she whispered to herself, warmth flooding her chest.

Tyrel's easy demeanor faded, his expression tightening as he scanned the scene. To him, it was noise, disorder, the opposite of the carefully curated worlds he was used to. Marcus and the crew exchanged glances, clearly out of their element.

But Dami didn't notice. She was too busy soaking it in, standing taller, feeling her roots wrap tight around her again.

For the first time since this wild plan had begun, she felt a flicker of strength return.

Tyrel stepped closer, his voice low near her ear. "This is your world."

"Yes," she said simply.

"And in a few hours, I'll be standing in front of your father, pretending to belong in it."

She turned to look at him, saw the calculation in his eyes mixed with something else—uncertainty, maybe. Or the realization of just how far from home he was about to be.

"You'll manage," she said. "You always do."

His hand found the small of her back again. "Final boarding in three hours. When we land in Lagos, everything changes. Are you ready?"

Dami thought of her father waiting at the airport. Her mother already planning a spectacle. Her brothers, her family, the entire web of people she'd be lying to.

"No," she admitted. "But I'll do it anyway."

Around them, the waiting area pulsed with energy and life. Somewhere in the crowd, Bolaji watched. Somewhere ahead, Lagos waited with all its complications.

She pulled out her phone. Zero missed calls from her mother. A text from her father: Can't wait to meet him. Safe travels, my daughter.

The guilt twisted in her chest, sharp and unavoidable.

She typed back: We're almost home.

Because that's what this was now—not a homecoming, but a con. And she was in too deep to turn back.