The bachelorette dinner was held at a private dining room in one of Victoria Island's most exclusive restaurants—the kind of place where you needed connections just to get a reservation.

Dami arrived to find it already in full swing. The five bridesmaids—Chioma, Zainab, Ngozi,Temitope and the latest addition Funke—were already there, along with several other girls she barely recognized. The room sparkled with candlelight, champagne flowed freely, and a banner hung over the table: DAMI'S LAST NIGHT OF FREEDOM!

The irony wasn't lost on her. Especially since this was technically not the last night. Tomorrow, they would all be traveling to the beach resort so that they were well situated before the wedding the day after.

"There she is!" Chioma squealed, rushing over with a champagne flute and a gaudy pink sash: Bride-to-Be. "You look amazing!"

Dami had changed into a simple black dress—elegant but understated. Around her, the other women wore variations of the same Instagram-ready aesthetic: bodycon dresses, perfect makeup, hair laid to perfection.

They settled at the table, and Dami scanned the menu. Her appetite shriveled at the sight of Lagos fine-dining prices—₦45,000 for peppered snail, ₦60,000 for grilled fish, sides that cost more than her week's groceries in San Francisco.

"I'll just have the spring roll, please," she murmured when the waiter appeared.

The entire table turned to her in unison—blank stares, raised brows. Even the waiter paused, pen hovering.

"...And water," Dami added quickly.

The silence was deafening. Dami forced a tight smile, smoothing down an invisible wrinkle on her sash as if it might smooth out the awkwardness too.

The conversation swelled again—everyone leaning in to laugh, swap gist, and take selfies. Everyone except Dami.

She sat there, fiddling with her napkin, invisible in the center of her own party. She toyed with her empty water glass, wondering how a bride-to-be could look this out of place.

Her eyes lifted and locked onto one girl across the table.

Funke Ibrahim. Bolaji's younger sister.

Of course. Of course her mother would have invited her.

Funke wore the same smug smile she'd always worn when she knew she was about to land a blow.

"So... my mother tells me you're the CEO of some app in Silicon Valley."

Dami straightened, summoning poise. "Yes. Partiplace. It connects event planners with vendors, caterers—"

"You must be making a lot of money, then."

Dami forced her shoulders to relax. "It's... doing well."

Funke smirked. "Funny. My boyfriend is into the tech scene in Silicon Valley. He says he's never heard of your app before."

The table went still for a beat. Dami's pulse drummed. Words stuck in her throat, a thousand comebacks crashing into each other and dying.

Before she could force out a reply, the waiter returned—not with food, but with the bill. He placed it squarely in front of her.

Her eyes bulged. "Wait. I thought we said we were all paying for our own meals?"

"Oh, come on, Miss CEO." Funke's voice cut like glass. "That's not how we do it here in Nigeria. We don't split bills. Besides, I'm sure you can afford it."

Laughter rippled around the table.

Heat crawled up Dami's neck. She dug her phone out of her bag, thumb hovering over her father's name. No. She couldn't ask him. That would shatter the image she'd worked so hard to keep. She scrolled down—Tyrel's number glared back. Absolutely not.

Finally, she landed on Eni. With a fake smile plastered on her face for the table, she pressed Call.

The waiter lingered, tapping the bill folder with a pen. "Madam, we'll need something from you. Passport. Just so you don't leave without paying."

Dami's stomach sank. Her hand trembled slightly as she slid her passport across the table, the golden crest catching the light.

She plastered a smile on her face, even as humiliation burned her insides.

***

Minutes later, Dami stood at the reception desk.

By the time she saw Eni pull up in the driveway, the restaurant had emptied. The bridesmaids had left in a flurry of air kisses and "see you tomorrow at the resort!"

"I told you someone's coming to pay," she said tightly to the manager.

The manager raised a skeptical brow. The waiter beside him rolled his eyes.

As if on cue, Funke and a few stragglers exited the dining room, their laughter trailing behind them. "Toodles!" Funke trilled, tossing her braids as she brushed past Eni, who was just walking in.

Her smile faltered when she spotted the man behind him.

Tyrel.

"Excuse me," Tyrel said flatly, brushing past Funke without a glance.

Eni shot Dami a look that screamed, You interrupted our night out. "He wanted to see Lagos nightlife. Then you called."

"Oya, where's the bill?" Eni asked the manager.

The slip of paper landed in his hand, and Eni's eyes widened like saucers. "Ah! Did you people buy the whole restaurant?"

"I don't have this kind of money o," he muttered, shoving it toward Dami.

Before she could respond, Tyrel stepped between them, snatched the bill, and glanced at the amount. Without a word, he pulled out a sleek black card and handed it to the manager.

"Thank you, sir," the man said, shooting Dami and Eni a look of pure judgment. Under his breath, he muttered, "Thank God for sugar daddies."

Dami stiffened. "Excuse you. If you must know, that's my husband."

Tyrel's brows arched, his head tilted slightly, his gaze catching hers, holding it with a weight that made her chest tighten. His mouth twitched, like he was amused but keeping the joke to himself.

"I mean... soon-to-be husband," she corrected quickly, then hissed in annoyance.

They left the restaurant, Tyrel striding ahead, Eni trailing behind.

 ***

In Tyrel's car, silence stretched until he finally spoke.

"Looks like Eni is pretty popular in Lagos," he said, nodding toward the cluster of friends who had dragged Eni off to continue the night.

"Unlike me, whose mother had to bribe her friends' daughters to show up to a fake bachelorette dinner," Dami muttered.

He turned, studying her. "You really don't have any friends here?" His voice was low, not mocking—genuinely curious.

Her throat tightened. "After I left for university, I lost touch. Apart from my family and Eni, there's no one."

Her stomach growled then, loud in the quiet car. She winced.

Tyrel smirked. "We just came from a restaurant."

She looked up sheepishly. "I only had spring rolls."

For a moment, his eyes lingered on her face, and something softened there. Without a word, he turned the car toward a roadside buka.

***

Minutes later, she was elbow-deep in smoky jollof and peppered chicken, eating like she hadn't in weeks. Tyrel leaned back, watching her with an expression she couldn't read.

"Clearly you didn't eat much at the restaurant but somehow you still managed to get stuck with the bill," he teased.

She scowled. "I'll pay you back, I promise. You can... add it to my debt."

He shook his head. "Nah. It's on me."

Her fork stilled mid-air. She lifted her eyes slowly to his, searching his face. "You... you mean that?"

He nodded once.

The gratitude that spilled into her chest surprised her. "Thank you." She smiled, and for once it wasn't forced. Her gaze lingered too long on his mouth before she quickly looked back down at her food.

Then, with a shy grin: "So... does this meal count too?"

For the first time since she'd met him, Tyrel laughed. A real, unguarded laugh. It lit up his whole face, changing him from the stone-cold gangster she'd first met into someone startlingly human.

And she couldn't stop staring.

But the softness faded as he grew serious again. "We need to talk about tomorrow. About Bolaji."

Dami sobered. "What's the plan?"

"Stick to our story. No deviations. He's going to be watching every interaction, looking for cracks." Tyrel leaned forward. "If he approaches you, stay calm. Don't get defensive. Answer his questions simply, confidently."

"And if he approaches you?"

"I'll handle it." His eyes were hard now. "But you need to play your part perfectly. Any hesitation, any doubt in your eyes when you look at me—he'll see it."

"I know."

 He softened slightly. "Tomorrow, when we're at the resort, we're on. Constantly.

"I understand."

"Good." He was quiet for a moment. "What do bachelorette parties usually look like in Lagos, anyway?"

She hiccuped a laugh. "The bride's best friends throw a surprise party. Games, food, dancing, all night long."

"I guess it's too late for that, then."

Her eyes glinted mischievously. "Well, it's not too late for a bachelor party."

Tyrel's expression shifted—wary, curious. "What are you suggesting?"

"You'll see." She pulled out her phone, typing quickly. "Consider it payback for rescuing me tonight."

"Dami—"

"Trust me." She looked up at him, her smile genuine despite everything. "For once, just trust me."

He studied her face for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright. Show me Lagos nightlife."

As they drove off into the neon-lit chaos of Victoria Island, Dami felt something shift between them—something dangerous and inevitable, like a wave building before it breaks.

Tomorrow, they'd travel to the resort. The day after, the wedding.

But tonight, for a few stolen hours, they could be something other than debtor and creditor, conspirator and co-conspirator.

Tonight, they could almost be friends.

Almost.