An hour later, neon lights and pounding music surrounded them in a dimly lit club. A male dancer gyrated on stage, and Dami laughed—genuinely laughed—for the first time all night.

Tyrel sat stiffly beside her, dragging a hand down his face.

"Don't be such a prude," Dami said, yanking his hand away.

His patience was thinning. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, trying to disappear. Until suddenly, weight settled on his lap.

Dami.

Her dress had ridden up, her breath warm on his cheek. "They said the girl strippers are busy," she whispered. "So..."

Tyrel's hands closed firmly around her hips. "And you thought you could fill in?"

She nodded, daring him.

His lips brushed her ear. "Is that so?"

Her teasing stilled the moment she felt him harden beneath her. Her breath caught, panic flickering through the haze. She scrambled off, cheeks blazing.

"I—I'm tired. Big day tomorrow. We should go to sleep. Separately." She stuttered, heading for the exit.

Tyrel leaned back, a slow smile curving his lips.

***

Hours later, Dami paced her bedroom, restless.

She'd sobered up on the drive home, but she couldn't shake the memory of his hands on her hips, the heat of him beneath her, the way his voice had dropped when he'd said is that so?

This was dangerous. This was stupid. This was—

She found herself walking through the garden toward the guest house before she could stop herself.

At his door, she hesitated. This was insane. She should go back. She should—

The door opened.

Tyrel stood there, still dressed, looking like he'd been pacing too. Their eyes met.

He grabbed her without a word, lifting her until her legs wrapped around his waist. Their mouths collided, urgent and hungry, as they stumbled toward his bed.

For a heartbeat, nothing else existed but the heat between them.

Then—

A distant knock. "Damilola? Are you here? Tobi said he saw you come this way."

Her father's voice.

Heart pounding, she scrambled off Tyrel, straightening her dress. He pointed to the adjoining room—a bathroom. She slipped inside just as footsteps approached the guest house door.

Through the crack, she heard Tyrel open it.

"Chief Agbaje. Is everything alright?"

"I'm looking for my daughter. Have you seen her?"

"I think she went for a walk. The garden, maybe?"

A pause. "At this hour?"

"Pre-wedding nerves, perhaps."

Her father's footsteps retreated. "If you see her, tell her I want to speak with her."

"Of course, sir."

The door closed. Dami emerged from the bathroom, her heart still racing.

"That was close," Tyrel said quietly.

"Too close." She moved toward the door. "I should go."

"Dami." He caught her wrist. "What are we doing?"

"I don't know."

"This complicates things."

"I know."

They stood there, the air between them charged with everything unsaid.

"Tomorrow," he said finally. "We travel to the resort. We stay focused."

"Agreed."

But neither of them moved. Neither of them let go.

Finally, Dami pulled away. "I should find my father."

She slipped out into the night, heart still hammering.

***

She found her father on the veranda of the main house, sitting in his favorite chair, looking out at the garden.

"Daddy?"

He turned, his face lined with fatigue but glowing with something else. Pride.

"Come, sit." He patted the chair beside him.

She sat, and he took her hand.

"You know," he began, "when I look at you, I see your mother's stubbornness... but also my own ambition. I am proud of you, Damilola."

The words pierced her like a blade. She forced a smile, but inside she ached.

"The wedding... it is not about the noise, or the guests, or even the dowry. It is about family. And you will always have us. No matter what."

Dami blinked quickly, her chest tight.

"Daddy... I want to talk to you about something."

He turned to her, brows lifting in curiosity.

"It's about the dowry." She hesitated, then pressed on. "I know it's tradition. I know it's expected. But I don't agree with the idea of putting a price on a daughter—on me. It feels like... selling." Her voice shook slightly, but she met his gaze. "I don't want Tyrel—or anyone—paying for me. I want you to eventually return the dowry."

Chief Agbaje studied her face for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. "I understand where you are coming from. Times are changing. And you are not wrong—sometimes tradition must bend to reason."

Relief washed through her.

"Don't worry. I will make sure the dowry is returned to him once the wedding is over."

He squeezed her hand. "You are not for sale, my daughter. Not to me, not to anyone."

She managed a smile, but inside, her heart twisted with guilt. Because if he only knew the truth, he would see that she was already in Tyrel's debt—far deeper than any tradition could measure.

"Go to bed," her father said gently. "Tomorrow we travel. And the day after..." His smile was warm. "My daughter gets married."

She kissed his cheek and retreated to her room, carrying the weight of his pride and her lies in equal measure.