Later that night, Dami lay in her villa bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment on the beach—Tyrel's fingers on her chin, the way he'd looked at her like she was something more than a business arrangement.

Her phone lit up. Her mother: Everyone's gathering at the beachfront house. Bolaji's family is hosting. We must show face. Get dressed.

Dami groaned. The last thing she wanted was more performing, more pretending. But refusing would raise questions.

She texted back: On my way.

Twenty minutes later, dressed in a simple sundress, she made her way down the beach path toward the sound of music.

***

The beachfront house pulsed with life.

Afrobeats rolled across the night air, carried on the salt breeze. Lanterns strung between palm trees cast golden light over the wide veranda spilling with guests—laughing, drinking, swaying to the music. The sea stretched beyond, black and endless, waves blending with bass.

Dami spotted her mother holding court near the bar, her brothers playing cards on the deck. And there, near the entrance, stood Tyrel with Marcus, both watching the crowd with the casual alertness of men used to assessing threats.

Their eyes met across the space. He moved toward her.

"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked quietly.

"My mother insisted we come. Show face for Bolaji's family."

"Of course she did." He glanced around. "Where is he?"

Dami's eyes traveled upward to the balcony. Bolaji leaned casually against the rail, a drink in one hand, a girl at his side whispering into his ear. He laughed at something she said, tilting closer.

The smile on his face twisted something sharp in Dami's chest. Not jealousy, exactly. But something close to it—the ghost of what they'd been, the reminder of simpler times before everything got complicated.

Tyrel followed her line of sight, his jaw tightening. He didn't like the look on her face—too wistful, too soft.

Without a word, he reached over. His fingers were firm but not rough as he cupped her chin and turned her head away from the balcony. His lips pressed to hers, sudden, claiming.

Heat flooded her, drowning out the music, the laughter, everything but the feel of him. When he pulled back, her breath caught.

"Why—" she started.

"Because he was watching," Tyrel said quickly, his tone clipped, controlled.

Dami knew it was a lie. There'd been no calculation in that kiss, only want. But she let him have his excuse.

They found seats on low wicker chairs at the edge of the crowd, close enough to be present but far enough to observe. Her mother waved from across the veranda, already taking selfies with other mothers. Her brothers were too absorbed in their card game to notice her.

For a moment, Dami let herself breathe. Tomorrow was the wedding. Tonight, she could pretend this was normal—just another party, just another evening.

Then Bolaji made his way down from the balcony, weaving through the crowd until he stood before them, smile sharp as glass.

"Dami," he said, extending a hand. "Dance with me."

She hesitated, glancing at Tyrel, but he only leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. So she took Bolaji's hand.

***

The music shifted, heavier now, as he guided her to the center of the floor.

They moved together, his hand on her waist, hers stiff on his shoulder. Around them, other couples swayed, but Dami felt like they were in a spotlight.

"You're really going through with this?" Bolaji asked, his voice low, his eyes locked on hers.

"Bolaji—"

"A month ago, one of my guys swore he saw you out on a date. With someone who wasn't Tyrel. Now, out of nowhere, you're marrying a man who walks around with armed thugs?" He shook his head. "Too fast. Too dangerous."

Her stomach twisted. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" His grip on her waist tightened slightly. "I've known you my whole life, Dami. I know when you're hiding something."

She opened her mouth to respond—

But Tyrel was suddenly there, slipping between them, his hand firm on her back. "Dance is over."

Bolaji's jaw tightened. "Funny, I don't remember asking you."

"You don't need to," Tyrel replied smoothly. "She doesn't waste her time on men she's already outgrown."

The words were oil to fire. Bolaji's fist connected with Tyrel's jaw in a blur.

Dami gasped.

Tyrel barely staggered, his expression hardening before his own fist arced out, cracking across Bolaji's cheek. Guests around them shrieked, scattering. The music ground to a halt.

"Stop it!" Dami pushed between them, her hands braced on both chests. "Enough!"

They glared over her shoulders, two storms barely contained.

Marcus appeared, pulling Tyrel back. One of Bolaji's friends did the same for him. The crowd buzzed with shock and excitement—this would be the gossip of tomorrow's wedding.

Dami's mother rushed over, her face a mask of concern and fury. "What is the meaning of this? The night before the wedding?"

"It's handled, Mummy," Dami said quickly. "Just... a misunderstanding."

"A misunderstanding?" Asake looked between the three of them, then sighed dramatically. "Men. Always fighting over nothing." She turned to Tyrel. "Come. Let me find ice for that lip."

"I'll take care of it," Dami said, grabbing Tyrel's arm.

She pulled him away from the crowd, through the house, into one of the private guest rooms. The door closed behind them, muffling the resumed music.

***

"You just had to throw a punch back, didn't you?"

Dami dabbed at Tyrel's split lip with cotton wool soaked in antiseptic. He sat on the edge of the bed, broad shoulders tense, jaw set.

"Better than looking like I lost," he muttered.

She rolled her eyes. "We have photos tomorrow. Now you'll look like you brawled your way into marriage."

"Good. Makes it look real."

She paused, meeting his eyes. "Is that what this was? Performance?"

He caught her wrist, his hand warm, firm, holding hers in place. "You tell me. Was watching him with that girl performance?"

"I wasn't—"

"You were." His voice was quiet. "And I didn't like it."

The admission hung between them.

Slowly, he tugged her closer until she was perched on his lap, the cotton wool forgotten.

"Ty—" she started, but his lips were already on hers.

This time, she kissed him back, all pretense forgotten, until his wounded lip twinged and he let out a sharp yelp.

She broke away, startled, then burst into laughter. He joined her, wincing, and for a fleeting moment it felt easy—dangerously easy.

Her phone buzzed, shattering the moment. She glanced down to see her father's name. With a steadying breath, she answered.

"Dami, it's late. You and Tyrel should head back to your villas," Chief Agbaje said warmly. "Get some rest."

"Yes, Daddy," she murmured.

When they stepped out of the room, the party still pulsed around them. Bolaji was at the far side of the veranda, ice pressed to his cheek, his glare like fire across the distance.

Tyrel paused, meeting his eyes across the room. The silent promise in his stare was clear: She's mine.

As they walked out together into the humid night, down the beach path toward their separate villas, Dami felt the weight of both men's gazes burning into her back.

"Tomorrow," Tyrel said quietly.

"Tomorrow," she echoed.

They parted at the fork in the path—him toward the guest villa, her toward the family compound. But before she walked away, he caught her hand.

"Dami."

She turned.

"Whatever happens tomorrow," he said, "we're in this together."

She squeezed his hand once. "Together."

Then she let go and walked into the darkness, carrying the memory of his kiss and the weight of what tomorrow would bring.