The ring light hummed faintly in the corner, casting its glow on Dami's face as Eni leaned in with a steady hand. His brow furrowed in concentration as he blended powder across her cheekbone. Then, with a mischievous grin, he snatched up his phone and snapped a quick photo.

"Oshey! #TYDAM2025!" he hollered, nearly dropping his brush as he did a little shimmy. "Bride of life, see glow!"

Despite herself, Dami laughed. Trust Eni to cut through the tension. But when her gaze flicked back to the mirror, her smile dimmed. The reflection staring back at her looked like a stranger—lashes curled, lips glossed, skin perfected. A woman ready to be celebrated. A woman she wasn't sure she fully recognized.

"You look beautiful," Eni said softly, setting down his brush. "Really, Dami. Stunning."

"Thanks." Her voice came out smaller than she intended.

"You okay?"

"Just... nervous."

"That's normal. Every bride is nervous." He squeezed her shoulder. "But you're going to be amazing. And after today? Freedom."

Freedom. The word felt hollow. What kind of freedom came from lies?

The door clicked open and, for the briefest second, she thought it might be her mother. But no. It was Mrs. Oladipo, gliding in with her ever-present clipboard.

Dami's smile faltered. Of course.

"Good morning, bride," Mrs. Oladipo said briskly. "Your mother sends her regards. She's caught up with guests downstairs."

The words landed like stones. Her mother should have been here. Every Yoruba bride she'd ever known had their mother hovering, praying, fussing, wiping invisible dust from their wrapper. But on her wedding morning, her own mother was absent—just as she had been at every other milestone.

"Of course she is," Dami said quietly.

Mrs. Oladipo either didn't notice the edge in her voice or chose to ignore it. She clapped lightly, and a younger girl stepped forward. "This is Kunbi. She'll be assisting during the ceremony with the spray money collection."

Dami nodded stiffly. Kunbi offered a shy smile, clutching a garment bag.

At Mrs. Oladipo's signal, she unzipped it, revealing the dress.

The nightmare of crooked seams and awkward shapes was gone. The fabric gleamed under the light—layers of aso-oke in shades of coral and champagne, intricate beading catching the glow. Smooth. Regal. Perfect.

Relief washed over Dami, so sharp it almost hurt. "Finally," she whispered.

"The tailor worked through the night," Mrs. Oladipo said, her voice crisp as she ticked another note on her clipboard. "You'll be radiant."

She excused herself quickly, leaving the scent of her perfume in the room.

Dami reached out, fingertips grazing the gown. The dress was perfect now. But the emptiness of her mother's absence clung to her harder than any relief.

"Dami." Eni's voice was gentle. "Your mom... she's just—"

"This is all fake anyways." Dami straightened her shoulders. "Let's get this dress on. We're running out of time."

***

Across the compound, in another suite, Tyrel sat on a low stool.

He was already dressed—green agbada with gold embroidery draped across his broad frame, the fabric pristine. Marcus stood by the window, arms folded, watching the steady stream of guests arriving below.

"Boss," Marcus said carefully, "are you sure you still want to go through with this?"

Tyrel adjusted the sleeve of his agbada, not looking up. "Why wouldn't I?"

Marcus shifted. "All this spectacle, the eyes, the noise. It's risky. You really trust she can pull her end?"

Tyrel reached for his fila cap, smoothing the fabric between his fingers. "I came here for my money. We're not leaving without it."

Something in his tone made Marcus nod, though unease lingered in his eyes. "Everything's ready. The men are positioned. Once the money starts flowing, we collect."

"Good." Tyrel placed the cap on his head, adjusting it with deliberate precision.

"And after?" Marcus asked. "Once we get the money?"

"We leave. Clean exit, no complications."

"What about her?"

Tyrel's hands stilled. "What about her?"

"I mean..." Marcus hesitated. "Are you still planning to—"

A knock interrupted them. Joey stuck his head in. "Photographer's ready for the reveal shots. They want you downstairs."

Tyrel stood, adjusting the folds of his agbada. In the mirror, he looked every bit the groom—dignified, controlled. He slid on his dark sunglasses, the final piece of armor.

"Let's go," he said.

But as he walked toward the door, Marcus caught his arm. "Boss. Be careful."

"Always am."

"I mean it. She's getting under your skin. I can see it."

Tyrel's jaw tightened. "It's handled."

He walked out, leaving Marcus staring after him with worried eyes.

***

The photographer's voice echoed in the high-ceilinged hall.

"Alright, places everyone. We're ready for the reveal."

Tyrel stood at the edge of the grand staircase, his back to the entrance. Around him, family members and early guests gathered with phones ready. Eni hovered nearby, his own camera poised.

The room hushed.

Then murmurs rippled through the crowd as Dami appeared at the top of the stairs.

The transformation was complete. Layers of green and champagne aso-oke shimmered with each movement. Her gele rose like a crown, perfectly wrapped. The beads around her neck caught the light. She looked like royalty.

She looked like a bride.

Dami descended carefully, one hand lifting the fabric slightly, the other trailing the bannister. Her eyes found Tyrel at the bottom of the stairs, waiting.

When she reached him, her hand trembled slightly before she placed it on his broad shoulder. A pat, light as breath.

He turned.

For a moment, the world stilled. Bride and groom, finally facing each other. Her breath caught, his lips parted—neither prepared for how arresting this would feel, how real.

"A little closer please," the photographer urged. "That's it—close together."

They stepped into each other's space, close enough that she could see her reflection faintly in his sunglasses. Close enough that his cologne mingled with the powder on her skin. The air between them was heavy, charged—like even the smallest movement might spark something they couldn't explain away.

Around them, camera flashes popped. Family members cooed. Eni was definitely taking video for Instagram.

"All set?" Tyrel murmured under his breath, careful that no one else heard.

"Yes." She forced her voice steady. "All my dad's wealthy friends have confirmed. I'm estimating about two hundred and fifty thousand in gifts and spray money." She glanced at him quickly. "That should be more than enough."

The photographer circled them, adjusting his lens, snapping in bursts. "Beautiful. Yes, now turn your faces just a little—yes, perfect."

As she shifted, Tyrel's gaze lingered on her, not the camera.

"You look nice," he said quietly.

The words were so simple, so unexpected, she faltered. Her throat tightened. Heat crept up her neck. "Thanks," she managed at last, her voice uncharacteristically soft, almost shy.

She tried to turn her attention back to the camera, her smile bright and practiced. But she could feel him still looking, his presence humming against her skin. And for one wild second, she wished the photographer would leave them—so whatever was stirring between them could take shape without witnesses.

Click after click, the photos captured them—bright smiles, the illusion of joy, but with something unspoken simmering beneath.

"Okay, one more!" the photographer called. "Groom, remove the sunglasses. Let's see those eyes."

Tyrel hesitated, then slowly pulled off the shades.

Their eyes met fully for the first time that morning.

Dami forgot to breathe.

"Perfect!" The photographer's shutter clicked frantically. "That's the one! That chemistry!"

When the session ended, the wedding planner swept in. "It's time. The cars are waiting to take us to the ceremony site."

The spell broke. Handlers moved into place, attendants bustling. Dami was guided toward the waiting vehicle, her dress and gele carefully adjusted one last time. Her feet dragged against the floor as if she could delay the inevitable, unwilling to break the pull that tethered her to him.

And he didn't look away.

They stared at each other even as the car door was opened. Even as she slid inside. Even as the door began to close, their eyes remained locked, the distance between them both unbearable and electric.

Only when the door clicked shut did Tyrel finally blink, sliding his sunglasses back on. The mask returned. Groom. Gangster. Collector.

But beneath it, something new flickered—quick as lightning, hard to name.

Marcus appeared at his elbow. "Ready, boss?"

"Yeah." Tyrel adjusted his agbada one final time. "Let's go get our money."