Chapter 5

For him, this wasn't just a social visit; it was a merger of blood and influence.

In her bedroom, Fatima sat as still as a statue while a professional stylist draped her in a deep plum-colored atampa gown. The fabric was of the highest quality, a rich wax print with intricate swirls of gold and cream that accentuated her dark, flawless skin. The silhouette was regal—a high, modest neckline with sleeves that tapered perfectly at her wrists. Over her shoulders, she wore a matching plum pashmina, pinned with a single, understated gold brooch she had bought for herself in London.

She looked at her reflection. She looked like a daughter of the elite. But her eyes—cold and defiant—belonged to a woman who was ready for war.

"You look beautiful, Fatima," Amira whispered, standing by the door. Amira was dressed in a soft peach lace gown, having been invited as Fatima’s "support system" for the evening. "But you look like you’re going to an execution, not a dinner."

"In this house, they’re the same thing," Fatima replied, her voice steady. "My father is selling me, Amira. He’s using Ibrahim’s interest to fix his own political standing. He doesn't care that I’ve spent years trying to stay away from men like him."

"Just give him a chance to speak," Amira pleaded. "Ibrahim isn't your father. Even the way he sent those lilies yesterday—"

"He sent the lilies to the restaurant to show he could find me," Fatima snapped, stood up, and adjusted her veil. "It wasn't a gift; it was a reminder of his reach. Let’s get this over with."

Downstairs, the sound of car doors closing signaled the arrival. Ibrahim didn't come with a convoy, but the presence of three pristine, black Mercedes-Benz S-Class sedans was enough to signal the arrival of the danjuma family.

Ibrahim stepped out, looking every bit the Governor and the firstborn son. He wore a midnight blue babban riga paired with a matching cap. His movements were slow and dignified. Beside him was his mother, Hajia Safiya, looking elegant in a dusty rose lace outfit, and his younger brother who just arrived from london for this, come bearing gifts—crates of expensive fruits, sets of designer perfumes, and fabrics imported from the finest mills in Europe.

The meeting in the grand parlor was a masterclass in Arewa etiquette. The men sat on one side, the women on the other. Honorable raji was all smiles, his voice booming with forced joviality as he welcomed Ibrahim’s family.

"We are honored by your presence, Your Excellency," umar said, his eyes darting toward Fatima as she entered the room and knee to greet them then took her seat beside Amira.

Ibrahim’s gaze found her immediately. He didn't look at her with the triumph of a man who had forced a meeting. He looked at her with a quiet, almost apologetic intensity. He noticed the way she gripped her pashmina, the way she refused to look at him directly.

"The honor is ours, Honorable," Ibrahim’s mother said, her voice warm and maternal. She turned her smile toward Fatima. "And this must be the daughter we have heard so much about. The one who has built such a beautiful business in our city."

Fatima offered a polite, practiced smile. "Welcome to our home, Hajia."

The conversation flowed around her—talk of business, the state of the economy, and family histories. But the air between Ibrahim and Fatima was thick with unspoken words. Every time Ibrahim spoke, Fatima felt the resonance of his voice in her chest, a low, masculine vibration that made her heart betray her.