Zina didn't sleep.
How could she?
Who sleeps after being told they have two days to marry a man colder than winter, with a contract that reads like it was written by ancient spirits?
She paced the room, clutching the "rules" Laila had handed her.
> 1. Never enter the east wing after 3:00 a.m.
2. Do not speak Mr. Umeziri's full name after sunset.
3. Do not touch any mirror in the estate.
4. Do not bleed on the property.
5. Do not open the black door.
Every line sounded like something out of a cursed fairytale.
Her eyes drifted to her phone. ₦10 million. Deposited. Real. Her mother's surgery already scheduled.
And yet, her stomach wouldn't settle.
The Next Morning – Umeziri Corp Legal Tower, Victoria Island
She was back—this time in a black blouse, braids pulled into a bun, makeup just enough to make her look like she wasn't unraveling inside.
The receptionist barely looked up. "Miss Zina Obianuju? Sign here."
Another clipboard. Another signature.
"Please wait. He's finishing a meeting."
She sat, legs crossed, scanning the quiet, sterile space.
Her name was called moments later—not by a voice, but by a man in a black suit with strange, glassy eyes. He led her through the same private elevator.
This time, there were no niceties.
Just silence.
The office was darker than before. Curtains drawn. Candles lit.
Kain stood at the window, sipping dark liquid from a crystal glass.
He didn't turn. "Still thinking of saying no?"
She shrugged, trying to hide her shaking. "I already signed. I'm just wondering if I signed my soul away too."
Now he turned.
"You did."
Her throat went dry.
"But," he added, "you'll keep it… if you obey the terms."
She stepped closer. "What happens if I break one?"
His gaze didn't falter. "You'll find out. And I won't be able to stop it."
She swallowed hard.
He moved to the desk, picked up a silver case, and opened it. Inside was a ceremonial scroll—aged, cracked, but pulsing slightly as if breathing.
He handed it to her. "Tomorrow, this will be read aloud. By midnight, you will wear my name."
Zina held the scroll, unsure if it was paper or something older.
"I have one question," she whispered. "Why me?"
For the first time, something flickered behind his eyes.
"You remind me of someone," he said quietly. "Someone who almost survived."
Zina didn't ask who. She didn't need to. The way his voice dropped—the distant look in his eyes—told her everything. Whoever she reminded him of, they were gone. And if she wasn't careful, she would join them. As she turned to leave, the scroll pressed against her chest like a second heartbeat, ancient and waiting. Tomorrow, she'd become Zina Umeziri. But tonight, she was still Zina Obianuju—and this might be the last night she'd ever be free.