Chapter 1: The Arrival

The air-conditioning in the hired sedan had given up, but Adanna didn’t care. She was buzzing — part nerves, part excitement — and none of it had to do with Lagos traffic. It was about the man she’d agreed to marry.

She and Femi had met eighteen months earlier in a rain-soaked Shoreditch London coffee shop. She was a driven graphic designer finishing a pitch; he was charming and down-to-earth, calling himself “a Nigerian trying to make a difference back home.” They clicked right away: long nights talking, big plans, and a heat between them that felt inevitable. Femi was the only man who’d ever made her think about giving up the tidy life she’d built.

Only after she said yes and agreed to move home did she learn the rest of the truth: Femi Ayodele wasn’t just “a Nigerian man.” He was the heir to the Ayodele conglomerate — the family with its fingers in everything from finance to building projects — and the main power behind the Eko infrastructure deal Adanna’s company desperately wanted. Her love for Femi was real; the deal was the payoff. Now she was here to start both a marriage and a negotiation.

The sedan eased through heavy wrought-iron gates that looked more like a fortress than a home.

A crowd of relatives and staff spilled forward, but Adanna only watched for Femi. He came out last, immaculate in white, looking like he belonged in a picture frame. Seeing him made her heart leap.

He crossed the yard and pulled her into a hug, ignoring the hovering aunties. “Welcome home, my love,” he said, eyes bright with relief. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she whispered, leaning into him. For a moment everything felt right.

Then someone cleared their throat like a warning.

Mama G, the matriarch, stepped forward. Her face was stern; the color drained from Femi’s expression. She nodded at Adanna without the usual pleasantries.

“Your rooms are ready. You will stay in the annex,” she said flatly.

Femi tried to argue. “Mama, we planned the guesthouse—for her privacy, for her work—”

Mama G cut him off. “Work can wait. The Sacred Quarters cannot. This house is a foundation, not a hotel. Before you join as one, you must learn patience, respect, and discipline.”

She pinned Adanna with a cold look. “You will be in the annex, with Femi. You will live by the rules of this house. The ancient rules.”

Femi squeezed Adanna’s hand, asking her silently to stay quiet. “We understand, Mama. We accept,” he said, though his voice sounded defeated.

A housemaid led them to the annex. Femi leaned in and whispered, “It’s three months, darling. The Traditional Bedroom Trial. Nod, smile, and pretend it’s not like a convent. I’ll make it up to you.”

The annex room was old-world pretty: dark carved wood, heavy drapes. But instead of one big bed there were two single beds with a small, exact four-inch gap between them. In the middle of the gap sat a tiny wooden stool like it belonged there.

“Femi, what in Lagos is this?” Adanna hissed. “We’re getting married, not squatting in a boarding school!”

He took a slow breath. “It’s Mama G’s way. It’s supposed to test our intentions. If we can survive three months apart physically, it proves our commitment.”

“Three months?” Her panic flared. The physical closeness had always been the most urgent thing between them.

He pulled her close for a quick, forbidden hug — breaking the new rule before they’d even unpacked. “I mean this,” he murmured, his hands lingering down her back for a second. The old spark flared up. He let go and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“That’s the issue,” he said in a rough voice. “We’ve always been intense. Mama knows. The Trial is meant to strip us down emotionally. If we break the rules — even one kiss in these quarters — the engagement is void. I lose face with the elders. They’ll cancel the contract. Everything.”

Adanna stared at the two beds, then at him. Love mixed with irritation and a challenge.

“So the rule is no physical contact in the quarters,” she said, a half-smile forming. “But not outside.”

Femi’s eyes darkened with a familiar, wicked grin. “You’re impossible. But this place is watched — aunty Ngozi two doors down hears everything. She hasn’t slept since 1982.” He grabbed her smallest suitcase and put it on the bed nearest the door, marking his side.

“For now, we take the public humiliation,” he said, looking at her like he’d vowed revenge. “But we’ll find a way to make this tradition regret the day it tried to control us.”

Adanna laughed, breathy and reluctant. Ridiculous as it was, with Femi standing there, the challenge felt electric. She eyed the tiny gap and his smoldering look.

“Fine. Three months. Let the agony begin,” she said, flinging her jacket onto the sheets. “But if Aunty Ngozi hears one peep from your side, you’re sleeping on the stool.