Woke up his wife

Chapter Eight

The way she had him feeling

Tammy was 99% sure that if she had to smile one more time for a camera that night, her face would crack and fall off like a dried sheet mask. And not even the good kind from Sephora—the cheap knockoff ones that smell like expired cucumber.

She had officially survived her first high-society gala, board brunch, and dinner with people who had names like "Lady Olayinka of the Adebajo Dynasty" and "Chief Consultant Ogbuefi the Third." But now, standing beside Jeremy as they entered yet another dinner, she realized rich people didn't rest. Ever. These people didn't know what sleep was. And when they weren't plotting, they were throwing glittery events and calling them "low-key."

"This one's small," Jeremy had said casually that morning.

"Small" turned out to mean a ballroom filled with chandeliers so huge they looked like they could power Lagos for a week. There were five-tiered cakes that probably cost more than her entire CyraCode launch budget, and the dress code said "rich but humble"—which apparently meant designer gowns with thigh-high slits and shoes that looked like golden birdcages.

Tammy adjusted the off-shoulder satin dress Rita and Anjii had picked out for her. She looked like money. She felt like anxiety in heels.

Jeremy leaned down and whispered, "You're staring."

"I'm calculating how many kidney donations I'd need to afford these people's shoes," she muttered.

He chuckled. "Relax."

"That's easy for you to say. You grew up with diamond-encrusted bibs."

"I didn't, actually. Mine were platinum."

Tammy side-eyed him so hard it could've cut glass.

People started coming over. Smiling. Air-kissing. Backhanded compliments flew like confetti.

"Oh, she's so pretty! What part of the mainland is she from again?"

"Her gown is just… so brave. Very… youthful."

"You can tell she's trying."

Tammy smiled through it all, her face stuck in that fake-I'm-so-unbothered mask. She was one snide remark away from throwing hands or wine—whichever landed first.

But then Rita appeared. God bless Rita, fashionista queen and savage slayer of all things shady.

"Ladies," Rita said, looping her arm through Tammy's like they were on a red carpet, "She's not trying. She's already that girl. Maybe y'all should try harder."

The fake smiles froze.

Tammy's lips twitched. "Be nice," she whispered.

"I am being nice. That was the censored version."

Jeremy, watching from a distance, looked weirdly amused. His eyes lingered on Tammy like he was trying to figure her out. Like she was some new version of herself he hadn't anticipated.

Which—fair. She hadn't anticipated this version of herself either. Who was she, being glammed up and clapping back at billionaires? Where did the shy girl from Surulere go?

Probably buried under the layers of Fenty foundation and social survival tactics.

Later that night, back at the mansion, Tammy was in the kitchen stealing cake at 1AM in Jeremy's hoodie (the only thing in that entire wardrobe that didn't feel like it judged her financially). Her hair was in a pineapple puff, she'd ditched the lashes, and for the first time all day, she could breathe.

Jeremy walked in shirtless—because apparently modesty had left the chat—and raised a brow at her.

"I thought I heard noise."

"I thought I'd earned cake."

"Fair."

They stood in silence for a moment, her with a forkful of chocolate, him leaning against the counter looking like the cover of a romance novel titled The Billionaire's Bad Habit.

"Your friends," he said finally, "are intense."

"My friends are loyal."

"Rita terrifies me."

"Good. That means she's doing her job."

He smirked. "So… You're handling things better."

Tammy snorted. "You mean I didn't punch any rich aunties in the face tonight?"

"I mean you owned the room."

She blinked at him.

He looked… sincere?

Tammy shoved another bite of cake in her mouth before she said something soft and foolish like thank you or worse, I'm trying.

Instead, she said, "You can have the corner piece. But only if you stop making those thoughtful compliments sound like compliments."

Jeremy laughed, then took a slice. "Deal."

Somewhere across town, Tayo Coker was doing her own midnight routine—except hers involved plotting, rage-scrolling, and red wine.

Her social feeds were flooded with Tammy. Tammy at the gala. Tammy in Vogue Nigeria. Tammy smiling beside Jeremy like she belonged there. Like she hadn't been a mistake.

Tayo zoomed in on a photo of her sister. Her perfect, smug little smile.

"She's not better than me," Tayo hissed into the darkness.

She pulled out her notebook. Inside were names, times, encrypted phone numbers, and one headline she'd printed and circled in red:

"THE WOMAN WHO STOLE JEREMIAH ADEBAYO"

Except Tammy hadn't stolen anyone.

Tayo had set her up. Tried to ruin her.

But Tammy had landed in gold instead of dirt.

"I gave her poison," Tayo muttered, "and she made a f***ing potion."

Her hand trembled as she scrawled a new note across the page:

Make her fall. And make it public.

Meanwhile, Tammy was up in her room again, now with her laptop open and a hoodie over her head. CyraCode's dashboard glowed. New users. Big clients. An investor had just offered a potential angel round—but only if she came out as the face of the brand.

She wasn't ready. Not yet.

Not while she was still known as Jeremy Adebayo's accidental wife.

A knock came on her door.

She didn't turn. "What?"

Jeremy's voice came through. "I forgot to tell you. My mom wants us to host her friends next week."

Tammy groaned. "Why does she hate me?"

"She hates everyone who isn't her reflection."

"Lovely."

There was a pause. Then:

"You were incredible tonight," he said. "You always are. You just don't see it."

Tammy froze.

"Goodnight," he added quickly. Footsteps faded.

Tammy shut her laptop and leaned back against the headboard.

What the hell was happening?

This man, this fake husband of hers, was becoming... less robotic. Less cold.

And worse—he was starting to feel like a real person.

A real, complicated, frustrating, dangerously charming person.

She pulled the covers over her head.

"Nope," she muttered. "Not today, Satan. Not today."

But in her chest?

Something fluttered.

And that terrified her more than any hacker code ever could.