If we praise God, and this will gladden His Heart.

Oga maybe you should call off the wedding make her eyes clear. Let those her friends show her foreign husband too mtcheww. Women and unnecessary influence

God is righteous and His righteousness demands that we should praise Him.

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 3
The night Jessica met Mr. Scar, the air smelled like danger and expensive cologne.
She had been in the VIP lounge of La Reine, the most exclusive club in Lagos, where rich men paid to forget their sins. Lady Lily had warned her about this job—*"Don’t ask questions. Don’t look him in the eye too long. Just be perfect."
But the moment he walked in, Jessica knew this man was different.
Mr. Scar wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense. His face was all sharp edges—a jagged scar running from his left eyebrow down to his jaw, a souvenir from a life lived in blood. His suit was black, tailored to fit his broad frame like a second skin, and his gold watch glinted under the dim lights.
But it was his eyes that froze her. Dark, calculating, the kind of eyes that saw everything.
He didn’t leer at her like the others. He studied her, like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve.
"You’re new," he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel.
Jessica forced herself to smile, the way she’d been trained. "First time here, sir."
He smirked, swirling his whiskey. "You’re lying."
Her pulse spiked.
For hours, they talked. Not the empty, lust-filled chatter of her usual clients, but *real* conversation—politics, books, even her studies. He listened when she spoke, his gaze never leaving her face.
"Why do you do this?" he asked suddenly.
Jessica hesitated. The truth sat heavy on her tongue—Because my family is starving. Because I have no choice.
But she gave him the practiced answer instead. "Money."
Mr. Scar laughed, but it wasn’t cruel. "Finally, an honest woman."
And just like that, she saw it—the flicker of interest in his eyes.
She had his attention.
And in his world, attention was dangerous.
Three nights later, Jessica was snatched off the street.
A black van screeched to a halt beside her, and before she could scream, gloved hands yanked her inside. A hood was thrown over her head.
When it was ripped off, she was in a warehouse, tied to a chair. A man in a crisp white suit—Mr. Scar’s rival, Kazeem—smiled down at her.
"Pretty thing," he mused, tapping her cheek with a knife. *"Scar likes you. That makes you useful."
Her blood turned to ice.
"Seduce him," Kazeem ordered. "Get the ledger with his black-market deals. Do it, and I’ll pay you triple what he ever could."
Jessica’s mind raced. If she refused, she was dead. If she agreed…
She was playing with fire.
She tried. God, she tried.
For a week, she met Mr. Scar—dinners, late-night drives, even his penthouse. She laughed at his jokes, let him touch her, all while searching for that damn ledger.
But he was smarter than she expected.
One evening, as she pretended to sleep in his bed, she heard him on the phone. "She’s working for Kazeem."
Her heart stopped.
The next thing she knew, a hand fisted in her hair, yanking her up. Mr. Scar’s face was a mask of cold fury.
"You ****** girl," he snarled. "Did you really think I wouldn’t know?"
Terror choked her. "I—I had no choice—"
"Everyone has a choice," he hissed. Then, to the guards looming behind him: "Take her."
The basement was damp; the walls stained with things Jessica didn’t want to think about.
Mr. Scar paced in front of her, his rage a living thing. "I trusted you," he spat, like the words tasted bitter.
Jessica shook, tears streaming. "They threatened me! I didn’t want to—"
"Liar." He backhanded her.
Pain exploded across her cheek. But worse than the sting was the betrayal in his eyes.
And then—
He stopped. Stared at her. Really looked at her.
For the first time, Jessica let him see the truth. The fear. The desperation. The shame.
Something in his expression shifted.
"Who owns you?" he demanded.
She swallowed blood. "No one."
A long silence. Then, slowly, he crouched in front of her, tilting her chin up.
"Wrong answer," he murmured. "Now you’re mine."
TO BE CONTINUED...

My dear value yourself and leave that relationship. Then quote this portion for him. "Isaiah 45:10 Woe unto him that saith unto his father, What begettest thou? or to the woman, What hast thou brought forth?"

it is your time to testify in Jesus name.

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 4
The room was cold.
Jessica sat on the edge of the narrow bed, her arms wrapped around herself, staring at the single barred window high on the wall. The pale light of dawn crept through, painting thin stripes across the concrete floor. She had been here for three days.
Three days since Mr. Scar had dragged her from that basement, his grip bruising her arm, his voice a growl in her ear: "You don’t get to die that easily."
She expected torture. Expected him to break her, to make her scream, to leave her bleeding on the floor like the traitor she was.
But he hadn’t.
And that scared her more.
The room wasn’t a cell, not exactly. It was small, but clean—a bed with stiff white sheets, a bathroom with a shower, even a bookshelf in the corner. The door was heavy steel, locked from the outside. No handles. No way out.
Three times a day, a silent guard slid a tray of food through a slot—rice, stew, fresh fruit. Once, there had been a slice of chocolate cake. Jessica had stared at it, her stomach twisting.
Was this a game?
Mr. Scar hadn’t come to see her. But she felt him anyway—his presence like a shadow under the door, his control absolute.
She was his prisoner.
But she was alive.
On the fourth night, he finally came.
The door opened without warning, and there he stood, filling the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hall. He wore all black, his scarred face unreadable, his gold watch glinting under the dim bulb.
Jessica scrambled back on the bed, her breath catching.
He stepped inside, letting the door slam shut behind him.
"Look at me," he commanded.
She forced her gaze up, her heart hammering. His eyes were dark, furious, but there was something else there—something she couldn’t name.
"Do you know what I do to traitors?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
She swallowed. "You kill them."
"Yes." He took another step closer. "So why are you still breathing?"
She had no answer.
Mr. Scar paced the room like a caged animal, his fists clenched.
"I should have slit your throat the moment I found out," he snarled. "Should have let Kazeem find your body in the river."
Jessica flinched but didn’t look away.
"Then why didn’t you?" she whispered.
He stopped. Turned. Stared at her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.
That was the moment she saw it—the flicker of something in his eyes. Not just anger.
Confusion.
He didn’t understand why he hadn’t killed her.
And that terrified him.
Over the next week, Jessica learned two things:
1. Mr. Scar hated her.
2. Mr. Scar protected her.
No one was allowed near her room. Not his men, not the maids, no one. When one of his guards leered at her through the door slot, the man was gone by morning. Rumor said Mr. Scar broke his fingers.
She was kept fed, unharmed, even given books to read. But the door never unlocked.
And every night, like clockwork, he came.
Sometimes he yelled. Sometimes he just stared at her in silence, his jaw tight, like he was fighting himself.
Once, in a moment of reckless bravery, Jessica asked:
"What are you waiting for?"
His answer was a low growl. "To figure out why I haven’t killed you yet."
Then came the nightmare.
Jessica woke screaming, sweat soaking her shirt, the memory of Kazeem’s knife at her throat still fresh.
The door burst open. Mr. Scar stood there, gun in hand, his eyes wild.
"What happened?" he demanded.
She trembled, unable to speak.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then, slowly, he lowered the gun.
And did something she never expected.
He sat on the edge of her bed.
"Tell me," he said, his voice rough but not unkind.
So she did.
And for the first time, he listened.
As dawn broke, Mr. Scar stood to leave. But at the door, he paused.
"You’re not leaving this room," he said. "But no one will hurt you. Not even me."
Jessica looked up, exhausted, confused. "Why?"
His hand tightened on the doorframe.
"Because I don’t kill what’s mine."
And with that, he was gone.
TO BE CONTINUED...

A leader without competence capacity character and compassion is not a good leader ironically this is what we in Nigeria, leadership is all about responsibility our leaders has failed woefully

WHAT MAKES YOU FILLED THAT, ANYTHING YOU DO DOES NOT REALLY GIVE YOU AN EXPECTED RESULT?
YOUR FAULTY AND YOUR REASONING IT'S WHAT GIVES YOU THE DESIRE RESUIT.
STAY STRONG.

The Lord is good

We went shopping
#satoshiiTv

This week the Lord will put smile in face and bless the works of your hands in Jesus name.