...

A man was in a public transport
And wanted to see the reaction of others....... So he took his phone and dialed a number, place the phone to hisear, And said in a low tune:
Baby, I can't come to you today because I'm in the same public transport with your husband....
I will call you later okey?
I love you!

All the men in the bus demanded,
"Excuse me mister man!!
I want to see the number you just called

Right now, it is hot and heated in the bus......
Even the driver don park
He want to also know the last number the man called.

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BREAKING NEWS: Nigeria has been ranked as the third most powerful military force in Africa according to the 2025 Global Military Strength Index released by Global Firepower (GFP).

“We Have to Pray More, Killings in Borno and Plateau States Not New”— Oluremi Tinubu Urges Nigerians

FIFTY MILLION NIGHTS
PART 3
Time crawled in the gilded cage. The untouched tray of jollof rice sat cold and congealing on the floor near the hidden compartment. The clean white dress remained folded, pristine. Olivia hadn’t moved the sleek black chair. She stood. Or paced. Or sat cross-legged on the freezing stone floor, her back against the unyielding metal door, staring at the impossible view.
She ignored the gnawing hunger. Ignored the scratchy discomfort of her nightdress. Ignored the bone-deep cold. She focused on the city lights, tracing patterns, imagining lives down there – people laughing, arguing, rushing home, completely unaware of the woman trapped fifty floors up.
No one cares. Malik’s words echoed, but they sparked anger now, not despair. He cared. He cared enough to lock her here. Enough to want her broken.
He’d told her to change. To eat. To be a good, quiet asset. By doing nothing, by leaving his offerings untouched, she’d thrown his control back in his face. A silent, stubborn rebellion. Let him see how a distressed asset really looks.
How long would it take him to notice? An hour? Two? The sterile silence pressed in, broken only by the muffled city hum and the frantic drumming of her own heart. Every tiny sound – the faint whir of hidden air conditioning, a distant elevator chime – made her jump. Waiting was its own torture.
Then, it came. The soft, dreaded click of the main suite door. Footsteps. Malik’s footsteps. Measured. Purposeful. Coming straight towards her prison.
Olivia scrambled to her feet, pressing her back against the cold metal again. Her mouth went dry. This was it. The cost of defiance. She braced herself, fists clenched at her sides, chin lifted. Don’t let him see you break.
The electronic beep sounded. The door slid open.
Malik Adebayo stood framed in the doorway. He hadn’t bothered with a jacket again. His white shirt was still crisp, but his tie was loosened. He held a thin tablet in one hand. His dark eyes scanned the room instantly, missing nothing. They flicked past her defiant stance, past the untouched chair, and landed unerringly on the cold tray of food and the pristine, folded dress still sitting in the open compartment.
A beat of utter silence. The air crackled.
Olivia watched his face. That perfect mask of cold control. His jaw tightened, just a fraction. A tiny muscle flickered near the pale scar tracing his cheekbone. His eyes, when they finally lifted to meet hers, were like polished obsidian – hard, dark, and terrifyingly focused. The pleasant, dangerous curiosity from before was gone. Replaced by something colder. Sharper.
He stepped into the room. The door slid shut behind him with its soft, final hiss and click. He didn’t speak. He walked slowly, deliberately, towards the compartment. His polished shoes clicked softly on the stone floor, each step echoing Olivia’s pounding heartbeat.
He stopped beside the tray. Looked down at the uneaten food. Then his gaze shifted to the dress. Unmoved. Untouched. He didn’t pick them up. He didn’t yell.
He just stood there. The silence grew heavier, thicker, more suffocating than the sack had been. Olivia could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him, a physical pressure in the cool room. It wasn’t loud. It was deep, simmering, and infinitely more frightening than shouting.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised his gaze back to hers. "You disobeyed." His voice was low, flat, devoid of any inflection. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, cold and hard.
Olivia forced herself to hold that dark gaze. "I’m not a dog to obey commands," she said, her voice surprisingly steady, though her knees felt like water. "I told you. I’m not your asset."
A flicker of something dangerous sparked in his eyes. He took a step closer. Then another. He invaded her space, stopping barely a foot away. Olivia had to crane her neck to look up at him. The scent of sandalwood and clean, sharp ice filled her senses, mixed with the subtle, expensive smell of his clothes. It was overwhelming. Intimidating.
"Is that so?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper that vibrated through her. He lifted his free hand, not towards her face, but towards the fabric of her nightdress. His fingers hovered near the worn cotton sleeve, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his skin. Olivia froze, breath catching. Was he going to touch her? Force her?
He didn’t. His hand stopped. He let it hang there, a silent, menacing threat. "This," he said, his eyes tracing the thin, slightly torn fabric, the dust on her bare arms, "is defiance? Looking like… this?" His gaze swept down her disheveled state with deliberate, insulting slowness. "Like something dragged from the gutter?"
Shame warred with fury. Olivia felt her cheeks burn. "It’s the truth of what you’ve done," she shot back, her voice trembling now. "You dragged me from my home! This is your asset!"
His dark eyes snapped back to hers, locking on with an intensity that stole her breath. "An asset," he said, his voice dangerously soft, "has value. Cleanliness. Order. Respect for the hand that holds it." He tilted his head, his gaze boring into her. "You look like a broken thing, Olivia Okoro. Worthless. Defiant, perhaps, but broken nonetheless." He leaned in, just slightly. "Broken things," he whispered, the words chilling, "get discarded."
The threat hung in the air, colder than anything before. Olivia felt a fresh wave of terror, icy and paralyzing. Discarded. What did that mean? The cold river? A dark cell? Something worse?
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her defiance wavered, threatened to crumble under the sheer, terrifying weight of his presence and his words.
Then, something shifted. As he looked down at her, his gaze sharp, assessing, it snagged on her face. Not on her defiant eyes, but lower. On her lips. They were dry, slightly chapped from crying, pressed together in a tight line of fear and anger.
Malik Adebayo went utterly still. Not the controlled stillness from before. This was different. Frozen. His intense gaze fixed on her mouth. For a heartbeat, two, the terrifying anger in his eyes flickered. Something else flashed there – raw, unexpected, and gone in an instant. Surprise? Confusion? Something… darker? Hotter? His own lips parted slightly, just a fraction.
Olivia saw it. That crack in the ice. That brief, unguarded moment. It shocked her more than his anger. What was that?
The moment shattered. Malik blinked, and the cold mask slammed back down, harder than before. He straightened abruptly, putting a fraction more space between them, as if burned. The intensity in his eyes was now pure, controlled fury.
"Forty-five hours," he stated, his voice clipped, harsh. He turned away from her, his back rigid. He walked towards the door without another glance. "Enjoy the view. And the silence. You’ll find little comfort in either."
He reached the door. The electronic lock disengaged with its familiar *beep*. The door slid open. He stepped through.
Olivia stood rooted to the spot, heart hammering against her ribs, the echo of his threat – "Broken things get discarded" – warring with the shocking memory of his frozen stare… fixed on her lips.
The door began to slide shut.
Then, abruptly, it stopped.
Malik stood just outside, his back still to her. He didn’t turn. His broad shoulders were tense under the crisp white shirt. He seemed… paused. Hesitant? Angry? Something else?
Olivia held her breath. The silence stretched, thick and charged. What was he doing? What was he thinking?
After a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, Malik’s hand shot out. Not towards her. He slammed his palm hard against the wall outside her room. A sharp, echoing crack of sound. A sound of pure, frustrated fury.
Then, without a word, without turning, he strode away. His footsteps, usually so controlled, echoed down the corridor outside – sharp, hard, and fast. Angry.
The metal door slid shut completely with its soft *hiss* and final click.
Olivia sank slowly to the cold floor, trembling uncontrollably. The untouched food. The clean dress. His terrifying threat. His strange, frozen moment. That slam of his hand against the wall.
He hadn’t hurt her. Not physically. But he’d shown her a glimpse of something… volatile. Uncontrolled. And that moment looking at her lips… what was that?
He was angry. Furious, even. But Olivia Okoro, huddled on the freezing stone, felt a tiny, dangerous spark ignite amidst the fear.
He’s not as cold as he pretends.
He lost control.
He saw something he didn’t expect.
And that slam against the wall? That wasn’t the sound of a man discarding broken things. That was the sound of a man… rattled.
The gilded cage felt different. The air crackled with unspoken tension. The game had just gotten infinitely more dangerous.
Olivia wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the blank metal door. A slow, determined thought cut through the fear: If I can rattle him… what else can I do?
TO BE CONTINUED...

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