I WAS ERASED BY MY OWN SISTER
PART 3
Nneka’s home was a sanctuary of warmth and success—a spacious modern penthouse in the heart of Lagos, filled with natural light, elegant furniture, and the scent of her luxury skincare products. It was a reflection of her: beautiful, inviting, and full of life.
And now, Ngozi was inside.
Ngozi had arrived with a single suitcase and a smile so sweet it could rot teeth.
"Sis, I just missed you so much," she had said, hugging Nneka tightly at the door. "Living alone has been so lonely… and with your wedding coming up, I thought—why not spend more time with my favorite twin?"
Nneka, ever trusting, melted instantly. "Of course! This is your home too!"
She didn’t see the way Ngozi’s eyes flickered over the expensive decor, the way her fingers lingered a little too long on Emeka’s jacket hanging by the door.
She didn’t see the snake slithering into her paradise.
Ngozi played her role flawlessly.
She woke up early to make breakfast, humming as she set the table. "You work so hard, Nneka. Let me take care of you for once!"
She offered to help with wedding plans, flipping through bridal magazines with exaggerated excitement. "Oh my God, this dress would look stunning on you!"
She even volunteered to test Nneka’s new skincare line, raving about it to her followers online. "My sister is a genius! You all need to try this!"
But behind every smile, every compliment, was a blade waiting to strike.
Ngozi’s first mission? Emeka.
She waited until Nneka was busy with a business call, then "accidentally" bumped into Emeka in the kitchen, spilling her wine on his crisp white shirt.
"Oh no! I’m so sorry!" she gasped, dabbing at his chest with a napkin, her touch lingering just a second too long.
Emeka, ever the gentleman, laughed it off. *"It’s fine, Ngozi. No harm done."
But Ngozi wasn’t done.
Later that night, as they all watched a movie, she made sure to sit a little too close to Emeka, her bare leg brushing against his. When Nneka got up to take a call, Ngozi sighed dramatically.
"I wish I had a man as patient as you, Emeka. Nneka is so lucky… but honestly, I don’t know how you put up with her workaholic ways. She barely has time for you."
Emeka frowned. "She’s just passionate."
Ngozi gave a small, pitying smile. "Of course. But a man like you deserves… more."
The seed was planted.
Nneka’s skincare samples for an important client meeting vanished the night before the presentation. She turned the house upside down, panic rising in her chest.
"Ngozi, did you see the box of Naturé samples? They were right here!"
Ngozi widened her eyes in fake concern. "Oh no! Maybe the cleaner misplaced them?"
But Nneka’s cleaner was meticulous. And Ngozi had been the last one near the samples.
The meeting was a disaster. Nneka had to apologize profusely, her reputation taking a hit.
And Ngozi? She comforted her sister with a hug, hiding her smirk in Nneka’s shoulder.
"Don’t worry, sis. These things happen."
The final blow came at Nneka’s birthday dinner.
Nneka had stepped away to take an urgent call from a supplier, leaving Emeka and Ngozi alone at the table.
Ngozi seized her chance.
She leaned in, her voice a whisper. "Emeka… I’ve always admired you. The way you love my sister… it’s so beautiful." She let her hand rest on his. *"But does she even see how amazing you are? Or is she too busy chasing her next big deal?"
Emeka pulled back, uncomfortable. *"Ngozi, don’t."
But Ngozi wasn’t deterred. With tears glistening in her eyes, she whispered, "I just hate seeing you taken for granted. If you were mine… I’d never let you feel second best."
Just then, Nneka returned, her smile fading as she took in the tense scene.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
Ngozi blinked away her "tears" and laughed lightly. "Of course! Emeka was just telling me how much he loves you."
But the doubt was already in the air.
As the days passed, Ngozi’s schemes grew bolder.
She "accidentally" sent Emeka flirty texts meant for a "mystery man," then gasped in horror when he confronted her. "Oh my God! That was for my friend’s brother! My phone must have glitched!"
She whispered to Nneka’s friends that her sister was "stressed and acting strange lately," planting the idea that Nneka was unstable.
And every night, she lay in bed, replaying her victories with a grin.
Because soon, very soon, Nneka’s perfect life would crumble.
And Ngozi would be there to pick up the pieces.
To Be Continued…)

I WAS ERASED BY MY OWN SISTER
PART 2
Nneka and Ngozi were no longer the teenage girls who once shared a cramped bedroom. Time had shaped them into stunning, elegant women—both beautiful on the outside, but worlds apart where it truly mattered.
Nneka had blossomed into everything their parents had ever dreamed of. She graduated top of her class at the University of Lagos, earning a first-class degree in Business Administration. By twenty-five, she was already a rising star at a top financial firm, managing high-profile clients with ease.
But Nneka didn’t stop there.
Determined to build her own legacy, she launched a luxury skincare line, "Naturé by Nneka," using organic African ingredients. Within a year, her products were stocked in high-end boutiques across Lagos, and her face graced the covers of business magazines.
Yet, despite her success, Nneka remained kind. Humble. Generous.
She never forgot her family, sending money home every month and even paying for her parents’ new house. And whenever Ngozi called—always with a crisis—Nneka answered without hesitation.
"Sis, my rent is due…"
"Nneka, I lost my job again…"
"Please, just this one time…"
Every. Single. Time. Nneka helped.
Because that’s what sisters did.
Ngozi, on the other hand, had taken a different path.
She dropped out of university after two years, blaming "unfair lecturers" and a "toxic environment." She jumped from one job to another—each time getting fired for laziness, tardiness, or attitude.
But in Ngozi’s mind, it was never her fault.
"They just don’t appreciate me."
"Nneka is lucky, that’s all."
"If I had her opportunities, I’d be even better."
The truth? Ngozi didn’t want to work. She wanted wealth, fame, and admiration—*lwithout the effort.
And every time she saw Nneka’s name in the news, every time she heard their parents brag about her, every time a man’s eyes lingered a little too long on her sister—something inside Ngozi twisted deeper.
The jealousy was no longer a spark.
It was a wildfire.
Ngozi had learned to hide her hatred well.
She smiled when Nneka visited, hugging her tightly like the loving sister she pretended to be. She laughed at Nneka’s jokes, complimented her outfits, and even helped distribute samples of *Naturé by Nneka* to her friends.
But behind that dazzling smile, the truth festered.
"Why her?"* Ngozi would seethe in private. "Why does she get everything?"
She watched as men fell over themselves to impress Nneka. Watched as her sister’s business grew. Watched as their parents’ eyes lit up the moment Nneka walked into the room.
And with each passing day, Ngozi’s envy grew teeth.
One evening, Ngozi sat scrolling through Instagram when a post stopped her cold.
It was Nneka—glowing in a sleek red dress, standing beside a handsome, wealthy businessman, "Emeka Okoye". The caption read:
"He asked… and I said YES!"
Ngozi’s blood turned to ice.
Emeka Okoye wasn’t just any man. He was one of Lagos’ most eligible bachelors—young, rich, and powerful. And now… he belonged to Nneka.
Ngozi’s hands shook as she zoomed in on the diamond ring on her sister’s finger. A ring she should have been wearing. A life she should have been living.
That night, as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, an idea began to form.
A dark, dangerous idea.
Because if she couldn’t have Nneka’s life…
Maybe she could take it.
To Be Continued…)

I WAS ERASED BY MY OWN TWIN SISTER
PART 1
Nneka and Ngozi were identical in every way—same face, same voice, even the same birthmark on their left wrist. But that was where the similarity ended.
From the moment they turned thirteen, the differences between them became impossible to ignore. Nneka was the golden child—bright, obedient, and always the first to raise her hand in class. Teachers praised her, boys admired her, and their parents beamed with pride whenever her name was mentioned.
Ngozi hated it.
Every compliment Nneka received was like a knife twisting in Ngozi’s chest. Every award, every smile directed at her sister, made Ngozi’s blood boil. She was tired of living in Nneka’s shadow. Tired of being the "other twin."
And so, she decided to do something about it.
It started with small things—missing earrings, broken plates, stolen money. Each time, Ngozi would wait for the perfect moment, then plant the evidence in Nneka’s room.
"Mama! My new bracelet is gone!" Ngozi wailed one evening, clutching her wrist dramatically.
Their mother, Mama Bisi, sighed. "Did you check everywhere?"
"Yes! I left it on my dresser, and now it’s gone!" Ngozi’s eyes flicked toward Nneka, who was quietly reading in the corner.
Mama Bisi frowned. "Nneka, did you take your sister’s bracelet?"
Nneka looked up, confused. "No, Mama. I haven’t even been in her room."
But Ngozi was already moving. She marched to Nneka’s bed, lifted the pillow, and—just like she had planned—there it was.
"Mama, look!" Ngozi gasped, holding up the bracelet as if it were a murder weapon. "She stole it!"
Nneka’s eyes widened. "I didn’t—I swear I didn’t take it!"
Mama Bisi’s face darkened. "Nneka, how could you? After all we’ve done for you?"
No amount of pleading could save her. Nneka was sent to her room without dinner, while Ngozi smirked behind their mother’s back.
The punishments became harsher. One day, Ngozi spilled ink on their father’s important documents and blamed Nneka. Another time, she stole money from Mama Bisi’s purse and slipped it into Nneka’s schoolbag.
Each time, Nneka would cry, "It wasn’t me! Ngozi is lying!"
But no one believed her.
"Why would Ngozi lie?" their father would snap. "You’re just jealous because she’s more honest than you!"
Ngozi loved it. She loved the way Nneka’s face crumpled in hurt. Loved the way their parents scolded her while praising Ngozi for being "the good one."
But deep down, Ngozi knew the truth—she wasn’t the good one. She was the clever one.
One afternoon, Nneka came home with the highest score in their class. The teacher had written, "Brilliant work!" on her test paper.
Ngozi couldn’t take it anymore.
That night, while Nneka slept, Ngozi crept into her room and tore the test paper to shreds. Then, she took Nneka’s favorite dress—the one their aunt had brought from abroad—and ripped it down the middle.
The next morning, chaos erupted.
"Nneka! What is wrong with you?" Mama Bisi screamed, holding up the destroyed dress.
Nneka stared in horror. "I—I didn’t do this!"
"Then who did? A ghost?" their father roared.
Ngozi stood in the doorway, her face the perfect picture of innocence. "Maybe… maybe she was angry about something," she whispered, planting the seed.
Their parents exchanged glances. That was it.
"Nneka," Mama Bisi said coldly, "you need to learn respect. No dinner for a week. And you’ll pay for a new dress from your savings."
Nneka’s tears fell freely, but Ngozi only smiled.
Because this was just the beginning.
As the years passed, Ngozi’s schemes grew bolder. She whispered lies to their friends, making sure Nneka had no one to turn to. She sabotaged Nneka’s chances at scholarships, stole her crushes, and made sure their parents saw only the worst in her.
And Nneka? She grew quieter. More broken.
But Ngozi wasn’t satisfied yet.
Because one day, Nneka would have something Ngozi wanted. Something Ngozi would take—no matter the cost.
And when that day came, Nneka would pay for being the favorite.
Forever.
To Be Continued…

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
FINALE
The grand villa, once a gilded cage echoing with tension and Amanda’s venomous whispers, had transformed into a sanctuary bathed in golden light and the vibrant hum of genuine joy. The "Welcome Home" party wasn’t just for Jessica; it was a rebirth for the entire household. Paper lanterns, reminiscent of the secret baby shower but multiplied a hundredfold, adorned every archway and balcony, casting a warm, celebratory glow. Lush floral arrangements overflowing with crimson hibiscus, golden birds of paradise, and fragrant white jasmine replaced the sterile opulence. The air thrummed with the infectious rhythms of highlife music and the laughter of Scar’s men – no longer just guards, but an extended family sharing in their leader’s profound relief and happiness.
Jessica stood near the sweeping staircase, a vision in flowing ivory silk. The lingering shadows of fear and hardship were gone, replaced by a radiant serenity that seemed to emanate from her very core. She watched Scar move through the crowd, his usual intimidating presence softened into an almost boyish delight. He greeted his men with firm handshakes and claps on the back, his deep laughter ringing out freely, a sound many hadn’t heard in years. His eyes, however, constantly sought hers, anchoring himself in her presence. Every few minutes, he would weave his way back to her, his hand finding the small of her back, his lips brushing her temple, a silent, possessive reassurance. "Mine. Safe. Home."
Amidst the joyful chaos, Scar spotted Ghost standing near the open terrace doors, a quiet sentinel observing the celebration. Chioma was beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Scar excused himself from a conversation and walked towards them, his expression turning solemn. The music seemed to fade slightly as he approached.
"Ghost," Scar said, his voice low and thick with emotion. He stopped before the man who had been a shadow, a weapon, and ultimately, a savior.
Ghost straightened, his usual impassive mask in place, but his eyes held a flicker of wariness.
Scar didn’t offer a handshake. Instead, he placed both hands firmly on Ghost’s shoulders, a gesture of profound respect and intimacy reserved for the closest of brothers-in-arms. He looked directly into Ghost’s eyes, his own dark gaze unwavering and sincere.
"Words are cheap," Scar began, his voice rough. "But they are all I have right now to express what can never truly be repaid." He paused, the weight of the past months heavy in the silence. "You saved her life. You saved *my son’s* life. When I was blind with rage, walking in darkness, you were the one who held the light. You saw the truth when I refused to. You risked everything – your position, your life, my wrath – to protect Jessica when I couldn’t, when I *failed* her." Scar’s voice cracked slightly. "You brought her back. You kept her safe. You gave me back…" He glanced towards Jessica, his eyes softening, "...everything."
He squeezed Ghost’s shoulders. "My gratitude isn't just for tonight. It’s a debt etched into my bones. You have my loyalty, Ghost, not as an employer, but as a brother. Now and always. Whatever you need, whenever you need it – it’s yours. Without question." He finally released him, stepping back slightly, but the intensity of his gaze remained. "Thank you. For Jessica. For my son. For my life."
Ghost, a man of few words, swallowed hard. The stoic mask fractured, revealing a depth of emotion rarely seen. He gave a single, sharp nod, his voice gruff when he finally spoke. "Just bringing you home to what matters, Boss. To *who* matters." He glanced at Chioma, a softness touching his eyes. "We did it together."
Chioma beamed, tears glistening. Scar nodded, the profound understanding passing between them. He clasped Ghost’s hand firmly this time. "Together," he echoed. The moment solidified a bond forged in fire, stronger than any empire.
Weeks later, the villa was hushed, filled with a different kind of anticipation – sacred and primal. Jessica labored not in a sterile hospital, but in the sun-drenched master suite Scar had transformed into a birthing sanctuary. Chioma, now officially Jessica’s sister and confidante, was her unwavering pillar, alongside a trusted midwife. Scar paced the adjoining sitting room like the lion he was, his usual composure shattered. Every muffled cry from Jessica sent a jolt of terror and helplessness through him. He heard William’s low murmur trying to offer reassurance, but the powerful kingpin was reduced to a bundle of raw nerves, praying to deities he’d long ignored.
Then, cutting through the tense silence, came a new sound – a strong, indignant wail. A sound that stopped Scar’s heart before setting it pounding with a frantic, overwhelming joy. The door opened. Chioma emerged, her face radiant, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Boss…" she whispered, her voice thick. "Come meet your son."
Scar moved as if in a dream, pushing past her into the room. The scent of blood and effort hung in the air, but it was eclipsed by something purer, sweeter. Jessica lay propped on pillows, exhausted but glowing, her face a picture of awestruck love. And in her arms, swaddled in soft white linen, was a tiny, perfect human being. A shock of dark hair, a button nose, and eyes screwed shut as he voiced his displeasure at the bright new world.
Scar approached slowly, his massive frame seeming too large, too clumsy for this fragile miracle. He sank to his knees beside the bed, his eyes fixed on the tiny face. Jessica smiled weakly, shifting slightly. "Sebastian… meet your son. Adebayo Sebastian Scar."
Tentatively, reverently, Scar reached out. His large, scarred hand, capable of such violence, trembled as he gently traced the curve of his son’s impossibly soft cheek. The baby’s cries subsided slightly, tiny fingers unfurling. As Scar’s fingertip brushed that miniature hand, the tiny fingers instinctively curled around it with surprising strength.
The dam broke. A single tear, then another, escaped Scar’s tightly shut eyes, tracing a path down his scarred cheek. A sob, raw and unexpected, ripped from his chest. He bowed his head, his forehead resting gently against Jessica’s arm beside the baby, his shoulders shaking silently. The fear, the rage, the betrayal, the relentless pursuit of power – it all dissolved in the face of this profound, terrifying love. He wept for the man he’d been, for the pain inflicted, for the miracle granted.
"He’s perfect," he choked out, lifting his tear-streaked face to look at Jessica, his eyes blazing with a love so fierce it stole her breath. He placed his other hand over hers where it cradled the baby’s head. "Both of you. My world." He leaned down, pressing the most tender kiss first on Jessica’s sweaty forehead, then on the downy head of his son. "I swear on my life," he whispered, his voice thick with conviction, his gaze locked on the tiny face, "I will protect you. Both of you. With every breath, every drop of blood. Nothing will ever harm you again. You are my heart. My sanctuary. My *everything*." The Lion of Lagos had found his true purpose, not in territory or fear, but in the fierce, unwavering protection of his pride
Four months later, Adebayo was a thriving bundle of energy, his dark eyes already holding a disconcerting echo of his father’s intensity, often softened by a gummy smile that could melt stone. Life settled into a blissful rhythm. Scar embraced fatherhood with a fierce, almost comical devotion, often found pacing the nursery at 3 AM with Adebayo asleep on his broad chest, or conducting business meetings via video call with the baby propped in a sling.
One quiet afternoon, Jessica found Scar in his study, engrossed in building a ridiculously complex block tower for Adebayo, who watched with rapt fascination. Sunlight streamed through the windows. Jessica sat beside him on the plush rug, leaning her head against his shoulder. "He’s getting so strong," she murmured, watching their son grab a block.
"He’s a Scar," Scar rumbled proudly, carefully adding another block. "Strength is in the blood."
Jessica took a deep breath, a secret smile playing on her lips. "Speaking of strength… and blood…" She reached into the pocket of her flowing dress and pulled out a small, familiar plastic stick. She placed it gently on the carpet beside the tower.
Scar froze, his hand hovering over the next block. His gaze snapped from the test to Jessica’s face, then back to the test. Two clear pink lines. His breath hitched. Understanding dawned, slow and then blindingly bright. He dropped the block, ignoring Adebayo’s startled gurgle. He turned fully to Jessica, his eyes wide, searching hers.
"Jessica?" His voice was barely a whisper, filled with disbelief and burgeoning hope.
She nodded, her smile widening, tears sparkling in her eyes. "Another little lion cub. Or maybe a lioness this time. Due in about seven months."
A roar of pure, unadulterated joy erupted from Scar, startling Adebayo, who blinked and then let out a delighted squeal. Scar swept Jessica into his arms, lifting her off the rug, spinning her gently despite her laughing protests. He buried his face in her neck, his laughter mingling with tears of profound gratitude. "Another chance," he breathed against her skin, setting her down but holding her close. "Another miracle. You give me everything, my lioness. Everything."
He kissed her then, deep and slow, pouring all his love, his relief, his awe into the touch. Later that night, after Adebayo was asleep, their reunion was a slow, tender exploration. It wasn't the frantic claiming of the past, nor the desperate passion after Amanda’s exposure. It was a celebration of life, of their enduring bond, of the future stretching bright before them. He worshipped her body, the subtle new curve taking shape beneath his hands, whispering promises against her skin, their movements a beautiful, synchronized dance of love and creation.
Adebayo was six months old, a sturdy, curious baby with his father’s intense gaze and his mother’s gentle smile, when Jessica walked down the aisle. Not in a cathedral, but at dawn on the private, white-sand beach of a secluded Seychelles island. The guests were few but deeply cherished: Her parents, beaming with pride and tearful joy; Chioma and Ghost, holding hands; William, Kola, Musa, and a handful of Scar’s most trusted men, now truly family.
Jessica wore not a traditional white gown, but a stunning creation of layered, whisper-thin ivory silk that flowed like water around her, subtly cinched beneath her breasts to accommodate the gentle swell of her second pregnancy. Her hair was woven with fragrant frangipani blossoms. She carried a simple bouquet of tropical white orchids.
Scar waited for her beneath a canopy woven with vibrant bougainvillea and seashells, barefoot in the sand, wearing crisp white linen trousers and an open-necked ivory shirt. He held Adebayo, dressed in a tiny linen suit, who stared wide-eyed at the ocean. But as Jessica approached, guided by her father, Scar’s gaze locked onto hers. The raw love, the fierce protectiveness, the awe he’d felt holding his son for the first time – it all shone in his eyes, amplified a thousandfold. Tears tracked freely down his face as she reached him.
The ceremony was simple, profound. They spoke vows not written by anyone else, but forged in the fires they’d walked through together. Jessica promised her strength, her unwavering love, and the sanctuary of her heart. Scar vowed his protection, his absolute fidelity, and his endless gratitude for the family she’d given him. He included Adebayo in his vows, promising to be his guide, and placed a gentle hand on Jessica’s belly, whispering a promise to the child yet to come. When they kissed, the rising sun painted them in gold, the turquoise waves their witness.
Their honeymoon wasn't just a vacation; it was a month-long immersion in peace, connection, and the simple joy of being a family. They spent mornings building sandcastles with a delighted Adebayo, afternoons napping in hammocks strung between palm trees, Scar’s hand resting possessively on Jessica’s growing bump. Evenings were spent sharing fresh seafood under the stars, Adebayo asleep in a sling against Scar’s chest, Jessica leaning against his shoulder. They talked – truly talked – about their fears, their hopes, their dreams for their children. They swam in crystal-clear lagoons, explored vibrant coral reefs, and simply existed in a bubble of love, far removed from the shadows of Lagos.
One moonlit night, after settling Adebayo in the villa’s nursery, Scar led Jessica back to the beach. He spread a blanket on the sand, the only sound the gentle sigh of the waves. He pulled her down beside him, wrapping his arms around her from behind, his hands cradling her belly. He rested his chin on her shoulder, looking out at the vast, star-strewn ocean.
"From the slums of Lagos," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble against her ear, "to the devil’s mistress… to my wife. My queen. The mother of my children." He kissed her temple. "My Jessica. My sanctuary."
Jessica leaned back into his embrace, covering his hands with hers on her belly, feeling the tiny flutter within. She looked up at the endless sky, then back at the sleeping villa where their son dreamed. "Our sanctuary, Sebastian," she whispered, turning her head to capture his lips in a tender kiss under the watchful moon. "Built together. Forged in fire. Found in love."
The Lion had found his true kingdom – not in fear or territory, but in the boundless, fiercely protected love of his lioness and their cubs. The Devil’s Mistress had become the Queen of his heart, and their story, scarred but unbreakable, was only just beginning. The future stretched before them, bright as the dawn over the Indian Ocean, filled with the promise of peace, family, and the enduring strength of a love that had conquered hell itself.
THE END

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 17
The air in Ghost’s apartment still hummed with the fading resonance of celebration, but the joyous chaos had settled into a warm, contented quiet. Paper lanterns cast soft, multicoloured pools of light on the worn floor. The scent of jollof rice and sweet puff-puff mingled with the faint, hopeful fragrance of the lilies. Jessica sat nestled in a worn but comfortable armchair, a hand resting on the magnificent curve of her belly, exhaustion and profound happiness etched on her face. Beside her, perched on the armrest, was Sebastian Scar.
He hadn’t left her side since the moment he’d stepped through the door. One arm was draped protectively around her shoulders, his large hand resting possessively on her bump, feeling the powerful, reassuring kicks of his son. His other hand held hers, his thumb tracing slow circles on her knuckles. The cold, hardened kingpin was gone. In his place was a man visibly awash with wonder, tenderness, and a fierce, almost overwhelming protectiveness. He couldn't hide his excitement. A genuine smile, rare and radiant, softened the harsh lines of his face as he watched Jessica accept a final glass of water from Chioma.
"You need to rest, *omoge*," Chioma fussed gently, using the Yoruba term for 'beautiful child'. "All this excitement isn't good for the little warrior."
Scar nodded immediately, his voice unusually soft. "She's right, my love. You've been through too much today." He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple, breathing in her scent – safety, home, *future*. He acted as if she were spun glass, his movements careful, his embrace constant, a physical manifestation of his terror at the thought of her disappearing again. Every time she shifted, his arm tightened infinitesimally; every time she smiled at one of the men, his gaze followed her with possessive adoration. The raw vulnerability he displayed, this public clinging, was as shocking to his men as his earlier rage had been.
As Chioma began gently clearing plates, William stepped forward, clearing his throat. The relaxed atmosphere shifted slightly, a current of solemnity returning. Kola, Musa, Femi, and the others gathered closer, their expressions turning serious, respectful, but also apprehensive.
"Boss," William began, his voice steady but heavy with unspoken weight. "First… on behalf of all of us…" He gestured around the room, encompassing the gathered men. "We owe you and Jessica a profound apology. We hid the truth. We kept Jessica from you. We deceived you." He met Scar’s gaze, which had sharpened but held no immediate anger, only a watchful intensity. "It wasn't disloyalty to you, sir. Never that. It was… it was loyalty to *her*." He nodded towards Jessica. "And to your unborn child. We saw what Amanda was doing. We saw the poison she dripped into everything. We knew she’d kill Jessica if we didn’t act, and likely the baby too. We needed time. Time to gather proof solid enough to shatter her lies and keep Jessica safe while we did it. We chose to protect what we knew mattered most to you, even when you couldn't see it. We beg your understanding… and your forgiveness."
Scar studied William, then slowly scanned the faces of the other men. He saw no defiance, only earnest contrition and the steely resolve that had driven their dangerous gambit. He squeezed Jessica’s hand. "You kept her alive," he stated, his voice low and thick with emotion. "You kept *my son* safe. When I…" He paused, the memory of his own murderous rage towards Jessica a fresh wound. "When I failed to see the truth. That debt outweighs the deception." A collective sigh of relief seemed to ripple through the room. "Now," Scar’s voice hardened, the tender lover replaced by the avenging king. "Tell me everything. Leave nothing out."
William nodded, pulling out a slim tablet. Kola stepped up beside him. What followed was a meticulous, damning reconstruction of Amanda’s treachery.
Kola detailed the digital forensics: "The CCTV deletion wasn't just timed during the chaos, Boss. It was executed using *your* encrypted master credentials, accessed from Amanda’s personal tablet within the penthouse. We recovered the login timestamp and device ID. She had a keylogger planted months ago, likely when she 'accidentally' spilled wine on your old tablet and insisted on getting it 'cleaned'."
Musa spoke next, his voice rough: "The poison, Boss. Aconite. Rare. Traced to a disgraced chemist operating a back-alley lab in Badagry. Amanda visited him twice under a false name in the weeks before… *it* happened. Paid in untraceable crypto. Femi and I tracked him down. He confirmed it was her, described her perfectly, even remembered the red diamond serpent ring she wore. He was… persuaded… to give a recorded testimony." The implication of that 'persuasion' was clear.
Femi added, "The cook, Mama Nkechi. Amanda got to her. Threatened her grandson who was in trouble with some local thugs. Promised to make the trouble disappear if Mama Nkechi wiped *only Jessica’s* favourite coffee cup with a cloth Amanda provided *after* Jessica made the coffee but *before* she handed it to you. Mama Nkechi thought it was just Amanda being spiteful, trying to make Jessica look careless. She had no idea about the poison. She’s terrified, Boss, but she confessed everything when we showed her the threat to her grandson was orchestrated by one of Amanda’s paid street enforcers."
William displayed the evidence on the tablet: the digital logs pinpointing Amanda’s device, the chemist’s shaky video testimony, transcripts of Mama Nkechi’s tearful confession, financial trails leading back to Amanda’s shadow accounts. "She framed Jessica perfectly, sir," William concluded, his voice tight with anger. "Used your trust, your systems, and innocent people as tools. She poisoned you to eliminate Jessica and reclaim her place. She nearly killed you to get what she wanted."
As each piece of evidence slammed home, Scar’s body grew rigid beside Jessica. The tender hand on her belly became a claw, trembling with suppressed fury. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a glacial, terrifying darkness. The image of himself choking, the white foam, the agony – not caused by some faceless enemy, but by the woman he’d once been bound to, the woman who’d shared his childhood, all to destroy the woman he loved and the child she carried. The betrayal was absolute, monstrous.
When William finished, the silence was volcanic. Scar slowly rose to his feet. The gentle protector was gone. The Lion of Lagos, wounded and enraged beyond measure, stood in his place. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look at Jessica, though his hand briefly squeezed hers in a silent promise. He turned, his movements lethally precise, and walked towards the apartment door. He paused only to pick up the heavy black pistol Ghost silently handed him, checking the chamber with a cold, mechanical click that echoed in the stillness.
"Stay with her," Scar commanded Ghost, his voice a low growl that vibrated with pure menace. "Guard them with your life." Then he was gone, striding into the hallway, William, Kola, Musa, and Femi falling into step behind him like shadows of death.
***
The drive back to the villa was a blur of speed and suffocating silence. Scar sat in the back of the armored SUV, staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle pulsed in his cheek. The evidence replayed in his mind – Amanda’s manipulations, the cook’s fear, the chemist’s greed, the deliberate, calculated attempt to murder him and frame Jessica, to destroy his future. Rage, cold and absolute, consumed him.
They stormed into the penthouse. Amanda was lounging on the cream sofa, sipping champagne, dressed in a silk negligee as if expecting a different kind of visitor. The sight of Scar, flanked by his grim-faced lieutenants, his expression murderous, made her freeze mid-sip. A flicker of fear crossed her face, quickly masked by defiant arrogance.
"Sebastian! Darling, what's—" she began, attempting her usual purr.
"Silence." Scar’s voice cracked like a whip. He stopped a few feet away, the pistol held loosely but pointedly at his side. "You poisoned me." It wasn't a question.
Amanda’s eyes widened with theatrical innocence. "Poisoned? Sebastian, have you lost your—"
"Spare me the act," he snarled, taking a step closer. "The chemist in Badagry. Mama Nkechi. The keylogger. The CCTV deletion. Your tablet." He listed the evidence like a death sentence. "You tried to kill me. You framed Jessica. You threatened an old woman’s grandson." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "For *what*? A throne you were never fit to sit on?"
The mask shattered. Amanda slammed her champagne flute down, shattering it on the glass table. She surged to her feet, her beautiful face contorted with venomous rage. "Fit for? That throne was *mine* by birthright! Our fathers promised it! You were *mine*! Then that gutter rat slithered in with her simpering innocence and stole you! Stole *everything*!" Spittle flew from her lips. "Yes, I poisoned you! I wanted you weak, needing me! I wanted her blamed, destroyed, *gone*! And I would have succeeded if it weren't for these *traitors*!" She spat the word at William and the others.
Her eyes, wild and hate-filled, locked onto Scar’s. "You think she loves you? That whore? She’s using you! Just like her mother used men to climb out of the slums! That baby? It’s probably Ghost’s, or some other street—"
The gunshot was deafening in the opulent room.
Amanda screamed, staggering back, clutching her upper left arm where Scar’s bullet had torn through silk and flesh. Blood bloomed crimson, stark against the pale fabric. She crashed onto the sofa, gasping, her face white with shock and pain, staring at Scar with utter disbelief.
Scar stood frozen for a split second, the gun smoking in his hand. The raw, blinding fury that had propelled the shot warred with cold control. Killing her now, in cold blood, would be too easy. Too merciful.
"Get her out of my sight," Scar commanded, his voice icy, his gaze fixed on Amanda’s writhing form with utter contempt. "Take her to the secure clinic. Patch her up. Then lock her in the basement cells. No visitors. No privileges. She lives to face justice. *My* justice." The promise in his voice was more terrifying than the gunshot.
William and Kola moved swiftly, hauling a shrieking, cursing Amanda to her feet. Musa followed, already speaking into his comms to alert the clinic.
Scar watched them drag her away, the crimson stain spreading on the cream upholstery. The rage still simmered, but a profound exhaustion, and a desperate need, washed over him. He needed Jessica. He needed his son. He needed to make amends.
***
He didn’t return to Ghost’s apartment. He sent for Jessica and Chioma, bringing them back to the villa in a heavily guarded convoy. He went straight to the wing housing Jessica’s family.
Jessica’s parents and younger siblings were gathered in their living room, the atmosphere tense with the distant echoes of the gunshot and the sudden flurry of activity. Fear was etched on their faces. When Scar entered, flanked by Ghost (who had stayed glued to Jessica’s side) and William, they flinched.
Scar stopped in the center of the room. He didn’t sit. He looked at Jessica’s mother, then her father, meeting their fearful gazes directly. He saw the strain of months under house arrest, the worry for Jessica, the humiliation.
Then, to their utter astonishment, Sebastian Scar, the most feared man in Lagos, the man who held their lives in his hands, bowed his head. Not deeply, but significantly. A gesture of profound respect and contrition.
"Mr. and Mrs. Adebayo," he began, his voice rough but sincere, devoid of its usual command. "Jessica." He looked at her, standing protectively near her parents, Chioma beside her. "I owe you the deepest, most sincere apologies. Words cannot express the regret, the shame I carry for the suffering you have endured because of my blindness, my failure, and the evil of another."
He took a breath, the weight of his words heavy in the room. "You were brought here for safety, but it became confinement. You lived under guard, separated from Jessica, fearing for her life, fearing for your own, because I believed a lie. I failed to protect Jessica. I failed to protect *you*. I allowed a viper into our home, and she poisoned everything – my body, my mind, and your peace." He looked directly at Jessica’s parents. "The inconvenience, the fear, the suffering you have had to go through… it is unforgivable. But I beg your understanding, and if possible, in time, your forgiveness."
He straightened. "The woman responsible, Amanda, has been dealt with. She will never harm any of you again. Jessica is innocent. She has always been innocent." His voice softened as he looked at Jessica, his hand instinctively reaching towards her belly before stopping himself. "And she carries my son. Your grandson."
He gestured towards William. "Your house arrest is lifted. Effective immediately. These men are no longer your guards, but your protectors. This wing is yours. Come and go as you please. The city is yours. Anything you need, anything you desire, you have only to ask." He met Jessica’s father’s eyes again. "I know trust must be earned again. I will spend the rest of my life earning yours, and Jessica’s, if she allows me."
The silence that followed was thick with shock, relief, and hesitant hope. Jessica’s mother burst into quiet tears. Her father, a proud man weathered by hardship, looked at Scar with a new, cautious measure of respect. He gave a slow, solemn nod. "We suffered," he acknowledged quietly. "But our daughter is safe. Our grandchild is coming. That is what matters now."
Scar nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He turned to Jessica, his eyes filled with a vulnerable plea. She stepped forward, away from her parents, and walked into his open arms. He held her tightly, burying his face in her hair, the horrors of the day momentarily banished by the solid, living reality of her and the life they’d created. Home wasn't just a place; it was this woman, this child, this fragile, hard-won peace reclaimed from the jaws of treachery. The storm wasn't entirely over, but for now, the Lion was home, guarding his den, his mate, and his future cub.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 16
The Lagos heat pressed down like a damp cloth, but within the modest walls of Ghost’s third-floor apartment, a different kind of warmth pulsed – nervous, hopeful, and defiantly joyful. For weeks, William, Kola, and a handful of Scar’s most trusted lieutenants had moved with the precision of a covert operation. Not against rivals, but for Jessica. The secret baby shower was their rebellion, their apology, and their promise.
Chioma had transformed the small living room. Strings of tiny, multicolored paper lanterns crisscrossed the ceiling, casting a warm, dappled glow. Bunches of vibrant orange lilies and purple bougainvillea blooms overflowed from repurposed jars, filling the air with a sweet, hopeful fragrance. A folding table groaned under the weight of steaming pots of jollof rice, fragrant pepper soup, fried plantains, and small mountains of puff-puff. In the corner, a carefully curated pile of gifts grew – tiny knitted booties, soft cotton blankets, hand-carved wooden toys, and practical supplies donated by the men who’d once hunted her. A banner, painstakingly lettered by Chioma, hung crookedly above the food table: "WELCOME LITTLE LION CUB."
Jessica stood in the center of it all, one hand instinctively cradling the immense swell of her eight-month pregnant belly. She wore a simple, flowing dress of deep blue cotton that Chioma had sewn, the fabric straining gently over the curve of life within. Her long black hair was loosely braided, framing a face that held a complex mix of emotions – profound gratitude, lingering fear, and a fierce, protective love that radiated from her. She hadn’t felt this surrounded, this *cherished*, since before the poisoning. Ghost stood near the window, his usual stoicism softened by a rare, almost imperceptible smile as he watched Chioma fuss over Jessica, adjusting the dress and pressing a cool cloth to her forehead.
"We told him we were doing perimeter checks on the new warehouse district," William murmured to Kola, keeping his voice low despite the cheerful chatter of a dozen men awkwardly holding plates of food. "Benji said he had a family emergency down in Port Harcourt. Tunde claimed his mother needed him for a traditional ceremony." He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, a flicker of unease in his eyes. "He bought it… but barely. He’s been like a caged panther these past few days, restless. Feels like he senses something’s off."
Kola nodded, his gaze sweeping the room, landing on Jessica. "It’s worth the risk, Will. Look at her. She deserves this moment. We owe her this." He lowered his voice further. "After tonight… after we show him…" He didn’t need to finish. The plan was set. The evidence against Amanda – meticulously gathered, witness testimonies secured, a timeline of her manipulations laid bare – was locked in a secure case in William’s car downstairs. The baby shower was the calm before the storm, a final act of solidarity before they presented their case and shattered Amanda’s poisonous reign.
The apartment buzzed with an energy that was part celebration, part conspiracy. Men who usually carried the weight of violence and suspicion laughed awkwardly, cooed over the tiny booties, and shared stories of their own children. Chioma moved like a benevolent whirlwind, refilling plates, urging everyone to eat, her eyes bright with tears of happiness for Jessica. Jessica herself felt a warmth seep into her bones, a fragile sense of safety she hadn’t known in months. She accepted a plate of puff-puff from a burly guard named Musa, who blushed furiously when she thanked him.
"This little warrior," Musa said gruffly, nodding towards her belly, "will be strong like his father, and wise like his mother." The simple words, coming from a man who had once been ready to drag her before Scar, brought fresh tears to Jessica’s eyes.
Suddenly, a sharp, insistent knock echoed through the apartment, cutting through the music Chioma had put on – a soft, traditional lullaby.
Everyone froze. The cheerful chatter died instantly. Plates were lowered. Smiles vanished, replaced by wary alertness. Ghost’s hand drifted instinctively towards his waistband. William and Kola exchanged a look of pure alarm. *Too early. No one else was expected.*
"I’ll get it," Jessica said, her voice calm despite the sudden pounding of her heart. She assumed it was perhaps a neighbor Chioma had invited, or maybe one of the men who’d been delayed. She smoothed her dress over her bump and moved towards the door, a welcoming smile already forming on her lips.
She unlocked the door, the cheap metal bolt scraping loudly in the sudden silence, and pulled it open.
The figure standing in the dimly lit hallway wasn’t a neighbor. It wasn’t a late-arriving guard.
It was Sebastian Scar.
He filled the doorway, dressed not in his usual impeccable suit, but in dark trousers and a slightly rumpled black shirt, the sleeves rolled up his powerful forearms. His face was a mask of cold fury, his dark eyes burning with the intensity of a predator who had finally cornered its prey. He’d followed William, his suspicion a coiled spring finally released. He’d seen the men gather here, heard the muffled music, the laughter that felt like a betrayal. He expected secrets, perhaps disloyalty, maybe even Ghost’s treachery laid bare.
He did *not* expect the sight that met him.
Jessica stood before him, bathed in the warm light spilling from the apartment. Her beauty, amplified by pregnancy, hit him like a physical blow. The gentle curve of her cheek, the luminous glow of her skin, the defiant strength in her eyes… and the impossible, undeniable swell of her belly, stretching the soft blue fabric of her dress. It was a reality so profound, so utterly shattering to the narrative of betrayal he’d clung to, that it stopped the breath in his lungs. His furious glare faltered, replaced by sheer, unadulterated shock. His eyes widened, locked onto the visible proof of life – *his* life, intertwined with hers – that pulsed beneath her hands.
"Jessica…?" The name escaped him, a hoarse whisper devoid of its intended rage, filled instead with bewildered awe.
The room behind her was utterly frozen. William had gone pale. Kola looked like he might be sick. Ghost stood rigid, every muscle tensed, ready to spring. Chioma clutched a platter, her knuckles white. The other men looked stricken, caught between loyalty and fear. They braced for the explosion, for the violence Scar was legendary for. They expected him to tear Jessica away, to unleash his wrath upon them all for their deception.
Scar didn’t move. He just stared, his gaze traveling from Jessica’s face, down to the incredible evidence of their child, and back again. The fury that had propelled him here seemed to dissolve, replaced by a wave of emotion so powerful it threatened to buckle his knees – disbelief, a dawning, agonizing understanding, and a surge of raw, possessive love that eclipsed everything else.
Then, he moved. Not with violence, but with a sudden, desperate urgency. He stepped across the threshold, ignoring the terrified men, his focus solely on Jessica. His large, powerful hands, capable of such destruction, came up, trembling slightly, and gently cupped her face. His thumbs brushed away the tears that had begun to spill down her cheeks, his touch impossibly tender.
"My God," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes drinking her in. "You look… you look so beautiful, my love." The endearment, unused for so long, fell from his lips with aching sincerity. He pulled her carefully, oh-so-gently, into his arms, mindful of the precious burden between them. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling her familiar scent mixed with the new, warm sweetness of pregnancy. His arms tightened around her, not to imprison, but to anchor himself to this impossible reality. "I’ve missed you," he murmured against her skin, his voice cracking. "Every single day. Every single breath. Why… why did you run away from me, my little lioness?"
Jessica clung to him, sobs shaking her shoulders, months of fear, isolation, and longing pouring out. "I had to," she choked out, her voice muffled against his chest. "I had to protect the baby… from your rage. From *her*." She lifted her head, her eyes searching his, pleading for understanding. "I didn’t poison you, Sebastian. I swear on our child’s life. I would *never*."
He looked deep into her eyes, past the fear, past the tears, to the unwavering truth he saw shining there. The damning evidence Amanda presented, the deleted footage, the apparent betrayal… it all crumbled in the face of this – Jessica, pregnant with his child, hiding not out of guilt, but out of desperate love. The last vestiges of doubt evaporated.
"I believe you," he whispered, the words a sacred vow. He kissed her then, not with the desperate passion of their reunion after Amanda’s arrival, but with a profound, reverent tenderness that spoke of homecoming, of forgiveness, of a love reforged stronger in the fire of betrayal. It was a kiss that silenced the room, that washed away months of pain and suspicion.
When they finally parted, both breathless and tear-streaked, Scar kept one arm firmly around Jessica, supporting her weight, his other hand resting possessively, protectively, on the curve of her belly. He turned to face the room, his expression no longer furious, but stern, demanding answers.
William stepped forward, his own eyes suspiciously bright. He cleared his throat. "Boss… welcome. We… we planned this for Jessica. For your child." He gestured around the decorated room, the food, the gifts. "But it’s more than a party. We have something else for you. Something crucial."
Scar’s gaze swept over his men, seeing not traitors, but allies who had protected what was most precious to him when he couldn’t see the truth. He gave a single, curt nod.
Kola stepped up beside William. "It was Amanda, sir," he stated, his voice firm and clear, cutting through the lingering tension. "From the beginning. She poisoned you. She framed Jessica."
One by one, the men added their pieces, painting a damning picture. William detailed how Amanda had sourced the aconite weeks before the poisoning through a disgraced chemist she’d paid off. Musa recounted seeing her near the penthouse security server room late on the night *before* Scar fell ill. Another guard, Femi, confessed under pressure how Amanda had subtly threatened his family if he didn’t corroborate her story about Jessica’s behavior. Kola presented digital fragments Ghost had painstakingly recovered – not the full CCTV, but metadata proving the deletion happened remotely from *within* the penthouse network, timed precisely during the chaos, using credentials only Amanda and Scar possessed.
Ghost finally spoke, his voice low but carrying. "I didn’t betray you, Boss. I followed a false trail she laid, knowing I’d be out of the way. When I realized the trap, I came back… not to help Jessica escape guilt, but to save her from being murdered for a crime she didn’t commit. Bringing her here, so close… it was the only way to keep her safe while we gathered proof."
As the evidence mounted, Scar’s face darkened with a chilling, silent fury directed not at Jessica, not at his men, but at the architect of this devastation. He held Jessica closer, his hand tightening protectively on her belly, the gesture speaking volumes.
The baby shower, interrupted by seismic revelation, slowly transformed. The fear melted away, replaced by a profound sense of relief and vindication. Scar, the feared kingpin, stood amidst the paper lanterns and flowers, gently guiding Jessica to a chair, fetching her a plate of food himself, his attention solely on her. He listened intently as the men, now relaxed, resumed their celebration, showering Jessica with well-wishes and playful predictions about the baby’s strength or intelligence. He touched her belly hesitantly at first, then with growing wonder as he felt the powerful kick of his son beneath his palm. A slow, genuine smile, the first in months, touched his lips.
"Strong," he murmured, looking up at Jessica, his eyes shining with a mixture of awe and fierce pride. "Just like his mother." He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I can’t wait to meet him, Jessica. Our son."
The party continued, the music restarted, the laughter now genuine and free. But beneath the celebration, a new tension simmered. Amanda was still out there. And Sebastian Scar, reunited with his lioness and anticipating his heir, had a debt of vengeance to collect. The storm hadn’t passed; it had merely found its true target. The final reckoning with the serpent in their midst was just beginning.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 15
Nine months. The city of Lagos breathed, pulsed, and roared beneath a relentless sun, oblivious to the silent war waged within the gilded cage of Sebastian Scar’s world. Time had scarred over the raw wound of the poisoning, leaving a thick, knotted tissue of suspicion, bitterness, and a haunting absence.
Scar stood at the penthouse window, a tumbler of untouched whiskey in his hand. The view was the same – the sprawling, vibrant chaos of the city he commanded. Yet, it felt alien, muted. Amanda flitted around the living room behind him, the sharp click of her designer heels a constant, grating counterpoint to the silence in his soul. She’d embedded herself like a persistent thorn, a constant presence draped in silks and poisonous concern. She managed his schedule, filtered information, played the devoted caretaker – the role of the wronged fiancée finally vindicated. But her attempts to reignite their past, to seduce him, were met with a cold, impenetrable wall. He tolerated her, used her efficiency, but the chamber of his heart she once occupied was now a locked vault filled only with echoes of betrayal and the phantom scent of jasmine.
Jessica. The name was a ghost that walked the halls. His men – the best trackers, the most connected shadows in the city – had turned Lagos upside down. Rivers dredged, slums combed, borders watched, informants squeezed dry. Nothing. Not a whisper, not a footprint. She and Ghost had vanished as if swallowed by the earth. The frustration was a constant, low hum beneath his rage. He didn’t just want her dead anymore; a deeper, more torturous need had taken root. He needed to *see* her. To look into the eyes he’d once drowned in and demand, with the last breath she’d ever draw, *“Why?”* Why shatter the sanctuary he’d built for them? Why poison the hand that gave her everything? Why betray a love that had thawed his frozen heart? The unanswered question festered, poisoning his days more insidiously than the aconite ever had.
Her family remained a confusing testament to that shattered past. Still under house arrest in the mansion he’d gifted them, guarded by men whose loyalty was now solely to him. Amanda railed against it constantly. "They know something, Sebastian! They’re her blood! They’re laughing at you, hiding her!" she’d hiss, her eyes flashing with malice. But Scar had held firm. "They stay. Unharmed." It was a command born not of mercy, but of a grim, unresolved thread. Harming them felt like closing a door he wasn’t ready to shut, admitting a finality he couldn’t face. Were they hostages for a ghost? Or a lingering, irrational hope that their presence might somehow draw her out? He didn’t know anymore.
Ghost… his betrayal stung with a unique venom. A man forged in the same fires of loyalty, whose silence had always been his strength. He’d reappeared weeks after the poisoning, materializing one night in Scar’s study as if stepping from a shadow. His story was chillingly plausible, delivered with his usual impassive calm. He’d tracked a lead on a rival faction potentially linked to the poison, deep into the Niger Delta. Communications compromised. Ambushed. Left for dead. He’d only just recovered. He vehemently denied helping Jessica escape. "Boss, I would die before betraying you. She must have had other help, or she was far more resourceful than we knew. I failed you. I should have been there." The explanation was tight, logical. Scar had stared into Ghost’s unreadable eyes, searching for a flicker of deceit. He found none. But the absence of proof wasn’t proof of innocence, and a seed of doubt, carefully nurtured by Amanda’s whispers, remained. Ghost was reinstated, his duties curtailed, watched.
Meanwhile, miles away yet impossibly close, hidden in a modest, unremarkable apartment building just five streets from the towering opulence of Scar’s villa, Jessica lived in the fragile eye of the storm. Ghost’s gamble had been audacious. Bringing her back to the lion’s den, to a safehouse nestled within the very territory crawling with men hunting her. It was a move born of necessity and audacious strategy – the last place Scar would think to look.
Jessica’s world was confined to three small rooms. The weight she carried now wasn't just fear, but the profound, undeniable swell of her pregnancy. Eight months. Her body was a landscape of taut skin, aching bones, and the ceaseless, miraculous flutter of life within. Chioma, Ghost’s fiercely protective fiancée, was her anchor, her midwife, her confidante. She tended to Jessica with quiet competence, brewing herbal teas for the swelling in her ankles, massaging the knots from her back, her eyes holding a constant, watchful worry.
The apartment was a world away from the penthouse luxury, filled with the smell of simmering stews and the sound of distant city life filtering through thin walls. Jessica spent her days by a small window overlooking a dusty courtyard, her hands often resting on the hard curve of her belly. She traced patterns, whispered secrets to the life inside – stories of its father, not the man baying for her blood, but the man who had held her like she was the world, who had whispered love against her skin. "Your Papa, Sebastian," she’d murmur, tears often blurring her vision. "He’s strong. He’s brave. And he’s lost right now. But we’ll find him, little one. We’ll make him see."
Fear was a constant companion. Every footstep on the stairwell, every raised voice in the courtyard, sent her heart racing. But it was tempered now by a ferocious, maternal resolve. She carried Scar’s heir. This child was her truth, her weapon, her reason to fight. She couldn’t run forever. She had to clear her name, for herself, for her child, and for the man whose love had created this life, even if he now sought to end hers.
Unbeknownst to Jessica and Scar, a quiet revolution was brewing among the ranks. William, Scar’s steadfast second-in-command, had become the epicenter of doubt. The initial rage had cooled, replaced by cold logic and gnawing inconsistencies. The missing CCTV footage – too clean, too convenient. Amanda’s constant presence, her manipulation of information, her eagerness to see Jessica’s family harmed. Ghost’s improbable, yet unchallenged, alibi. And Jessica… the girl from the slums who’d fought tooth and nail for an education, who’d sent money home religiously, who’d looked at Scar with an adoration William had never seen in Amanda’s calculating eyes. Did that woman poison the man she loved?
William began cautiously. Late-night meetings in secure garages, hushed conversations with other senior lieutenants – men who’d witnessed Jessica’s quiet strength, who remembered Scar’s transformation when she was near. Men like Kola, the head of security, who’d privately questioned the lack of physical evidence tying Jessica to the poison beyond proximity. Slowly, carefully, a network of doubt solidified into a conspiracy of truth. They shared fragments: Amanda making unexplained calls before the poisoning, her subtle influence over certain guards, her unnatural calm amidst the chaos. They couldn’t prove anything yet, but the conviction grew – Jessica was innocent. Amanda had orchestrated it all. And Ghost… his role was still murky, but his return and Jessica’s continued disappearance pointed towards something more complex than betrayal.
Their plan was dangerous, embryonic. Gather irrefutable proof. Find Jessica. Expose Amanda before she consolidated her power or eliminated them. They moved like shadows within shadows, aware that one misstep meant death.
Back in the penthouse, Amanda felt the shifting sands. Scar’s coldness was a fortress she couldn’t breach. Her seduction attempts – lingering touches, suggestive whispers, expensive lingerie showcased under flimsy robes – were met with indifference or curt dismissal. He slept in his own room, the door locked. The engagement ring she’d subtly placed on her finger remained unacknowledged.
One evening, fueled by desperation and expensive wine, she cornered him in his study. He was reviewing weapons manifests, his profile harsh in the lamplight. She approached, the scent of her perfume cloying. "Sebastian," she purred, draping herself over the arm of his chair, her hand sliding onto his thigh. "It’s late. You work too hard. Let me… ease your mind." Her fingers crept higher.
Scar didn’t look up. His hand shot out, not violently, but with crushing finality, clamping around her wrist and removing it from his leg. His touch was ice-cold. "Don't," he said, his voice devoid of any inflection, his gaze still fixed on the papers. "Leave, Amanda."
Humiliation burned her cheeks. "Why?" she hissed, the mask slipping. "Why cling to the ghost of that treacherous whore? I’m *here*. I’ve *always* been here! We’re meant to be together!"
Finally, he looked at her. His eyes, dark and fathomless, held not anger, but a chilling emptiness. "Meant to be?" he echoed, a hollow laugh escaping him. "That childhood contract died the day you shot an unarmed woman in my house. It was buried when you poisoned me and framed Jessica. You are here because you manipulated your way in. Not because I want you. Not because I *ever* will." He stood, towering over her, the sheer force of his presence pushing her back a step. "You serve a purpose, Amanda. For now. Don't mistake tolerance for desire. Now get out."
She fled, not in tears, but in a silent, shaking rage that promised retribution. The walls were closing in. William’s subtle resistance, Scar’s impenetrable coldness, the persistent, maddening silence of Jessica’s whereabouts – it was all unraveling.
As Amanda seethed in her suite, and Scar stared sightlessly at the city lights, wrestling with ghosts and unanswered questions, Jessica lay in the stifling heat of the safehouse apartment, Chioma gently rubbing cooling balm onto her swollen feet. The baby kicked vigorously, a powerful reminder of the life pulsing against all odds. Five streets away, William and Kola met in a dimly lit back room, a stolen security log spread between them, their voices low and urgent. The storm was no longer gathering; it was on the horizon, a tempest fueled by love, betrayal, and the desperate hope held within a heavily pregnant woman hidden in plain sight. The reckoning was coming, and the heir to the Scar empire would be born amidst its fury.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 14
The sterile air of the hospital room tasted like despair. Sebastian Scar floated in a grey limbo, tethered to life by whirring machines and dripping IVs. Visions flickered – Jessica’s tear-streaked face, Amanda’s venomous smile, the bitter taste of coffee, the terrifying convulsions, the suffocating white foam. Pain was a distant throb beneath layers of sedation. Time lost meaning.
Then, slowly, agonizingly, consciousness seeped back. It wasn't a sudden awakening, but a cruel, dragging emergence from the depths. His eyelids felt like lead weights. Light stabbed his pupils, blurred shapes resolving slowly. The rhythmic beep… beep… beep of the heart monitor was the first anchor to reality. Then came the ache – deep, pervasive, bone-deep exhaustion layered over a raw, burning sensation in his gut. He tried to move, to speak, but his body felt alien, unresponsive.
"Sebastian? Darling? Can you hear me?"
The voice, dripping with saccharine concern, cut through the fog. Amanda. He forced his eyes to focus. She sat perched elegantly on a chair beside his bed, dressed in somber, expensive silk, her blonde curls artfully arranged. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, her touch feeling like ice despite the room's warmth. Her dark eyes, usually sharp with malice, were wide with a carefully constructed simulation of worry.
"Doctor! He's waking!" she called out, her voice trembling with theatrical relief.
A flurry of activity followed. Doctors checked vitals, adjusted IVs, shone lights in his eyes. Sebastian endured it, his gaze fixed on Amanda, a silent question burning in his exhausted eyes. What happened? Where is Jessica?
Amanda waited until the doctors finished their brief assessment, assuring them she’d stay with him. As the door clicked shut, her expression shifted. The worry remained, but beneath it, a cold, calculating gleam surfaced.
"Oh, Sebastian," she breathed, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "We were so scared. You’ve been fighting for a week."
A week? Panic flared weakly. "Jess…" he managed, the word a raw croak.
Amanda’s face contorted instantly into a mask of profound sorrow and righteous anger. Tears welled in her eyes – real or expertly faked, he couldn’t tell. "Sebastian… my love…" she choked out. "It’s… it’s Jessica."
His heart monitor spiked. Beep… beep… beep… beep…
"She… she poisoned you," Amanda whispered, her voice thick with tears she let spill down her cheeks. "The coffee. She made it. She gave it to you. They found traces… aconite… a terrible poison. She was the only one who touched it. The only one with access." Amanda squeezed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "She must have planned it… planned to kill you, take everything… or maybe she was working with your enemies? We don’t know."
Sebastian tried to shake his head, denial roaring silently inside his shattered body. No. Impossible. Not Jessica. But the memory was fractured, terrifying. The coffee. Her handing him the cup. The immediate, violent reaction. The white foam.
"And then…" Amanda’s voice hardened, the tears replaced by cold fury. "When they realized you were poisoned, when they confronted her, she panicked. She tried to run. Ghost… he helped her escape! He betrayed you too! They fled together into the night." She spat the words. "She left you here dying, Sebastian. She poisoned you and ran away with one of your own men!"
The accusation crashed over him like a tidal wave. Betrayal. Poison. Escape. Each word was a shard of ice driven into his heart. The image of Jessica, the woman he loved, the woman he’d built a fragile future with, deliberately poisoning him… It clashed violently with the memory of her tender touch, her whispered love. But the evidence Amanda presented – the coffee, the poison, the flight – seemed damning. And the blinding rage that surged through his weakened body felt real, fueled by the violation, the near-death experience, the utter shock.
A guttural sound escaped his throat, part pain, part fury. His hands clenched weakly on the sheets.
Amanda saw it – the dawning horror, the spark of rage. She pressed her advantage, her voice dropping to a venomous hiss. "She played you, Sebastian. Used you. That gutter rat was always a gold-digging whore. She saw her chance and tried to take everything, including your life."
The crude insults, echoing those she’d hurled before, struck a different chord now, amplified by the context of betrayal. The fragile trust, the sanctuary of their love, felt like a grotesque lie. The rage crystallized, cold and lethal. He remembered her fleeing the room when he’d aimed the gun at Amanda… Had that been guilt? Fear of being caught?
"Find… her," he rasped, the words scraping his ravaged throat. His eyes, though clouded with pain and medication, burned with a terrifying intensity. He locked eyes with William, who had entered silently during Amanda’s tirade, his face grim. "Find Jessica… and Ghost. Bring them… to me." He took a shuddering breath, summoning every ounce of his fading strength. "Alive. I will… kill her… myself."
The command hung in the sterile air, heavy with finality. William nodded curtly, his own expression hardened by Amanda’s narrative and his boss’s suffering. "Consider it done, Boss."
Amanda leaned back, a flicker of triumph quickly masked by concern. "We checked the penthouse security immediately, Sebastian," she added smoothly. "Trying to find proof. But… the CCTV footage from the kitchen and balcony during that time… it’s gone. Deleted. No traces left." She shook her head sadly. "She covered her tracks well. Ghost must have helped her erase it."
The missing footage felt like the final nail. Paranoia, a familiar old friend, crept in. *How could she? Why?* The questions screamed in his mind, drowned out by the roar of betrayal. "I gave her… everything," he whispered, the words laced with bewildered agony. "Everything…" The image of her family, safe in the mansion he’d given them, flashed in his mind. "The family…" he managed. "Leave them… in the house. Guarded. But… untouched." It was a concession to a past love, a lingering doubt he couldn’t fully quash, even amidst his fury. He ignored Amanda’s immediate, sharp protest.
"But Sebastian! They could be involved! They—"
"Leave them!" he growled, the effort sending a spasm of pain through him. His order stood. Jessica’s family remained under house arrest, but protected, a confusing testament to the war raging within him.
Miles away, in a small, sun-drenched village house nestled among palm trees and vibrant bougainvillea, Jessica existed in a state of suspended terror. Ghost’s fiancée, Chioma, a woman with kind eyes and hands hardened by work, had become her unexpected guardian angel. The modest house, a world away from Scar’s penthouse luxury, was a fragile sanctuary.
Days bled into each other, filled with gnawing fear for Sebastian, crushing guilt over her family’s imprisonment, and the paralyzing knowledge that she was hunted. She scanned local news on a burner phone Ghost provided, dreading the headline announcing Scar’s death. The silence was almost worse.
Then, the nausea started. Not the sharp anxiety she was used to, but a deep, rolling sickness that hit her most mornings. At first, she blamed the stress, the unfamiliar village food. But when it persisted, accompanied by a profound exhaustion and a strange tenderness in her breasts, a terrifying, wondrous possibility began to dawn.
One morning, after retching into a basin behind the small house, Chioma found her pale and trembling. The older woman took one look at her, her gaze softening with sudden understanding. Without a word, she disappeared into the village market and returned an hour later, pressing a small, unmarked paper packet into Jessica’s hand. Inside was a simple pregnancy test.
Hands shaking, Jessica locked herself in the tiny bathroom. The wait for the result felt like an eternity. She stared at the small plastic window, her heart hammering against her ribs, her mind a whirlwind of fear and impossible hope. Then, two clear, unmistakable lines appeared.
Pregnant.
The world tilted. She sank onto the cool concrete floor, the test clutched in her hand. Sebastian’s child. Conceived in the deep, healing love they’d shared after Amanda’s first assault, before the poison, before the betrayal. A life growing inside her while its father lay poisoned, believing she’d tried to kill him, vowing to end her life himself.
Terror threatened to engulf her. They were fugitives. Hunted. Scar wanted her dead. Amanda wanted her destroyed. How could she bring a child into this nightmare? How could she protect it?
But then, gazing at those two lines, a fierce, primal resolve ignited within her, burning away the despair. This wasn't just about her anymore. This was about their child. Scar’s heir. The living proof of their love, conceived before the poison, before the lies.
She placed a trembling hand on her still-flat stomach. The fear didn't vanish, but it was joined by a steely determination. She couldn't run forever. She couldn't let her child be born into a life of hiding, branded by its mother's supposed crime. She had to clear her name. Not just for herself, not just for Sebastian, but for this tiny, fragile life growing inside her.
She had to prove her innocence. Find the real traitor. Expose Amanda. And she had to reach Sebastian, make him see the truth, before his rage or Amanda’s schemes destroyed them all. For the sake of their child, she had to fight. Or they would all die – her, the baby, Sebastian, consumed by the poisonous lies.
Emerging from the bathroom, Jessica met Chioma’s knowing gaze. There were no words. Jessica simply nodded, her eyes no longer filled with just fear, but with the fierce, terrifying light of a mother’s resolve. The hunted woman was gone. In her place stood a lioness, ready to fight for her cub and its father, even if the father himself held the gun. The battle for truth, for love, and for the future of their child had truly begun.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 13
The past month had been a balm, a deep, golden reprieve after the tempest of Amanda. Sunlight seemed brighter in the penthouse, laughter came easier, and the love between Jessica and Scar felt like a fortress rebuilt stronger on the ruins of distrust. They were inseparable. Mornings lingered over shared coffee and murmured plans. Evenings were spent entwined on the sofa, Jessica reading law texts while Scar reviewed encrypted reports, his hand perpetually resting on her knee or playing with a strand of her long, dark hair. He’d taken to calling her "Counselor" with a teasing glint in his eyes, a constant, warm reminder of his investment in her future. The shadow of Amanda felt distant, a bad dream fading in the dawn of their renewed intimacy.
This particular morning bloomed with deceptive serenity. Sunlight streamed through the expansive windows, painting warm diamonds on the polished floor. Jessica, humming softly, prepared two cups of strong, dark coffee – Scar’s favorite, brewed just the way he liked it. She carried them to the balcony where he sat, immersed in a financial ledger, the Lagos skyline a glittering backdrop. He looked up as she approached, his stern features instantly softening into the smile reserved only for her. He pulled her down for a quick, tender kiss.
"Morning, Counselor," he murmured, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "Smells perfect."
"It is," Jessica smiled, placing his cup before him. She settled into the adjacent chair, cradling her own cup, savoring the rich aroma and the peaceful domesticity. For a few blissful minutes, they sipped in companionable silence, the city’s hum a distant lullaby.
Then, the world shattered.
A choked gasp tore from Scar’s throat. Jessica looked over, startled. His face had gone unnaturally pale, a sickly grey undertone replacing his healthy complexion. His coffee cup clattered to the marble floor, shattering, dark liquid spreading like a stain. His hand flew to his throat, his eyes wide with a sudden, terrifying confusion.
"Sebastian?" Jessica breathed, frozen for a heartbeat.
He lurched forward, gagging violently. A thin stream of white, frothy foam bubbled from the corner of his lips. His body convulsed, muscles locking in agonizing spasms. He crashed sideways off the chair, hitting the balcony floor with a sickening thud, his limbs jerking uncontrollably.
Panic, pure and primal, seized Jessica. "SEBASTIAN!" she screamed, the sound tearing her throat. She scrambled towards him, her hands fluttering uselessly over his convulsing form. The white foam was thicker now, coating his chin. His eyes rolled back, showing the whites. "HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!"
The penthouse exploded into chaos. Heavy footsteps pounded. William burst onto the balcony first, his face draining of color at the sight of his boss writhing on the floor, choking on foam. Ghost, a silent, perpetually watchful presence whose loyalty was unquestioned, materialized beside him, his dark eyes instantly assessing the scene with chilling calm. Two more guards followed, their expressions grim.
"Poison!" William snarled, dropping to his knees beside Scar. "Get the medical team! NOW!" One guard sprinted back inside, shouting into his comms.
Ghost efficiently helped William roll Scar onto his side, trying to clear his airway as he gagged and choked. Jessica knelt beside them, tears streaming down her face, her hands trembling as she tried to wipe the foam from his mouth. "Hold on, Sebastian! Please hold on!"
Within minutes, the penthouse became a triage zone. Scar’s private medical team arrived, moving with grim efficiency. They administered oxygen, injected emergency medications to counteract the convulsions, and stabilized him for transport. As they lifted him onto a stretcher, his body still twitching, his skin clammy and grey, Jessica felt a piece of her soul tear away. She tried to follow, clutching his limp hand.
"Where are you taking him? I need to be with him!" she pleaded.
"The hospital. Our facility," William said tersely, his face etched with worry and suspicion. "Stay here, Jessica." His tone held a command she’d never heard directed at her before.
The journey to Scar’s private, high-security hospital wing was a blur of flashing lights and suffocating dread. Jessica rode in a separate car, flanked by guards, her mind racing. *Poisoned.* The word echoed like a death knell. *How? When?* Her thoughts snagged, horrifyingly, on the image of the coffee cup. *She* had made it. *She* had handed it to him. *She* was the last person to touch it before he drank.
The sterile, cold air of the hospital corridor did nothing to calm the rising hysteria. Doctors rushed Scar into an emergency room, shutting the doors firmly. Jessica paced, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, feeling exposed and terrified. William and Ghost stood nearby, their expressions unreadable, communicating in low tones with other arriving lieutenants.
Suddenly, the tense silence was shattered by the sharp click of stiletto heels on the polished floor. Amanda. She strode down the corridor like a vengeful goddess, dressed in a sleek black pantsuit, her blonde curls impeccable, her face a mask of icy fury.
She stopped inches from Jessica, her dark eyes blazing with pure malice. "You," she spat, the word dripping venom. "You poisonous little SLUT!"
Jessica flinched, taking a step back. "Amanda, this isn't—"
"Shut your filthy mouth!" Amanda hissed, her voice low but carrying through the corridor. "You couldn't stand that he was mine! Couldn't stand that he sent you away! So you tried to kill him!" She leaned in, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper only Jessica could hear. "But don't worry, gutter rat. When he dies – and he will die – I'll make sure you suffer slowly. Very, very slowly. I'll peel the skin from your bones myself."
The raw hatred in Amanda’s eyes was terrifying. Before Jessica could react, Amanda raised her voice, projecting it to the gathered men. "Look at her! She made his coffee! She was alone with him! She's the only one who wanted him dead! SHE POISONED HIM!"
The accusation hung in the air, toxic and heavy. Eyes turned towards Jessica – William’s gaze hardened, others narrowed with suspicion. The seed of doubt Amanda planted found fertile ground in the fear and anger already swirling around them.
"Take her," William ordered, his voice cold, devoid of its usual respect. "Secure her. Now."
Strong hands clamped onto Jessica’s arms. "No! I didn't! I would never!" she cried, struggling futilely against the grip of two burly guards. "It was her! She did this! She threatened him! She threatened me!"
Amanda laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "Lies! Desperate lies from a murderer! Lock her up!"
As Jessica was dragged away, kicking and pleading, her eyes locked with Ghost’s. His expression was inscrutable, but for a fleeting second, she saw something – not suspicion, but intense calculation. He gave her the faintest, almost imperceptible nod, then turned his attention back to the emergency room doors.
Jessica was shoved into a small, sterile holding room within the hospital, guarded heavily. Despair washed over her. Sebastian was dying. Everyone believed she’d done it. Amanda had won. Panic surged. Her family! Amanda knew where they lived! She fumbled for the phone she’d been allowed to keep, frantically dialing her mother.
"Mama!" she sobbed when the call connected. "Listen! You have to leave! Right now! Take everyone and run! Go somewhere safe! Don't tell anyone! Amanda… she… Sebastian’s poisoned… they think I did it… she’ll come for you! PLEASE RUN!"
Her mother’s voice was thick with terror and confusion. "Jessica! What? Poisoned? Baby—"
"NO TIME! RUN! NOW!" Jessica screamed before the call was abruptly cut off. One of the guards outside had heard and seized her phone.
Minutes later, William stormed into the room, his face thunderous. "Your family," he stated coldly. "They won't be going anywhere. They’re under protective custody. House arrest. For their own safety… and ours." The implication was clear: they were hostages, leverage against her.
Jessica crumpled onto the hard cot, her world reduced to crushing fear and helplessness. Sebastian was fighting for his life. Her family was imprisoned. She was branded a traitor and a murderer. And Amanda was free, weaving her web of lies.
Hours crawled by. Night fell. The hospital corridor outside her door was quiet now, only the low murmur of guards remained. Jessica sat in the dark, hugging her knees, tears long since dried, replaced by a cold, simmering fury and a gnawing terror for Sebastian. Was he still alive? Had the poison…?
The lock on her door clicked softly. It opened just enough for a shadow to slip inside. Ghost. He moved like smoke, closing the door silently behind him. His face was grim in the dim light filtering under the door.
"Miss Jessica," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "We don't have much time."
Her heart leaped into her throat. "Ghost? Sebastian? Is he—"
"Alive. But in a coma. Critical." Ghost’s words were clipped. "They’re setting you up. Amanda’s playing them all. William… he’s blinded by anger and fear for the Boss. Others are listening to her whispers."
"Ghost, I swear, I didn't—"
"I know," he interrupted, his dark eyes holding hers with unnerving intensity. "The Boss trusts you. That’s enough for me. But you can't stay here. They'll kill you before morning, or hand you to Amanda. And your family… they’re not safe either."
"What do I do?" Jessica whispered, desperation clawing at her.
"We get you out. Now." Ghost pulled a dark hoodie and a pair of nondescript trousers from a small bag. "Put these on. Quickly. We go out the service elevator, through the basement. I have a car."
"But my family! Sebastian!"
"I can't get to your family yet. Too guarded. But alive, free, you have a chance to clear your name, to find the real traitor, to help the Boss," Ghost insisted, urgency hardening his voice. "Staying is death. For you, and eventually, for them. Come on!"
Driven by terror and a fierce spark of hope ignited by Ghost’s loyalty, Jessica scrambled into the clothes. Ghost guided her silently past the guard he’d discreetly incapacitated, through deserted corridors and down service stairs. The humid night air of Lagos hit her face as they slipped out a loading dock door. A battered, unremarkable sedan idled in the shadows. Ghost shoved her into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and peeled away into the chaotic Lagos night.
Jessica stared out the window, the city lights blurring through fresh tears. Sebastian was in a coma. Her family were prisoners. The man she loved might never know she was innocent. Amanda had framed her perfectly. And somewhere, hidden among the men Scar trusted most, was a traitor who had poisoned him and nearly destroyed everything.
Ghost navigated the streets with tense precision. "Where are we going?" Jessica asked, her voice small.
"Somewhere safe. Off-grid," Ghost replied, his eyes scanning the mirrors. "We need to disappear. And we need to find out who did this. Before it's too late for everyone."
The car sped into the darkness, carrying Jessica away from the hospital, away from Sebastian’s side, away from everything she loved. She was a fugitive, branded a murderer, hunted by her lover’s men, and stalked by his vengeful ex. Her only ally was a shadow named Ghost. The fight for their lives, for their love, and for the truth had just begun, and it was a fight Jessica had to win from the shadows. The question wasn't just *who* poisoned Scar, but *who* would believe her innocence when even the man she loved was lost in a silent, poisoned sleep?
TO BE CONTINUED..

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 12
The cool, damp air of the midnight garden offered little solace. Jessica paced the manicured paths, the scent of night-blooming jasmine heavy and cloying, failing to mask the bitter taste of humiliation and confusion that lingered from Amanda’s assault and the terrifying confrontation. She’d run from the gun, from Amanda’s venom, from Scar’s terrifying, lethal rage – even though it had been wielded in her defense. The image of him, cold and absolute with the pistol aimed at Amanda’s head, was seared into her mind. It wasn’t fear *of* him, but fear *for* him, for the darkness that Amanda could provoke.
She finally returned to the penthouse, the silence now thick with unspoken aftershocks. Pushing open her bedroom door, she found him immediately. Not waiting, not pacing, but kneeling beside her bed, his broad shoulders slumped, his head bowed. In the dim light from the hallway, he looked not like the feared kingpin, but like a man utterly broken. He didn’t look up as she entered, but his posture spoke volumes – a silent plea for forgiveness, an embodiment of the guilt and anguish he’d voiced earlier.
"Jessica," his voice was a raw scrape in the quiet. "Please…"
She stood frozen for a moment, the sight twisting her heart. The part of her that still ached from Amanda’s words, that felt bruised by the secrets, warred fiercely with the overwhelming love and empathy she felt seeing him like this. He had chosen her. He had defended her with terrifying ferocity. Yet, the emotional storm inside her was still raging. She needed space to breathe, to process, to quiet the echoes of "gutter rat" and the crack of the gun.
"Scar," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I… I need some time. Please. Just… give me some space tonight."
He flinched as if struck. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he raised his head. His eyes, usually so commanding, were pools of raw pain and utter defeat. He searched her face, finding no anger, only a profound exhaustion and a plea for distance. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the stillness. Without a word, he pushed himself up from his knees. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t argue. He simply bowed his head again, a gesture of absolute surrender, and walked silently out of the room, closing the door with a soft, final click. The sound echoed Jessica’s loneliness.
***
The next morning, Amanda was gone. Vanished. Like a poisonous mist dispersed by the dawn. William confirmed it tersely; she’d been escorted to the airport before sunrise, under firm instructions and the lingering threat of Scar’s promise. The penthouse felt emptier, cleaner, yet the tension didn’t dissipate. It shifted, solidified into something colder: Scar’s absence.
For two weeks, he became a ghost in his own home. He skipped breakfast, leaving before Jessica rose. Dinner was taken in his study, the door firmly closed. He returned late, often well past midnight, slipping silently into his own room. When their paths did cross – Jessica heading to her study nook, Scar striding down a hallway – he would freeze for a fraction of a second, his expression shuttering instantly into an impenetrable mask, then he would turn and walk the other way. The warmth, the possessiveness, the easy intimacy – all gone, replaced by a chilling, deliberate distance.
Jessica felt the void like a physical ache. The luxurious penthouse became a gilded cage of silence. Her studies felt hollow. She replayed the scene in her bedroom that night – his kneeling form, the utter defeat in his eyes, her own request for space. *Was I too harsh? * The question gnawed at her. He had faced down his past, his dangerous ex-fiancée, for *her*. He had chosen her publicly, violently, irrevocably. And how had she repaid him? By pushing him away when he was most vulnerable, when he came offering his shattered heart.
Guilt, sharp and corrosive, joined the loneliness. She remembered his whispered confessions of love, the way he’d clung to her after Amanda’s arrival, the desperation in his pleas outside her locked door. He had fought for her, bled for her emotionally, and she had turned him away. *I went too far in my hurt, * she realized with a sickening jolt. *He gave me everything, defended me against everything, and I pushed him into this cold exile.*
The resolve solidified within her. She couldn’t let this stand. She had to fix it. She *needed* to fix it.
***
The day she decided to bridge the chasm stretched endlessly. Jessica was a bundle of nervous energy. She paced, she tried to read, she stared out the window, her mind racing with scenarios. Would he reject her? Would the wall he’d built be too high? Was the damage irreparable? Anxiety twisted her stomach into knots. By the time the familiar sound of the penthouse door announced his return at 11 PM, her heart was pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She heard his footsteps, heavy with fatigue, move down the hall towards his room. The click of his door closing was like a starter pistol. Taking a deep, steadying breath that did little to calm her nerves, Jessica slipped out of her room. The hallway felt vast and intimidating. She stopped outside his door, her hand trembling slightly as she raised it. She knocked – a soft, tentative sound.
No answer.
Gathering every ounce of courage, she gently turned the handle. The door wasn’t locked. She pushed it open just enough to slip inside, closing it softly behind her.
The room was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp. The air held the faint, clean scent of his cologne. And then she saw him.
He stood framed in the open doorway of the en-suite bathroom, bathed in the brighter light spilling from within. A white towel was slung low around his hips. Water droplets glistened on his shoulders, tracing paths down the powerful contours of his chest, over the defined ridges of his abdomen, catching the light on his dark skin. He was a vision of raw, masculine beauty – tall, perfectly sculpted, water-darkened curls clinging to his forehead. He looked like a figure from a myth; a god carved from night and strength.
He had frozen mid-motion, a second towel in his hands paused over his damp hair. His eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto hers. Shock, then a flicker of something guarded and wary, passed across his face before it settled into careful neutrality. He didn’t speak. He simply watched her, waiting.
Jessica’s breath caught. Shyness and confusion warred with the overwhelming surge of love and longing that seeing him like this ignited. Words tangled in her throat. How could she start? How could she bridge the weeks of silence?
The sight of him, the sheer magnetism, the vulnerability she sensed beneath his guarded stance, broke her hesitation. Without a word, she crossed the room in quick, determined strides. Before he could react, before he could retreat behind his walls, she threw her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against the cool, damp skin of his chest. She held on tightly, as if anchoring herself to him.
For a heartbeat, he remained rigid. Then, a shuddering breath escaped him. His arms came around her, slowly at first, then crushing her to him with a force that spoke of weeks of pent-up longing and relief. The towel fell from his hands, forgotten. He buried his face in her hair, his breath warm against her scalp. "Jessica," he breathed, her name a ragged prayer.
The dam broke. All the distance, the coldness, the aching loneliness evaporated in the heat of their reunion. They came together not just with passion, but with a profound, desperate hunger, like two halves finally made whole after a cruel separation. It wasn't just physical; it was a fierce reclaiming; a deep communion of souls starved for connection. They devoured each other with kisses that tasted of salt tears and unspoken apologies, with touches that mapped familiar territory with new reverence. Scar worshipped her body with a slowness that bordered on agony, relearning every curve, every sigh, every sensitive point, as if imprinting her on his soul anew. Jessica met him with equal fervor, her own hands exploring the powerful planes of his back, his shoulders, tangling in his damp curls, pulling him closer, deeper. Time lost meaning. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the slide of skin on skin, the gasps and whispered pleas, the overwhelming sensation of being utterly consumed and cherished. It was love-making as healing, as desperate affirmation, as a vow renewed in the most primal language.
Later, tangled in the sweat-slicked sheets, limbs entwined, Scar stirred. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, his eyes dark with emotion. "Jessica, about before… I need to tell you… I’m so sorry I didn’t—"
She silenced him not with words, but by placing her fingers gently on his lips. Then, she replaced them with her own, kissing him with a tenderness that held the weight of her own regret and forgiveness. "Shhh," she murmured against his lips, her voice husky with spent passion and deep affection. "No more apologies. Not tonight." She traced his jaw, her eyes holding his, luminous in the dim light. "Just… make love to me again, Sebastian. I’ve missed you… missed *this*… so much."
He needed no further invitation. The hunger, momentarily sated, flared anew, deeper, sweeter this time. They moved together in a slow, sensual rhythm, a dance of reconnection, of promises whispered through touch, of wounds beginning to knit closed in the shared heat of their bodies. It was tender, passionate, a reaffirmation of the bond Amanda had tried, and failed, to break.
Exhausted, sated, wrapped in the profound peace that follows the storm, they finally drifted towards sleep. Scar held her tightly against him, her back to his chest, his face buried in the curve of her neck, his arms locked securely around her waist. Jessica nestled into his embrace, her hand resting over his where it lay protectively on her stomach. The silence now was warm, comforting, filled only with the sound of their synchronized breathing. The distance was closed. The sanctuary, though scarred, was reclaimed. They slept, entwined, the shadows of the past two weeks finally banished by the undeniable force of their love.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 11
The silence behind the door was a living thing, thick and suffocating. Scar’s pleas had dwindled into ragged breaths, his forehead pressed against the cool wood, his powerful frame slumped in defeat. The raw vulnerability he’d shown – the begging, the panic – had scraped him hollow. He’d faced down armies, orchestrated empires built on fear, yet here he was, brought to his knees by the silence of one woman. The image of Jessica hearing Amanda’s vicious poison, the thought of her believing even a fraction of it, was a physical wound in his chest.
Then, a sound. Faint. A scrape of metal. The softest click.
Scar froze, his breath catching. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the heavy bedroom door inched open.
Jessica stood there, backlit by the dim light filtering through the curtains. The sight tore through Scar like shrapnel. Her eyes, usually bright with intelligence or warm with affection, were swollen almost shut, raw and red-rimmed from hours of crying. Tear tracks had carved paths through the faint flush of humiliation still staining her cheeks. Her posture was defeated, shoulders slumped inward as if trying to make herself disappear. She looked impossibly young, fragile, and utterly broken. The vibrant, determined woman he loved seemed reduced to a ghost of herself.
"Jessica..." The name was a choked whisper.
Before he could say more, she flinched, taking a half-step back into the room’s shadows. The movement, the sheer *hurt* radiating from her, shattered the last remnants of his control. He surged forward, not with force, but with a desperate, aching need. He crossed the threshold and gathered her into his arms, pulling her fragile form against his chest with infinite gentleness, as if she were spun glass.
She was stiff at first, unyielding. But as his arms closed around her, as the familiar scent and solid warmth of him enveloped her, a tremor ran through her. Then another. A choked sob escaped her lips, muffled against his shirt.
"Baby,"
Scar murmured, his voice thick with remorse, his own eyes burning.
He buried his face in her hair, breathing her in, anchoring himself.
"I’m sorry. God, Jessica, I am so, so sorry."
His arms tightened, a protective cag.e
. "I should have told you. Everything. About her, about the past, about the ****** engagement
that meant nothing*
." His voice cracked.
"I was a coward. I thought… I thought if I buried it deep enough
, it would just go away.
I never imagined… I never dreamed she’d come here, that she’d…" He couldn’t even bring himself to repeat Amanda’s words.
"I’m sorry you found out like this. I’m sorry she hurt you. Please… please forgive me."
Jessica pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. Her tear-filled eyes searched his face, filled with a pain that mirrored his own.
"Why,
Scar?" Her voice was a raw whisper, scraped thin by tears and despair
. "Why didn't you tell me? I… I thought you loved me. I thought you trusted me."
A fresh wave of tears spilled over.
"She… she humiliated me. Called me… called me horrible things. Names I… I heard in the slums."
Her breath hitched.
"And maybe… maybe she's right? Maybe I am just a… a home wrecker?
Coming between destiny?" Her voice broke completely. "Just… just let me go, Scar. Please. Stay away from me. It’s better… it’s better this way."
"The words"
‘let me go’
were ice water down his spine. Panic, colder and sharper than any battlefield fear, seized him. His hands tightened on her arms, not to hurt, but to anchor, to keep her from vanishing.
"No!"
The word was a low roar, laced with desperation.
"You go *nowhere*, Jessica! Do you understand? *Nowhere!*"
He forced his voice down, trying to sound rational through the terror.
"It’s not safe.
Not out there alone. My enemies… they watch. They’d grab you the second you stepped foot outside unprotected.
Please, baby."
He cupped her face, his thumbs wiping away her tears, his eyes pleading.
"Listen to me. I broke it off with her five years ago. It was *over*. Finished. She was toxic, dangerous… *insane*. That’s why I sent her away. To protect people *from* her."
Jessica searched his eyes, the turmoil within her warring with the undeniable love and fear she saw reflected back.
"Then… then why is she here?" she whispered, a fresh tremor in her voice.
Scar took a deep, steadying breath.
"She’s… manipulative. She twisted things, lied, to get back. But she won’t stay. She *can’t* stay." His voice firmed with conviction. "She’ll be gone. Soon. A few days, maybe less. Her father… he’ll come for her. He knows the deal. He knows what happens if she stays." He leaned his forehead against hers, his voice dropping to an intense, intimate murmur.
"Please, baby. Please trust me, just a little longer. I love you. More than anything. More than this empire, more than my own life. You are my destiny. Not her. Never her." He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her tear-stained cheeks, each touch a fervent vow. "Everything… everything will be alright. I swear it. I’ll make it alright."
For a moment, the world contracted to just the two of them in the dim room. Jessica leaned into him, a fragile hope battling the deep-seated hurt. His words, his touch, the raw sincerity in his eyes, were a balm on her wounded spirit. She started to nod, a tiny, hesitant movement, her fingers tightening slightly on his shirt.
Then, the spell shattered.
A sound like shattering crystal – cold, sharp laughter – echoed from the doorway. Amanda stood there, leaning casually against the frame, impeccably dressed now in tailored slacks and a silk blouse, her blonde curls perfect. She was slowly clapping her hands, a cruel, mocking smile twisting her beautiful face.
"What a touching performance,"
she drawled, her voice dripping with venomous amusement.
"Really, Sebastian,
you should be on stage. The reformed villain, the devoted lover… it’s almost believable." She pushed off the doorframe and took a step into the room, her dark eyes fixed on Jessica with predatory glee.
"News flash, darling," she spat the word at Scar, "I’m not packing my bags. I’m not going anywhere.
Did you really think I’d sit quietly in Italy while this… this gutter rat" her voice rose, sharp and hateful on the slur, "takes my place? Takes what’s mine? Scar, never—"
The crack of the slap echoed like a gunshot in the sudden, shocked silence.
Amanda’s head snapped sideways with brutal force. The mocking smile vanished, replaced by utter, stunned disbelief. A vivid red handprint bloomed across her flawless cheek. She staggered back a step, her hand flying to her face, her eyes wide with shock and dawning rage. Silence, thick and heavy, descended. Jessica gasped, frozen.
Scar stood rigid, his hand still raised, his face a mask of cold, terrifying fury. Every ounce of the feared underworld king was present in that moment, radiating lethal intent. His voice, when it came, was dangerously low, quieter than a whisper yet carrying the weight of absolute command.
"How *dare* you," he breathed,
the words slicing through the air like shards of ice.
"How dare you call my woman that filth. In my presence. In *her* home."
He took a single, deliberate step towards Amanda, who shrank back, genuine fear flickering in her eyes for the first time.
"You have exactly until tomorrow mor
ning," Scar continued, his voice gaining volume, becoming a thunderous roar that seemed to shake the room, "to be OUT of my house. Out of my city. Out of my *life*. Do you understand me? GONE!"
Amanda recovered slightly, her shock morphing into indignant fury. Her hand dropped from her cheek. "But… but Sebastian! Did you just slap me? Because of this… this dirt?!" Her voice rose hysterically.
Scar moved faster than thought. In a blur, his hand dipped beneath his jacket and came up holding a sleek, black pistol. He leveled it directly between Amanda’s wide, terrified eyes. The metallic *click* of the safety disengaging was obscenely loud.
"One. More. Word. "Scar’s voice was glacial, devoid of all emotion except lethal promise. His finger tightened on the trigger.
"One more insult. One more syllable out of your poisonous mouth. And I swear on everything I am, I *will* put a bullet in your head. Right here. Right now."
Amanda froze, her mouth hanging open in a silent scream, all color draining from her face. The raw, homicidal intent in Scar’s eyes was undeniable. He wasn't bluffing.
The standoff lasted only a heartbeat, but it felt like an eternity. Then, a choked cry broke the tension. Jessica, unable to bear the violence, the gun, the terrifying look on Scar’s face, the palpable hatred radiating from Amanda, turned and fled. She darted past Scar, past the frozen Amanda, and ran out of the bedroom door, down the hallway towards the stairs, desperate for air, for escape, for anywhere but this suffocating nightmare.
Scar’s head snapped towards her fleeing figure, the gun still trained on Amanda. "JESSICA!" he roared, the fury in his voice instantly replaced by panic. The woman he’d just sworn to protect was running headlong into the unknown, and the most dangerous threat was still standing in his bedroom, a gun pointed at her face. The sanctuary was shattered, and chaos reigned.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 10
The morning sun streaming through the penthouse windows felt like a lie. Jessica woke alone, the space beside her in the massive bed cold and empty. A hastily scribbled note lay on Scar’s pillow, the bold, slashing script stark against the linen: "Urgent business. Stay inside. William guards the door. - S." The initial felt like a wall. Sebastian. His real name, used by the ghost now haunting their home.
A knot of dread tightened in Jessica’s stomach. Stay inside. Like she was a prisoner again. But the thought of facing the day trapped in the bedroom, listening for Amanda’s footsteps, was suffocating. She needed air, even if it was just the curated atmosphere of the penthouse living room. She needed to feel normal, if only for a moment. Surely, she could go downstairs, make some tea, sit by the window overlooking the city she’d fought so hard to rise above.
She dressed carefully in simple, elegant trousers and a soft cashmere sweater – clothes Scar had chosen for her, clothes that felt like armor against the memory of rags. She took a deep breath, unlocked the bedroom door, and stepped into the hushed corridor. William stood rigidly a few feet away, his expression grim.
"Miss Jessica," he murmured, his voice low. "The Boss said—"
"I just want some tea, William," Jessica interrupted, forcing a calm she didn’t feel. "Downstairs. I won’t leave the penthouse." She met his worried gaze. "Please."
William hesitated, then gave a curt nod. "I’ll be right outside the living room door, Miss."
The walk downstairs felt endless. The usual opulent silence of the penthouse now felt charged, oppressive. As she reached the bottom step, the scent hit her – heavy, cloying perfume, expensive but overwhelming. And there she was.
Amanda sat regally on the central cream sofa, bathed in the morning light. She was breathtaking. Her skin, a deep, flawless mahogany, glowed against the stark cream fabric. Her hair, a cascade of meticulously defined blonde curls, framed a face of sculpted perfection – high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, full lips painted a dangerous, glossy crimson. She wore a designer red gown, short and daring, showcasing long, toned legs crossed elegantly. She looked like a fashion icon, a goddess casually inhabiting their space. She held a delicate porcelain cup, sipping coffee with an air of utter ownership.
Jessica’s breath hitched. She forced her feet to move, aiming for the kitchen doorway across the expansive room. "Good morning," she murmured, her voice barely audible, keeping her eyes downcast.
The sound of the cup being placed sharply on its saucer echoed like a gunshot. "Well, well," Amanda’s voice purred, smooth as velvet but laced with ice. "Aren’t you going to stop and greet me properly? Or do they not teach manners in the gutter?"
Jessica froze mid-step. Slowly, she turned. Amanda’s dark eyes, fringed with impossibly long lashes, raked over her with open contempt. A predatory smile played on her crimson lips.
"I said good morning," Jessica repeated, her voice firmer this time, though her heart hammered against her ribs.
Amanda laughed, a light, tinkling sound devoid of warmth. "Good morning? Is that all? Darling, when you encounter the lady of the house, you curtsy. Or at the very least, introduce yourself. Who *are* you? The new maid? Though you’re dressed rather presumptuously for a maid." Her gaze swept over Jessica’s outfit with disdain.
Jessica swallowed hard. "My name is Jessica."
"Jessica," Amanda drawled, tasting the name like it was something unpleasant. "How... ordinary. And what exactly are you doing here, Jessica?" She leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. "Scrubbing floors? Warming Sebastian’s bed?"
The crudeness, delivered in that cultured, elegant tone, was a slap. Jessica felt heat flood her cheeks. "I live here," she stated, holding Amanda’s gaze, refusing to flinch.
Amanda’s perfect composure cracked. A flash of pure, unadulterated fury contorted her beautiful features. "Live here?" she spat, her voice losing its velvety smoothness, turning shrill. "In my home? With my fiancé? You insolent little SLUT!"
Jessica recoiled as if physically struck. The venom in the word was paralyzing.
"You think you can just waltz in here, you gutter rat?" Amanda hissed, rising from the sofa with feline grace, her red gown swirling around her. She stalked closer, her perfume now choking. "You think your cheap tricks and slum-bred desperation can replace me? ME?!" She stopped inches from Jessica, towering slightly in her heels. "I was chosen for Sebastian when we were SIX YEARS OLD! Our fathers bound empires! We are destiny! You?" She let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "You’re nothing! A temporary distraction! A prostitute he picked up off the streets! A gold-digging cockroach crawling where it doesn’t belong!"
Each word was a lash, meticulously designed to wound. Gutter rat. Prostitute. Gold digger. Home wrecker. They struck Jessica’s deepest insecurities, the ghosts of Lagos’s slums she thought she’d buried. Tears blurred her vision, hot and humiliating.
"Look at you," Amanda sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. "Crying already? Pathetic. You don’t belong here, you filthy little whore. You’re a stain on this house. On him." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Pack your cheap rags and crawl back to whatever filthy hole you came from. Today. Or I swear, I will make you wish you’d never laid eyes on Sebastian Scar. Do you understand me, you slum TRASH?"
The final words, delivered with such vicious certainty, shattered Jessica’s fragile composure. The revelation of the childhood engagement – the fiancée – echoed like a death knell in her mind. *Why hadn’t he told her? The betrayal, layered on top of the searing humiliation, was too much.
A choked sob escaped Jessica’s lips. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak. She turned and fled, her vision swimming, Amanda’s cruel laughter ringing in her ears like the shriek of harpies. She stumbled up the stairs, past William’s shocked face, fumbling with the bedroom door handle, finally bursting into the room and slamming the door behind her, locking it with trembling fingers.
She slid down the door to the floor, her body wracked with violent sobs. The luxurious rug beneath her felt like cold concrete from her past. Fiancée. Engaged since six. Destiny. Gutter rat. Prostitute. The words swirled in her head, a toxic whirlpool dragging her down. How could he? How could he hold her, love her, whisper promises, and never mention this? Was she truly just a distraction? Was everything he’d said and done a lie? The beautiful room, the sanctuary he’d built for her, now felt like a gilded cage built on deception. The weight of Amanda’s words, the terrifying history they implied, crushed her. She cried until her throat was raw, until her head throbbed, until exhaustion pulled her into a fitful, tear-stained sleep on the floor by the door. She didn’t eat. She didn’t drink. The day passed in a blur of despair.
The sound of the penthouse door opening in the evening jolted Jessica awake. Dusk had painted the room in deep blues and purples. Her body ached from the hard floor and the emotional ravages of the day. She heard muffled voices downstairs – Scar’s deep baritone, sharp and questioning, and then Amanda’s voice, artificially bright and laced with malice.
Jessica pressed her ear against the cool wood of the door, her heart pounding anew.
"Sebastian! Darling, you’re back!" Amanda’s voice was syrupy sweet. "Did you have a productive day, burying bodies or whatever it is you do?" A tinkling laugh. "Oh, but wait! I met your little… project today. Jessica, was it?"
A beat of heavy silence. Jessica could imagine Scar freezing, his senses on high alert.
"What did you do, Amanda?" His voice was dangerously low, a growl that vibrated through the floorboards.
"Me? Nothing!" Amanda feigned innocence. "We just had a little chat. Girl to girl. Or rather," her voice dropped, turning venomous and loud, deliberately carrying, "Lady to gutter trash! Hahaha! Oh, Sebastian!" Her laughter was sharp, hysterical, filled with cruel amusement. "I’ve seen the cheap little whore you replaced me with! Hahaha! Your taste has certainly… changed! From royalty to RAGS! A slum-dwelling prostitute! Is that what gets you hard now, darling? The stink of desperation?!"
Downstairs, Scar’s world tilted. It wasn’t Amanda’s insults that terrified him; it was the knowledge that Jessica had heard them. He saw the trap Amanda had laid, the poison she’d injected directly into the heart of the only thing that mattered to him. The image of Jessica’s face, hearing those vile words – his Jessica, who carried the scars of the slums like hidden wounds, who had fought so hard for dignity – it unleashed a primal fear deeper than any enemy’s threat. The fear of loss. The terror of her pain, her disillusionment… her *leaving*.
His carefully controlled composure evaporated. The feared King of Lagos didn’t think. He *fled*. He took the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs like a frantic bird, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. He skidded to a stop outside their bedroom door, seeing it firmly shut. The silence behind it was more terrifying than any scream.
"Baby!" His voice was raw, stripped bare, cracking with panic. He pounded on the solid wood with his fist. *BAM! BAM! BAM!* "Open this door! Please, baby, open the door! Jessica!" The pleading, the raw desperation in his voice, was utterly alien to him. "Please! I need to talk to you! Let me explain! Please, open the door!"
He pressed his forehead against the cool wood, his breathing ragged. Guilt, thick and suffocating, washed over him in a sickening wave. He’d been a fool. A coward. He’d buried the Amanda chapter, hoping it would stay dead, never imagining Jessica would be confronted with that toxic history in the cruelest way possible. He’d wanted to protect her from the ugliness, but his silence had become the weapon Amanda used against her.
He slid down the door, mirroring Jessica’s position on the other side, his back against the wood. He could feel the faint vibration of her presence, the stifled sound of her breathing. He rested his head in his hands.
"Jessica," his voice was a broken whisper now, muffled against his palms. "I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. Please… please just open the door. Let me see you. Let me…" His voice choked off. How could he explain a lifetime of obligation, violence, and a broken engagement born of madness? How could he make her understand that Amanda belonged to a past he’d thought buried, a past that meant *nothing* compared to what he felt for her? The thought of her silent tears, her shattered trust, the possibility that she believed Amanda’s lies… it was a physical agony worse than any bullet wound. He was hurt, terrified for her, and utterly confused about how to mend the devastation Amanda had wrought with just a few vicious words. The mighty Scar was brought low, not by an enemy’s bullet, but by the fear of losing the woman who had thawed his frozen heart. He sat slumped against her door, a fortress of muscle and power reduced to a supplicant, whispering pleas into the uncaring wood, waiting for a sign of life from the woman who held his soul captive on the other side.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 9
The heavy silence left by William’s announcement didn’t lift. It pressed down on the sunlit bedroom, turning the golden warmth cold. Jessica sat frozen, the silk sheet clutched tightly around her, watching Scar’s rigid back. The shift in him was terrifying. The powerful, possessive man who had held her moments ago was gone, replaced by a statue carved from ice and tension. He hadn’t looked at her once since William spoke that name.
Amanda.
The name echoed in Jessica’s mind, sharp and poisonous. Who was she? What hold did she have over him that could shatter his invincible composure so completely? Jessica’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a gilded cage. Fear, cold and unfamiliar in this sanctuary, began to creep in.
Scar finally moved. He stood up from the bed with a fluid, predatory grace that was devoid of its usual sensuality. He didn’t look at Jessica as he strode naked to a massive walk-in closet. Jessica watched, mesmerized and terrified, as he pulled on black trousers with sharp, efficient movements, then a crisp, white shirt that he buttoned with deliberate slowness, his fingers steady despite the storm Jessica sensed raging inside him. He buckled a sleek leather shoulder holster, sliding a heavy black pistol into place with a chilling finality. Finally, he shrugged into a perfectly tailored charcoal grey jacket. The transformation was complete: the lover replaced by the ruthless kingpin.
Only then did he turn towards the bed. His eyes, when they finally met hers, were shuttered, unreadable. The warmth, the possessiveness, the *her* that usually lived in his gaze was buried deep beneath layers of cold control.
"Jessica," his voice was low, rough, but unnervingly calm. "Stay here. Do not come out of this room. No matter what you hear. Understand?"
The command was absolute. The underlying warning was clear. Jessica nodded mutely, her throat too tight to speak. The fear solidified into a cold knot in her stomach.
Scar held her gaze for a beat longer, a flicker of something unidentifiable – protectiveness? Apology? – passing through his eyes before it was ruthlessly extinguished. He turned and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him. The soft click of the latch sounded like the sealing of a tomb.
Jessica scrambled off the bed, pulling on the silk robe Scar had discarded earlier. It smelled like him, a small comfort that did nothing to ease the panic fluttering in her chest. She crept towards the door, pressing her ear against the cool, heavy wood. She could hear the low murmur of voices downstairs, too indistinct to make out words, but the tone was tense, charged.
Downstairs, the opulent living room felt suddenly claustrophobic. William stood rigidly near the entrance, his face a mask of professional neutrality, but his eyes darted nervously towards the figure seated elegantly on the central cream sofa.
Amanda.
She was breathtaking. Dressed in a sheath dress of liquid silver that clung to her curves like a second skin, her dark hair cascaded in artful waves around a face sculpted with almost unreal perfection – high cheekbones, full lips painted a deep crimson, large, dark eyes fringed with impossibly long lashes. She looked like a fashion plate, a goddess descended into the mortal realm. She held a delicate porcelain cup of coffee, her posture relaxed, exuding an aura of supreme confidence. Yet, beneath the polished surface, an unnerving stillness radiated from her, like a viper basking in the sun.
Scar entered the room, his presence instantly dominating the space. He stopped several feet away from the sofa, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his expression impassive, but his eyes were chips of black ice fixed on Amanda.
"Amanda," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection. "What are you doing here?"
She looked up, a slow, dazzling smile spreading across her perfect features. It didn't reach her eyes. "Darling," she purred, her voice like velvet over steel. "Is that any way to greet your fiancée after five long years?"
Scar didn't flinch. "That arrangement was terminated. Permanently."
Amanda placed her cup down with exaggerated care on the glass coffee table. The delicate clink sounded unnaturally loud. "Terminated?" She gave a soft, tinkling laugh that held no humor. "By you? Because of one... little... mistake? You sent me away, Sebastian." She used his real name, a calculated intimacy. "Exiled me to that dreary clinic in Italy. Was that fair?" Her smile remained, but her eyes hardened. "Look at me. I worked so hard. Therapy, Sebastian. Sobriety." She gestured gracefully to herself. "All for you. To be worthy of you again."
Scar’s gaze didn’t waver. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure warning. "Don’t you think you’re a little late, Amanda? Things have changed. I have changed. I’ve moved on."
The air crackled. The polished mask on Amanda’s face fractured. A flash of pure, incandescent rage contorted her beautiful features for a split second, her knuckles whitening where she gripped the edge of the sofa. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, smoothed over by a brittle smile. She rose gracefully, smoothing her dress.
"Have you now?" she murmured, stepping towards him. She stopped just out of arm's reach, her dark eyes sweeping over him with possessive appraisal, then flicking dismissively around the room. "We shall see, Sebastian. We shall see." Her voice dropped, becoming a venomous whisper. "I’ve come back to take what’s mine."
She didn’t wait for a response. With the regal bearing of a queen reclaiming her throne, she walked past him towards William. "William, darling," she said airily, as if the previous five years and her violent exile had never happened. "Be a dear and have my bags brought up. The usual suite, I assume is prepared?" She didn’t wait for an answer, brushing past him and heading towards the sweeping staircase as if she owned the place.
William looked helplessly at Scar. Scar’s jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle spasmed in his cheek. He gave a single, sharp, almost imperceptible nod. William hurried after Amanda.
Scar remained standing in the center of the living room, radiating a cold, dangerous fury that seemed to vibrate the very air. He didn’t move for a long time, staring at the space where Amanda had sat, the ghost of her perfume – heavy, floral, cloying – hanging in the air, a stark contrast to Jessica’s lighter, fresher scent.
Upstairs, Jessica had retreated from the door, pacing the luxurious confines of the bedroom like a trapped animal. She’d heard the murmur of voices, the chilling clarity of that feminine purr, the unmistakable sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. Panic clawed at her throat. Fiancée? Exile?* The words screamed in her mind. Who was this woman? The fear for herself was momentarily eclipsed by a deeper, sharper pang – the fear of losing *him*, of this perfect, hard-won sanctuary being invaded and destroyed.
Hours crawled by. Jessica heard muffled voices elsewhere in the vast penthouse, the sound of doors opening and closing. The luxurious room felt like a prison. She jumped violently when her own bedroom door finally opened.
Scar stood there, framed in the doorway. The controlled mask he’d worn downstairs was still in place, but the strain showed around his eyes, in the tight set of his shoulders. He looked exhausted, haunted. He didn’t speak. He simply walked in, locked the door behind him, and crossed the room in three long strides.
He pulled Jessica into his arms with a force that stole her breath. It wasn't a passionate embrace; it was desperate, almost fearful. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his arms banded around her so tightly she could barely breathe, crushing her against the hard planes of his chest. He trembled, a fine, almost imperceptible vibration that terrified her more than any shout.
"Sebastian?" Jessica whispered, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he lifted his head and captured her lips in a kiss that was unlike any they’d shared before. It was slow, deep, achingly tender, yet underpinned by a raw, almost frantic intensity. It was a kiss of claiming, of reassurance, of desperate need. He kissed her like a drowning man clinging to air.
He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed. This time, there was no playful chase, no fierce claiming. He laid her down with heartbreaking gentleness. His touch as he removed her robe, then his own clothes, was reverent. He worshipped her body not with demanding passion, but with slow, lingering caresses that traced every curve, every scar, every inch of her skin as if memorizing it, as if it were sacred. His lips followed the same path – soft kisses on her eyelids, her temples, the pulse point at her wrist, the valley between her breasts, the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
He took her slowly, with a depth of feeling that stole her breath and brought tears to her eyes. His eyes never left hers, dark pools reflecting a vulnerability she had never seen. He moved within her with exquisite slowness, each thrust a promise, a plea. He murmured against her skin, words breathed like prayers into the quiet room.
"I love you, baby," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, rough with a fear he couldn't name. "I love you so much." He kissed her deeply again. "You are mine. Only mine." He held her gaze, the intensity almost painful. "I will protect you. With my life. Always."
He repeated the words like a mantra as their bodies moved together in a rhythm that was pure, desperate connection. "I love you... mine... protect you..." It was a confession ripped from the deepest, most guarded part of his soul, a shield erected against the ghost that now walked his halls.
Their climax, when it came, was a slow, powerful wave that washed over them together, a shared release that felt more like a merging of souls than a physical act. He held her through it, his arms like steel bands, his face buried in her hair, his body shuddering.
Afterwards, he didn’t let go. He pulled her tightly against him, her back to his chest, his arms locked around her waist, his face pressed against the nape of her neck. His breathing gradually slowed, deepened, into the rhythm of sleep, but his hold never slackened. It was as if he feared she would vanish if he loosened his grip even slightly.
Jessica lay wide awake in the circle of his arms, his words echoing in the silence.
I love you.
He’d never said it before. He was a man of actions, not declarations. His protection, his care, his fierce possession – that was his language. Hearing the words aloud, raw and vulnerable, spoken with such desperate intensity… it shook her to her core.
The fear hadn’t left. It coiled cold and heavy beneath the lingering warmth of his love and their intimacy. Amanda’s chillingly beautiful face, her possessive words, her entitled invasion… they painted a picture of danger Jessica couldn’t yet fully see, but felt bone-deep.
Something serious was happening. Something dark from Scar’s past had erupted into their fragile present, threatening everything. The man who feared nothing slept clinging to her like a lifeline. The confession of love wasn't just a gift; it was a warning.
Jessica stared into the darkness beyond the window, the unfamiliar weight of Scar’s sleeping embrace both a comfort and a chain. His whispered promise, *"I will protect you,"* warred with the terrifying certainty that Amanda was a storm they might not weather.
Who is she? Jessica thought, her mind racing, her body acutely aware of the man who loved her and the ghost who threatened them. *What did she do? What does she want?*
The warmth of Scar’s body against her back couldn’t dispel the chilling dread. Amanda wasn’t just an ex-fiancée. She was chaos wrapped in silk. And Jessica knew, with a cold certainty that settled in her bones, that she needed to understand this enemy.
And I will find out, she vowed silently into the dark, her hand tightening slightly over Scar’s where it rested on her stomach. The battle lines, unseen but deeply felt, had been drawn.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 8
Sunlight, warm and honeyed, streamed through the bulletproof glass of the penthouse bedroom, painting stripes across the rumpled silk sheets. Jessica lay curled against Scar’s chest, her ear pressed to the steady, powerful beat of his heart. Months. It had been months since the night that changed everything, months since she’d knelt in gratitude and been met with a firestorm of possession that had consumed them both. Now, the air itself hummed with the intensity of their connection, a tangible force field woven from trust, fierce protectiveness, and a love that had shocked them both with its depth.
His large hand traced lazy, possessive circles on the bare skin of her back, calloused fingers whispering over the curve of her spine. "You’re thinking too loud, my little lioness," his voice rumbled, a low vibration against her temple. He hadn’t called her anything else since that first morning.
A small smile touched Jessica’s lips. "Just… happy," she murmured, nuzzling closer. The gnawing fear for her family was a dull ache now, soothed by the knowledge they were safe in the mansion he’d given them, guarded by men whose loyalty was absolute. Her own world had shrunk and expanded simultaneously – confined within the gilded fortress of his empire for safety, yet boundless within the sanctuary of his regard.
"You should be thinking about your studies," he said, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. He’d been relentless on this point. Weeks ago, he’d presented her with a state-of-the-art laptop and a meticulously researched list of accredited online degree programs. "Law," he’d stated, not asked. "You have the mind for it. Sharp. Analytical. You understand the cost of injustice." He saw the education not as an escape from *his* world, but as armor *within* it. "Knowledge is power, Jessica. Especially here. I won’t have you vulnerable."
She’d enrolled. The discipline forged in the slums and honed juggling escort work and school served her well. Her days now held structure: intense study sessions in the morning light, often with Scar nearby, silently reading intelligence reports or conducting hushed calls; afternoons learning the intricate, often terrifying, workings of his empire – not the violence, but the strategy, the networks, the delicate balance of power he maintained. He trusted her. Explicitly. Implicitly. He introduced her to key, vetted players not as his mistress, but as *Jessica*. The respect they showed her was born of his unwavering authority and their dawning recognition of her own quiet intelligence.
"You worry I’m not focusing enough?" she teased, tracing the infamous scar that ran down his jaw with a feather-light touch. It was a gesture of intimacy only she was permitted.
His eyes, usually so hard and assessing, softened as he looked down at her. They held a warmth reserved solely for her, a stark contrast to the chilling authority he wielded elsewhere. "I worry about many things concerning you," he admitted, a rare vulnerability in his tone. "But your mind? Never. I know the steel in it." He captured her wandering hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips. "I just want you to have everything. Everything you were denied. Everything you deserve."
The tenderness, the absolute conviction in his words, still had the power to steal her breath. This ruthless kingpin, feared across continents, whose name was whispered with dread, held her as if she were spun glass and tempered steel combined – precious and unbreakable.
The lazy tracing on her back became less idle, more purposeful. His gaze darkened, the familiar heat igniting. Months had done nothing to dim the explosive chemistry between them. If anything, the deep well of trust and affection had only made the physical connection more potent, more layered. He knew her body now with devastating intimacy, knew exactly how to unravel her, just as she knew the secret paths to melt his formidable control.
"Enough studying for today," he declared, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that never failed to send shivers down her spine. He rolled her gently but decisively beneath him, his weight a welcome anchor. The sunlight gilded the hard planes of his chest and shoulders as he looked down at her, his eyes burning with possessive fire. "Right now, I require your undivided attention."
Jessica laughed, a breathless, happy sound, and made a playful half-hearted attempt to wriggle away. It was a game they played. He loved the chase, even within the confines of their bed. "Demanding, aren’t you?" she teased, pushing lightly against his chest.
A predatory grin slashed across his face. He easily pinned her wrists above her head with one large hand. "Always," he growled, lowering his head to nip at the sensitive skin of her neck, sending sparks skittering through her veins. "Especially where you’re concerned." His free hand slid down her side, over her hip, igniting a trail of fire. "Now, come here, my little lioness."
He kissed her, deep and claiming, silencing her playful protests. Jessica melted into him, her body arching instinctively, meeting his hunger with her own. The world outside their sanctuary – the danger, the underworld machinations – dissolved. There was only him, the heat of his skin, the intoxicating scent of him, the overwhelming sense of belonging. His mouth moved to her collarbone, then lower, his touch both reverent and demanding. She gasped his name, her fingers tangling in his dark hair.
"Scar…"
He growled in response, the vibration against her skin tightening the coil of desire low in her belly. He released her wrists, his hands moving to cup her face, holding her gaze captive as he positioned himself. The intensity in his eyes was breathtaking – love, lust, and an absolute, terrifying possessiveness.
"Say it," he commanded, his voice thick.
"Yours," Jessica breathed, the truth resonating deep in her soul. "Always yours."
He surged forward, joining them in one powerful, claiming stroke. Jessica cried out, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. This was worship, this was possession, this was home. He moved with a rhythm that was both familiar and eternally new, building the pleasure with relentless precision. Her world narrowed to the feel of him, the sound of his ragged breaths, the sight of his face – fierce, focused, utterly consumed by her. She met his thrusts, her own cries mingling with his low groans, climbing higher and higher towards the inevitable, shattering peak.
Just as the tension coiled unbearably tight, poised to break, a sharp, urgent knock shattered the intimate cocoon.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Scar froze above her, his body rigid, every muscle locked. The tender lover vanished instantly, replaced by the chilling visage of the crime lord. A low, dangerous snarl ripped from his throat, pure fury radiating from him like heat from a furnace. The interruption wasn't just unwelcome; it was a cardinal sin against the sanctity he fiercely guarded around Jessica.
"WILLIAM!" Scar roared, the sound echoing off the walls, vibrating with barely leashed violence. "This better be a fucking war starting at my doorstep, or I swear to God, I will personally remove your head from your shoulders!"
Jessica flinched at the raw fury, the sudden shift from passionate lover to deadly predator always jarring, even now. She placed a calming hand on his sweat-slicked chest, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart beneath her palm. "Scar," she murmured softly, trying to diffuse the atomic tension radiating off him. "Just… let him say what it is."
Scar’s jaw clenched so tight Jessica heard his teeth grind. He didn’t move off her, his body still intimately connected, his gaze fixed murderously on the door. After a tense, silent beat where Jessica half-expected the heavy wood to splinter under his glare, he finally barked, "Come in!" The command was a whip-crack.
The door opened cautiously. William, Scar’s imposing second-in-command, stood framed in the doorway. His face, usually impassive, was pale, etched with a tension Jessica had rarely seen. His eyes flickered towards the bed for a microsecond, registering the scene – his boss pinning Jessica beneath him, both flushed and clearly interrupted – before snapping back to Scar’s face with rigid discipline. He looked profoundly uncomfortable, acutely aware he was treading on lethally thin ice.
"Sir," William began, his voice strained. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "I apologize… profoundly… for the intrusion. But…"
"SPIT IT OUT, WILLIAM!" Scar snarled, his patience evaporated. The hand not braced beside Jessica’s head curled into a fist.
William flinched almost imperceptibly. He took a breath, steeling himself, his gaze locking onto Scar’s. The news he delivered was delivered in a flat, urgent tone, cutting through the charged air like a shard of ice:
"It’s Amanda, sir. She’s returned."
The effect was instantaneous and terrifying.
Scar didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. The fury that had consumed him a second ago vanished, replaced by a sudden, profound stillness that was infinitely more frightening. The color drained from his face beneath his tan, leaving his scar stark and livid. The possessive fire in his eyes extinguished, replaced by a chilling, hollow shock that Jessica had never witnessed before. It was the look of a man who’d seen a ghost – a ghost capable of unraveling everything.
"What?" The word was a whisper, devoid of its usual power, rough with disbelief. He pushed himself off Jessica abruptly, sitting upright on the edge of the bed, his back rigid, facing away from her. His broad shoulders were taut as steel cables. "When? When did she leave Italy?"
William shifted his weight. "Just confirmed, sir. She landed privately an hour ago. We don’t know her destination yet, but… she’s here. In Lagos."
The silence that followed was deafening, thick with unspoken history and looming catastrophe. Jessica sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around her, her own heart pounding against her ribs. She stared at Scar’s rigid back, the sudden distance yawning between them colder than any physical separation. The name hung in the air, charged with an ominous weight she couldn’t comprehend.
Amanda.
Who was she? What power did this name hold that it could fracture the invincible composure of Mr. Scar in an instant? The sanctuary of their love, so fiercely guarded just moments before, suddenly felt fragile, exposed to a storm Jessica couldn’t yet see. The trust, the safety, the future they were building – all suspended on the razor’s edge of this single, devastating name.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 7
The mansion was quiet.
Jessica sat on the edge of her new bed, the silk sheets cool beneath her trembling fingers. The echoes of her family’s laughter still lingered in the air, the warmth of their embraces still imprinted on her skin.
But her mind was elsewhere.
It was fixed on him.
Mr. Scar.
The man who had given her everything.
The man who had torn apart the world and rebuilt it just to see her smile.
Her chest ached.
She couldn’t breathe.
Before she knew what she was doing, she was on her feet, her bare feet padding silently across the marble floors, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure the entire household could hear it.
She stopped outside his door.
Raised her hand.
And knocked.
A deep voice rumbled from within. "Come in."
Jessica pushed the door open.
Mr. Scar stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to her, his broad shoulders outlined by the moonlight. He was shirtless, his scarred skin a map of violence and survival, his muscles tense even at rest.
He didn’t turn.
"You should be with your family," he said quietly.
Jessica swallowed. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she sank to her knees.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "For everything. For my family. For—for me."
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then—
Strong hands gripped her arms, hauling her to her feet. Mr. Scar’s face was unreadable, his dark eyes burning.
"Don’t," he growled. "Never kneel to me."
Jessica trembled. "I don’t know how else to—"
"It was nothing," he interrupted, his voice rough. *)"I had my men dig deeper after that night in the basement. I know now that Kazeem threatened you. That you had no choice." His grip tightened. "You and your family will never be unsafe again. That’s my promise."
Something inside Jessica snapped.
Tears spilled over, hot and uncontrollable. A sob tore from her throat, then another, until she was shaking apart in his arms.
Mr. Scar froze.
Then, slowly—so slowly—his arms came around her, pulling her against his chest.
"Jessica," he murmured, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it.
She clung to him, her fingers digging into his bare skin, her tears wetting his chest.
And then—
She kissed him.
Mr. Scar went rigid.
For one heart-stopping second, he kissed her back—his mouth hot, desperate, hungry.
Then he wrenched away.
"Go to your room," he ordered, his voice strained.
Jessica stumbled back, her lips still tingling. "W-what?"
"This isn’t why I did any of it," he snarled, turning away. "I don’t want payment."
The words stung.
Jessica’s face burned. "That’s not—I didn’t—"
"Goodnight, Jessica."
Humiliation and hurt crashed over her. She turned to leave, her vision blurring.
She barely made it two steps before an iron grip seized her wrist.
Jessica gasped as Mr. Scar yanked her back, spinning her around so fast her head swam.
His eyes were wild.
"You don’t get to do that," he hissed. "You don’t get to kiss me like that and walk away."
Then his mouth crashed down on hers.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t sweet.
It was ruin.
Mr. Scar kissed her like a man starved, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, his tongue claiming her mouth with a possessiveness that stole her breath. Jessica melted into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body arching against his.
Then he was lifting her, carrying her to the bed, his mouth never leaving hers.
"Tell me to stop," he growled against her lips.
Jessica shook her head, her eyes burning with tears. "Never."
That was all he needed.
He worshiped her.
With his hands. His mouth. His body.
Every touch was a brand, every kiss a vow. He tore her apart piece by piece, then put her back together again, his name a prayer on her lips as she shattered beneath him.
"Scar—!"
"Mine," he snarled in response, his fingers laced with hers, pinning her to the bed as he moved inside her. "Say it."
Jessica sobbed. "Yours."
He kissed her tears away.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets.
Jessica blinked awake, her body deliciously sore, her heart full to bursting.
Mr. Scar slept beside her, his arm draped heavily over her waist, his face younger in sleep, the harsh lines softened.
She smiled.
Then, carefully, she tried to slip away.
A strong arm yanked her back.
"Where do you think you’re going?" Mr. Scar murmured, his voice sleep-rough.
Jessica’s cheeks heated. "I—I thought—"
He rolled her beneath him, his dark eyes blazing with possession. "This is your room now, my sweet little lioness."
Her breath caught. "Really?"
Instead of answering, he kissed her.
And when he slid inside her again, slow and deep this time, Jessica knew—
She was home.
TO BE CONTINUED....

CHIMA THE OUTCAST: a tragedy forbidden love story
In the heart of Igbo land, hundreds of years ago, lived a young man named Chima and a beautiful woman named Adaeze. Chima was an outcaste, born into a family that was shunned by society. Despite his family's poverty and low status, Chima possessed a heart full of love and a spirit that shone brightly. Adaeze, on the other hand, was the daughter of a wealthy and respected family. Her beauty was matched only by her kindness, and she saw in Chima a soul that resonated with her own.
From the moment they met, Chima and Adaeze were inseparable. Their love blossomed in secret, away from the prying eyes of a society that would never accept their union. They met under the cover of night, in the dense forests and by the serene rivers, where they shared dreams of a future together, free from the chains of caste and wealth.
Hu, was furious. They could not fathom their daughter marrying an outcaste, a man with no wealth or status. Instead, they arranged for Adaeze to marry Obinna, a rich man from their own caste. The wedding was set, and preparations began in earnest.
The pain of separation was unbearable for Chima and Adaeze. Each day felt like an eternity, and the thought of living without each other was a torment they could not endure. They continued to meet in secret, their love growing stronger even as the day of Adaeze's wedding approached.
On the eve of her wedding, Adaeze and Chima met one last time. Under the moonlit sky, they held each other close, tears streaming down their faces. They knew that they could not live in a world that would keep them apart. In a final act of love and defiance, they decided to end their lives together, rather than be separated by the cruel dictates of society.
Hand in hand, they walked to the edge of a cliff overlooking the river where they had shared so many happy moments. With a final kiss, they leapt into the abyss, their souls intertwined forever. The next morning, their bodies were found, and the village was plunged into mourning.
Chima and Adaeze's love story became a legend, a tale of forbidden love and the ultimate sacrifice. Their spirits were said to roam the forests and rivers, a reminder of a love so strong that not even death could keep them apart. Their story was a poignant reminder of the power of love and the cruelty of societal norms, a tale that would be told for generations to come.
THE END

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 6
The morning of Jessica’s birthday dawned bright and golden, but her heart felt heavy.
She sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows of Mr. Scar’s villa, watching the sun rise over Lagos, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the glass. Birthdays had always been a quiet affair in the slums—if they were celebrated at all. Her mother would save for weeks just to buy a small cake, her father would whisper prayers of gratitude over her head, and her siblings would crowd around her, their laughter loud enough to shake their tiny one-room home.
Now, surrounded by luxury, she missed them more than ever.
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
She didn’t hear him enter.
Mr. Scar stood silently, watching her.
He had noticed the change in her these past few days—the way her smiles didn’t quite reach her eyes, the way she stared at her phone but never dialed, the way she flinched whenever someone mentioned family.
He knew why.
And he had planned something.
Clearing his throat, he stepped forward. Jessica quickly wiped her face, forcing a smile.
"You’re up early," she said softly.
Mr. Scar didn’t respond. Just studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned and left.
Jessica’s shoulders slumped.
She shouldn’t have expected anything.
Two hours later, a sleek black dress was delivered to her room.
Silk. Designer. The kind of thing she used to admire in shop windows but could never afford.
A note was pinned to it:
"Wear this. Be ready by 7."
Jessica’s heart skipped.
The restaurant was breathtaking.
An entire five-star venue, emptied of all other guests, decorated in soft gold and white. Crystal chandeliers cast shimmering light over tables laden with food—not just any food, but her favorites. Jollof rice, peppered snails, even the small coconut cakes her mother used to save up to buy her.
Jessica turned in a slow circle, her mouth open.
"What… is all this?"
Mr. Scar stood beside her, his usual scowl in place, but there was something softer in his eyes.
"You thought I forgot," he said.
It wasn’t a question.
Jessica swallowed. "I didn’t think you… cared."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then, so quiet she almost missed it:
"I do."
For the first time in months, Jessica laughed.
Really laughed.
Mr. Scar’s men—usually so intimidating—had awkwardly attempted to decorate, hanging lopsided balloons and streamers. A massive cake was wheeled out, and though Mr. Scar refused to wear the ridiculous paper crown the chef offered, Jessica caught the faintest smirk when she put hers on.
Music played. She danced. And for a few hours, the weight on her heart lifted.
But as the night wound down, a familiar sadness crept back in.
Mr. Scar noticed.
"Come," he said, holding out his hand.
"Where are we going?"
"You’ll see."
The drive was quiet.
Jessica watched the city blur past, her mind racing. They left the bustling streets behind, winding into an upscale residential area—the kind where diplomats and billionaires lived.
Her pulse quickened when the car slowed.
A mansion loomed ahead, its gates ornate, its gardens lush under the moonlight.
"Whose house is this?" she whispered.
Mr. Scar didn’t answer. Just stepped out and offered his hand.
Jessica took it, her legs unsteady.
The doorbell echoed like a gunshot in the silent night.
Jessica held her breath.
Then—
The door opened.
And her mother stood there.
Time stopped.
Jessica’s knees gave out. She collapsed right there on the marble steps, her hands flying to her mouth.
"Mama?"
Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. "My baby!"
Then arms were around her—her mother’s familiar scent, her father’s strong embrace, her siblings’ voices shouting her name as they piled into the doorway.
Jessica sobbed.
They were here. They were healthy. Their clothes were new, their faces fuller, their smiles brighter.
How?
She turned, searching for Mr. Scar.
He stood a few paces back, his hands in his pockets, watching.
And for the first time, Jessica understood.
"You…" Her voice broke. "You did this?"
Mr. Scar shrugged, as if it were nothing. "I had them moved months ago."
Months.
That meant…
He had been taking care of them. All this time.
Jessica’s heart swelled until she thought it might burst.
Her father stepped forward, gripping Mr. Scar’s hand. "Thank you," he said, his voice thick. "You saved us."
Mr. Scar looked almost uncomfortable. "I don’t like debts."
But Jessica knew the truth.
This wasn’t about debts.
This was about her.
Later, when the tears had dried and the initial shock had worn off, Jessica found Mr. Scar standing alone in the garden.
She approached slowly.
"You never told me," she said.
He didn’t turn. "Would you have believed me?"
"No."
A pause. Then:
"They’re yours," he said gruffly. "The house. The cars. Everything. It’s in your name."
Jessica’s breath caught.
"Why?"
Finally, he faced her. The moonlight caught the scar on his cheek, the gold in his eyes.
"Because you smiled today," he said simply. "I wanted to see it again."
And with that, he walked away, leaving Jessica standing there, her heart in her throat.
As she watched him go, something inside her shifted.
This man—this dangerous, complicated man—had given her more than just a house or a party.
He had given her back her family.
Her happiness.
Himself.
And for the first time, Jessica didn’t just feel gratitude.
She felt love.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 5
The first time Jessica stepped out of that cold, confined room, her legs trembled—not from fear, but from the sudden rush of freedom.
Mr. Scar stood in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light from the hall, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak. Just extended a hand, palm up, waiting.
Jessica hesitated.
"Take it," he growled. *"Or go back inside."
She took it.
His grip was firm, warm, swallowing her slender fingers whole as he led her down the dimly lit corridor.
She expected another prison.
What she got was a paradise.
The new room was nothing like the last.
Large windows draped with silk curtains let in the golden Lagos sunlight. A king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, a vanity table lined with perfumes and lotions, even a bookshelf stocked with novels—many of them her favorites, though she never told him that.
Jessica turned in slow circles, taking it all in, her heart pounding.
"Why?" she whispered.
Mr. Scar stood by the door, arms crossed, his usual scowl in place. But his eyes—those dark, dangerous eyes—watched her with something close to… satisfaction.
"Because I can," he said simply.
But they both knew it was a lie.
It started with a cough.
A small thing, insignificant. But by nightfall, Jessica was burning up, her skin slick with sweat, her body wracked with shivers.
She barely registered the door bursting open. Barely felt the strong arms lifting her from the bed.
But she would never forget the raw panic in Mr. Scar’s voice when he barked at his men:
"Get a doctor. NOW."
For three days, Jessica drifted in and out of consciousness.
And for three days, Mr. Scar never left her side.
She woke once to find him slumped in a chair beside her bed, his usually immaculate suit wrinkled, his scarred face shadowed with exhaustion. A damp cloth was clutched in his hand, as if he’d been wiping her brow moments before sleep took him.
Another time, she stirred to the feel of strong arms lifting her, holding her against a broad chest as he forced sips of water between her cracked lips.
"Drink," he ordered, his voice rough but oddly gentle.
Jessica obeyed, too weak to argue.
The fever broke on the fourth night.
Jessica woke to the sound of harsh, uneven breathing.
Mr. Scar sat on the edge of her bed, his head bowed, his shoulders trembling. Moonlight spilled through the windows, glinting off the wet tracks on his cheeks.
Tears.
The most feared man in Lagos was crying.
Over her.
Jessica’s breath caught.
He must have heard, because his head snapped up, his expression hardening instantly. But it was too late—she’d seen it. The vulnerability. The fear.
"Don’t," he warned, voice hoarse.
She said nothing. Just reached out, her fingers brushing his.
He didn’t pull away.
As Jessica grew stronger, Mr. Scar’s behavior grew more… confusing.
He allowed her to wander the villa freely, though guards always lingered just out of sight. He had chefs prepare her favorite meals, though she never told him what she liked.
And at night—
At night, he came to her room.
Not to hurt her. Not to demand anything.
Just to be there.
He would sit on the edge of her bed, sometimes reading, sometimes just watching her with those dark, unreadable eyes. And when the nightmares came—because they always did—he was there, pulling her into his arms without a word, holding her until the shaking stopped.
One night, as she drifted off against his chest, she heard him murmur something that made her heart stop:
"Please don’t leave me."
Jessica should have been afraid.
This was the man who’d locked her up, who’d threatened to kill her, who ruled the underworld with an iron fist.
But as the days passed, she found herself watching him too. Noticing the way his stern expression softened when he thought she wasn’t looking. The way his hands, so capable of violence, were endlessly gentle with her.
And one terrifying day, she realized the truth:
She didn’t want to leave.
The household noticed the change.
Hardened mafia men gaped as their boss carried Jessica to the garden when she was too weak to walk. The maids whispered when he personally tasted her food before letting her eat, a habit born from paranoia but now tinged with something else.
Protection.
Possession.
Love.
But no one dared say a word.
Because while Mr. Scar had clearly softened for Jessica, he was still a monster to everyone else.
The most surprising thing?
He never crossed the line.
No inappropriate touches. No demands. Just quiet companionship and a respect that left Jessica breathless.
One evening, as he turned to leave her room, she found herself speaking without thinking:
"Stay."
Mr. Scar froze. When he turned back, his eyes were blazing.
"Do you know what you’re asking?" he growled.
Jessica held his gaze. "Yes."
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then, slowly, he shook his head.
"Not like this," he said softly. *"Not until, you’re sure."
And with that, he left.
TO BE CONTINUED...

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...

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...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 2
The first time Jessica stepped into the VIP lounge, her stomach twisted with shame. The air smelled like expensive whiskey and desperation, a far cry from the stench of the slums she had grown up in. The neon lights flickered, casting shadows over the faces of men who watched her like she was a meal. She was nineteen, dressed in a tight black dress that clung to curves she hadn’t even known she possessed—a far cry from the bony girl who used to count grains of rice in the dirt.
Lady Lily, the woman in the sleek car, had painted this life as glamorous. "You’ll wear designer clothes, sleep in five-star hotels, and make in one night what your parents sweat for in a year," she had said.
But the first time a client touched her, Jessica had locked herself in a bathroom afterward and scrubbed her skin raw.
Not all of it was hell.
There were nights when the men were kind—older businessmen who preferred conversation over groping, who tipped her extra when they saw textbooks peeking out of her bag. Some even admired her ambition.
"You’re too smart for this," one had said, a silver-haired executive who paid her just to listen to him talk about his failed marriage. He left her an envelope thick with cash and a note: "For your education."
On those nights, Jessica allowed herself to hope. She would return to her tiny apartment—a step up from the slums, but still a far cry from luxury—and spread her books across the bed. Economics. Law. Literature. She devoured knowledge like a starving woman, her highlighter bleeding across pages late into the night.
And then there was the money.
Every month, without fail, she sent home stacks of cash—enough to feed her siblings, to pay for medicine, to finally get her father’s cough checked by a real doctor. Her mother’s voice on the phone was lighter these days, no longer frayed with exhaustion. "God bless you, my daughter," she would say, and Jessica would swallow the lump in her throat.
They never asked where the money came from.
She never told.
But then there were the other nights.
The ones where men didn’t see her as a person, just a body. The ones where their hands left bruises, where their laughter was cruel, where they called her names that made her want to vanish.
One client, a politician with a gold Rolex and dead eyes, had smirked as he threw cash at her feet. "Pick it up," he ordered.
She did.
That night, she cried in the shower until the water ran cold.
Lady Lily had warned her: *"This life will eat you alive if you let it."
Jessica refused to let it.
She kept a strict schedule—classes in the morning, study sessions in the library between appointments, nights "working" only when she had to. She learned how to read men, how to manipulate their desires, how to give them just enough to keep them coming back without losing pieces of herself.
And she never, ever let herself forget why she was doing this.
Her siblings were slipping away—one sister pregnant at sixteen, a brother dropping out of school to hawk goods in traffic. The slum was a monster, and it was hungry.
But Jessica had claws too.
Then came the night she met him.
A crime lord.
Not just any client, but the kind of man even powerful people whispered about. His name was a rumor, a shadow. And when he walked into the VIP lounge, the air shifted.
He didn’t leer at her like the others. He studied her.
"You don’t belong here,"* he said, his voice low.
Jessica met his gaze without flinching. "Neither do you."
For the first time in years, someone saw her—*really* saw her.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 1
The stench of rotting garbage and sweat clung to the air like a curse. In the heart of Lagos' worst slump, where hope went to die, a little girl with too-big eyes and ribs poking through her skin crouched in the dirt, counting grains of rice like they were gold. Jessica was eight years old the first time she understood what hunger truly was—not just the gnawing emptiness in her belly, but the kind that made her mother weep silently at night, the kind that made her father’s hands shake when he couldn’t afford medicine for her baby brother’s fever.
Nine people. One room. A single mattress stained with years of suffering, shared between her parents and seven children. The walls were thin, and the sounds of the slum never slept—drunken shouts, the cries of hungry babies, the scuttling of rats that were bolder than the people. Jessica learned early that life wasn’t fair. While other children played, she scavenged. While others dreamed, she fought—for food, for space, for a single moment of silence.
But there was something different about Jessica. Even as a child, her eyes burned with a fire that poverty couldn’t extinguish. At ten, she taught herself to read using tattered newspapers she found in the trash. At twelve, she sold boiled groundnuts under the scorching sun, saving every coin in a rusted tin she buried beneath their floor. At fifteen, she watched her eldest sister, Ada, disappear into the night with a man who promised her "work"—Ada never came back. That was the day Jessica swore she would never let the slum swallow her whole.
By some miracle—or sheer stubbornness—she finished secondary school. Then came the university admission letter, a flimsy piece of paper that felt like a ticket to heaven. But heaven came with a price. Her parents cried—not tears of joy, but of shame, because they couldn’t afford it. So Jessica did what she had always done: she fought.
She sold pure water under the rain, braved the leering eyes of market men who "tipped" her extra for bending low, took cleaning jobs in rich neighborhoods where women looked at her like she was dirt. Still, it wasn’t enough. Then one evening, a woman in a sleek car rolled down her window and said the words that would change everything: "A girl like you could make a month’s salary in one night."
Jessica knew what it meant. She wasn’t ******. But as she stared at the woman’s manicured nails and perfumed wrists, she thought of her siblings’ hollow cheeks, her father’s cough that never went away, her mother’s broken back from carrying other people’s loads. That night, she made a choice—not because she wanted to, but because the slum had given her no other options.
She became an escort. Not the kind draped in shame, but the kind who wore her pain like armor. She studied men the way she had once studied textbooks—learning their weaknesses, their desires, the way power curled around them like smoke. She was careful. She was smart. And most importantly, she had a plan.
This life wouldn’t break her. It would fuel her.
Because Jessica had one rule: no matter how far she sank, she would never stop climbing.
TO BE CONTINUED....

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
FINALE
The morning sun shone brightly as Grace stepped out of the car, smoothing her dress with nervous hands. Michael stood beside her, his warm fingers intertwining with hers—a silent promise of strength.
"Ready?" he murmured.
Grace took a deep breath, looking at their children—Sarah, Daniel, and Joy—standing behind them like soldiers ready for battle.
"More than ready."
Today, the truth would be heard.
The sanctuary was packed.
As Grace and Michael walked down the aisle together, whispers erupted like wildfire. Heads turned. Eyes widened.
Pastor Gideon, mid-prayer at the pulpit, froze when he saw them. His mouth went slack, his hands gripping the podium until his knuckles turned white.
Grace met his gaze—and smiled.
The pastor's face drained of color.
When testimony time came, Grace didn't wait to be called. She stood, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she walked to the microphone.
Michael joined her, his presence steady beside her.
"Good morning, church," Grace began, her voice clear. "Some of you know me. Some of you... have heard lies about me."
She turned to face Pastor Gideon, whose smile had turned sickly.
"But today, you'll hear the truth."
And then, she told them everything.
How Pastor Gideon had preyed on her during her weakest moment.
How he'd twisted scripture to convince her to abandon her marriage.
How he'd taken her money—every last naira—while pretending it was "God's will."
Michael stepped forward then, his voice booming as he revealed the bank statements, the manipulated texts, the other women who'd come forward—widows, single mothers, all victims of the same scheme.
The congregation erupted.
"Sister Ngozi lost her house because of him!" a woman shouted.
"He told me my sick child would die if I didn't give offerings!" another cried.
Pastor Gideon stumbled back, sweat pouring down his face. "T-these are lies—!"
Then Sarah stood, holding up her phone. "No. This is a lie."
And she played the recording—his voice, clear as day, demanding Grace's last millions.
The church exploded.
Pastor Gideon bolted.
He shoved through the crowd, knocking over chairs as he sprinted for the exit. But the ushers—men who'd once obeyed his every word—grabbed him.
"You devil!" one roared.
The mob surged. Fists flew. A deacon's punch sent the pastor crashing into the communion table, wine spilling like blood across his white robes.
Grace didn't flinch.
Police sirens wailed outside.
The trial was swift.
Fifteen years for fraud. For exploitation. For shattering lives under the guise of God.
As the judge pronounced the sentence, Grace exhaled—a weight she hadn't known she carried lifting at last.
Michael squeezed her hand.
It was over.
Months later, the Thompson home was alive with laughter again.
Michael, once a workaholic, now built pillow forts with Joy on Saturdays.
Sarah, no longer sullen, sang as she helped Grace cook Sunday dinner.
Daniel, quiet but content, taught Grace how to use social media—"To help others spot wolves in sheep's clothing," he said wisely.
One evening, as they sat around the firepit, Grace looked at her family—whole again—and felt tears prick her eyes.
Michael kissed her temple. "What is it?"
Grace smiled. "I almost lost this. Lost you."
Joy climbed into her lap. "But you didn't, Mama."
And as the fire crackled, warming them all, Grace knew—
No false shepherd could touch them now.
The new pastor was kind. Real.
Under his leadership, the church became what it was meant to be—a refuge. A family.
And every Sunday, front and center, sat the Thompsons.
Together.
The End.
The wolf was gone. The flock was safe. And the Thompson family?
They thrived.

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 9
The morning sun streamed through the curtains of the Thompson family home, painting the walls in warm gold. Grace stood by the kitchen window, watching as Michael played with Joy in the backyard—their laughter floating through the open window like music.
Six months had passed since the hospital. Six months of healing—of late-night talks, family dinners, and slow, steady rebuilding.
Grace smiled as she poured tea into two cups—one with two sugars and a splash of milk for Michael, the other just the way she liked it.
She had never thought she would feel this kind of peace again.
It happened on a quiet evening.
Grace was curled up on the couch, flipping through an old photo album—pictures of birthdays, vacations, moments she had almost lost forever.
Michael sat beside her, watching her face as she traced a finger over a snapshot of their wedding day.
"Grace," he said softly.
She turned to him—and froze.
Michael was on one knee, holding a simple gold band. Not a new ring.
Her ring.
The one she had left behind.
"Marry me again," he whispered. "Not because we have to. Because we want to."
Grace’s hands trembled as she reached for him. "Yes," she breathed. "A thousand times, yes."
They decided to do it in the south of France—just the five of them.
No fanfare. No crowds. No pressure.
Just love.
The ceremony took place on a small cliff overlooking the Mediterranean, the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and blooming flowers. Sarah and Daniel stood as witnesses, grinning as they held the rings. Joy, dressed in a tiny white dress, scattered petals at Grace’s feet.
When the officiant pronounced them husband and wife (again), Michael didn’t wait for permission to kiss her.
Grace melted into him, her heart so full she thought it might burst.
Later, as they watched the sunset paint the sky in shades of pink and gold, Michael squeezed her hand.
"We’re going to make him pay, Grace," he murmured.
She didn’t need to ask who he meant.
Pastor Gideon.
The flight home was filled with quiet planning.
"We can’t just accuse him," Sarah said, surprisingly sharp for a teenager. "We need proof."
Michael nodded. "I’ve already started looking. There are others—women he’s manipulated, money he’s stolen."
Grace’s stomach twisted. She had been one of many.
But not the last.
Never the last.
"We’ll expose him," she said, her voice steady for the first time in months. "Publicly. So he can’t hurt anyone else."
The children exchanged glances, then grinned.
It was time for revenge.
The Sunday after their return, Grace walked into Pastor Gideon’s church for the first time since her collapse.
Heads turned. Whispers followed.
Pastor Gideon, mid-sermon, faltered when he saw her.
But Grace didn’t flinch.
She walked straight to the front row—where Michael and the children waited—and sat down.
The pastor’s smile was strained. "Sister Grace! What a... surprise."
Grace merely smiled.
You have no idea what’s coming.
After the service, Grace requested a private meeting.
The pastor’s office was just as she remembered—opulent, suffocating.
"You look... well," he said, eyeing her warily.
Grace folded her hands. "I am. Thanks to my family."
A flicker of unease crossed his face.
She leaned forward. "I know what you did, Pastor. And I’m not the only one."
His smile froze. "I don’t know what—"
Michael stepped out of the shadows, holding a recorder. "We have testimonies from five other women. Bank records. Even your *texts*."
Pastor Gideon paled.
Sarah, standing in the doorway with her phone, smirked. "Oh, and this is being livestreamed to the entire congregation."
The pastor’s chair screeched as he stood. "You can’t—"
Grace rose, her voice calm. "Watch us."
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE NEW CEO

He never looked up. He just polished and returned them."
Her father never knew his name.
But she never forgot his hands.
Until the day the company he once stood outside…
Became the one he walked into — as the boss.

1996. Lagos Island.

Baba Dauda was a cobbler stationed outside the Afolabi & Sons Corporation — a big construction firm where luxury cars pulled up daily, and security guards barely let him near the building.

But every week, a wealthy man — Chief Afolabi — sent his driver with three pairs of Italian leather shoes.

Dauda would shine, stitch, clean, and polish them until they looked brand new.
He was never invited in.
Never tipped.
Never acknowledged.

But someone noticed.

Little Adesewa, Chief’s 9-year-old daughter, used to sit in the back of the car watching him work.
She once asked, “Why does he never come inside?”

Her father replied:
"Because people like that don’t belong in boardrooms."

But Dauda looked up and said:
“Small madam… maybe one day, I’ll fix more than shoes.”

Adesewa smiled.
He winked.

Then life happened.

The Afolabis moved abroad.
Dauda lost his spot outside the building when the area was demolished.
Nobody knew where he went.
Nobody looked for him.

2024. Victoria Island.

The same company — now renamed Afolabi Global — had fallen into crisis.
Stocks plummeted. Leadership changed.
They were awaiting their new CEO — a private appointee brought in by international investors to restructure the entire business.

Boardroom filled. Cameras ready. Staff nervous.

Then the doors opened…

And Mr. Dauda Adekunle walked in — polished suit, grey hair, briefcase in hand.

Silence.

Gasps.

He nodded slowly and said:

“28 years ago, I fixed shoes outside this building.
Today, I’m here to rebuild what was broken inside it.”

The crowd froze.

And from the corner, Adesewa — now head of PR — stood in tears.

She walked over, hugged him, and whispered:

“You didn’t just fix shoes, Baba. You fixed my view of the world.”

He didn’t beg.
He didn’t fight.
He just worked.

And while others built offices…
He built himself.

Now the same hands that once held polish and thread…
Hold contracts, power, and legacy.

Because sometimes, the person outside the gate…
Was just waiting to own the entire building.

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 8
The apartment was dark, the air thick with the smell of stale tears and untouched meals. Grace had been lying on the cold floor for hours, her body weak, her mind drowning in regret. The phone, now silent, lay just inches from her limp fingers—the last connection to the family she had pushed away.
Outside, the rain poured heavily, tapping against the window like desperate fingers trying to wake her.
But Grace didn’t stir.
Michael sat at the dining table in their home, staring at his untouched dinner. Sarah, Daniel, and little Joy were unusually quiet, their eyes downcast.
"Dad," Sarah whispered, her voice trembling. "What if something’s wrong with Mom?"
Michael’s chest tightened. He had called Grace a dozen times. Sent messages. Begged. But there had been no response.
Not even a "leave me alone."
Just silence.
Too much silence.
Daniel, always the observant one, spoke up. "What if she’s sick? Or… or hurt?"
Michael’s hands clenched into fists. He had tried to respect Grace’s space, to give her time. But this—this silence—was different.
Something was wrong.
He stood abruptly, grabbing his car keys. "We’re going to check on her."
The drive to Grace’s apartment felt like the longest of Michael’s life. The children sat in tense silence, their small hands gripping the seats.
When they arrived, Michael knocked—once, twice, three times.
No answer.
His heart pounded. "Grace!" he called, banging harder. "Grace, open the door!"
Still nothing.
Panic clawed at his throat. He turned to the building supervisor, who, after seeing the fear in Michael’s eyes, quickly unlocked the door.
The sight that greeted them shattered Michael’s heart.
Grace lay crumpled on the floor, her skin pale, her lips cracked. Tears had dried on her cheeks, her eyes swollen from crying.
"Mom!" Sarah screamed, rushing forward.
Michael was at Grace’s side in an instant, lifting her frail body into his arms. She was burning up, her breathing shallow.
"Call an ambulance!" he barked, his voice raw with fear.
Little Joy burst into tears, clinging to Daniel as they watched their father cradle their mother, his own tears falling onto her face.
"Grace," Michael whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. "I’m here. We’re *all* here."
The sterile white lights of the hospital buzzed overhead as doctors and nurses moved around Grace’s unconscious form.
"Severe dehydration," one doctor said. "Extreme stress. Her body just… shut down."
Michael sat by her bedside, his large hand wrapped around Grace’s small one. The children hovered close, their eyes wide with fear.
Sarah, trying to be strong, wiped her tears and held Joy’s hand. "She’s gonna be okay," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
Daniel, ever the quiet thinker, stared at his mother’s face. "Why didn’t she call us?" he asked softly.
Michael swallowed hard. "Because she thought we didn’t want her anymore."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Grace’s eyelids fluttered open hours later, her vision blurry.
The first thing she saw was Michael’s exhausted face, his stubble rough, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep.
Then—Sarah, Daniel, Joy. All staring at her with a mix of relief and lingering hurt.
Grace’s breath hitched.
They came for me.
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as shame crashed into her. She tried to speak, but her voice cracked. "I—I’m sorry…"
Michael squeezed her hand gently. "Shhh. Don’t talk."
Joy, unable to hold back any longer, climbed onto the bed and buried her face in Grace’s neck. "Don’t leave us again, Mama," she sobbed.
Grace’s arms—weak as they were—wrapped around her baby, holding her tight. Sarah and Daniel joined, their warmth seeping into Grace’s cold bones.
Michael leaned down, pressing a kiss to Grace’s forehead. "We never stopped loving you," he murmured. "We never *will*."
Grace closed her eyes, letting their love wash over her. For the first time in months, the storm inside her stilled.
Recovery was slow but steady.
Michael took time off work, refusing to leave Grace’s side. The children took turns reading to her, bringing her favorite foods, filling the hospital room with laughter and life.
One evening, as Grace sat propped up in bed, Michael handed her a cup of tea—just the way she liked it. Two sugars, a splash of milk.
She smiled weakly. "You remembered."
Michael sat beside her, his voice soft. "I remember everything, Grace."
A pause. Then—
"Pastor Gideon never came, did he?"
Grace’s smile faded. She shook her head.
Michael’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t press. Instead, he pulled her closer. "You don’t need him. You have us"
And for the first time, Grace believed it.
As the days passed, Grace’s strength returned—not just physically, but emotionally.
The panic attacks lessened. The nightmares faded.
Because every time she woke in fear, Michael was there to hold her.
Every time she doubted, Sarah was there to remind her, "We love you, Mom."
Every time guilt threatened to swallow her, Daniel would slip his hand into hers, silent but steady.
And Joy—her baby—would climb into her lap and whisper, "You’re my favorite person in the whole world."
Grace had spent months believing she was alone.
But her family had never left.
Not really.
The storm has passed now comes the sunrise
TO BE CONTINUED...

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 7
The apartment was silent except for the relentless ticking of the clock on the wall.
Grace sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her phone. The screen displayed the same notifications she had been ignoring for weeks:
- 14 Missed Calls from Michael
- 23 Unread Messages from Sarah
- 5 Voicemails
Her finger hovered over the screen, trembling.
What if they hate me?
What if it’s too late?
A part of her was still clinging to Pastor Gideon’s words—"They abandoned you. The church is your family now."
But the pastor hadn’t called. Hadn’t visited. Hadn’t even replied to her last desperate text.
The truth was creeping in, slow and suffocating.
She had been used.
Grace dialed Pastor Gideon’s number for the fifth time that day.
It went straight to voicemail.
Again.
Her chest tightened. She scrolled through their past messages—all her pleas for spiritual guidance, for comfort, for anything—left on read.
The last message he had sent was over three weeks ago:
"Sister Grace, your sacrifice has been noted in heaven. God will reward you in due time."
Then—nothing.
Grace’s breath came in shallow gasps as she stared at the church’s social media page. There was Pastor Gideon, smiling in a sleek new suit, standing beside a luxury car, captioned:
"Blessed beyond measure! Thank you, Lord, for your provision!"
Her money.
Her house.
Her life.
All turned into his trophies.
A sob tore from her throat.
With shaking hands, Grace finally tapped on Sarah’s messages.
The first one was from two months ago:
"Mom, please call me. I miss you."
Then, a week later:
"Dad cries every night. Why won’t you talk to us?"
The most recent one, sent just three days ago:
"Joy keeps asking for you. She thinks you don’t love her anymore. Please, Mom… just say something."
Grace’s vision blurred.
She hadn’t known.
She hadn’t let herself know.
Her fingers moved on their own, opening Michael’s voicemails.
His voice—rough with emotion—filled the room.
"Grace… it’s me."
A pause. A shaky breath.
"The kids… they’re not okay. Sarah had a nightmare last night and called out for you. I didn’t know what to tell her."
Another pause.
"I don’t know what that pastor told you, but… I never stopped loving you. I never wanted this divorce. I just… I just didn’t know how to fix things."
A muffled sound—was he crying?
"Grace, please. If you ever loved us… just come home."
The message ended.
Grace sat frozen.
Then—
A second voicemail played automatically.
Sarah’s voice, small and broken:
"Mom… it’s my birthday today. You forgot. Dad tried to make it special, but… it’s not the same. I just want you here."*
A third voicemail.
Joy, her baby, whispering through tears:
"Mama… come back. I’ll be good. I promise."
Grace couldn’t breathe.
The room spun.
Her chest burned as if someone had reached inside and ripped her heart out.
What have I done?
What have I DONE?
She stumbled to her feet, gasping, her hands clutching at her chest.
The walls closed in.
The phone slipped from her fingers.
Darkness swallowed her vision.
The last thing she heard was the sound of her own body hitting the floor.
TO BE CONTINUED...

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 6
Grace sat by the window of her empty mansion, staring at the rain as it painted crooked lines down the glass. Three months had passed since the divorce. Three months of silence from her children. Three months of Michael’s unanswered calls piling up in her voicemail.
The house was too big. Too quiet.
She barely ate. Barely slept.
The only person who still visited was Pastor Gideon.
A knock at the door startled her.
Pastor Gideon stood there, his smile wide, his eyes gleaming as they swept over her disheveled appearance—the unwashed hair, the wrinkled clothes, the dark circles under her eyes.
"Sister Grace," he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "You look... tired."
Grace wrapped her arms around herself. "I haven’t been sleeping well."
The pastor sighed, shaking his head sadly. "The devil is attacking your peace. But don’t worry—God has shown me how to help you."
He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, his grip just a little too tight.
They sat in the living room; Grace curled into herself on the couch while the pastor paced like a preacher at the pulpit.
"The church is building a new prayer retreat," he said, his voice swelling with false passion. "A holy place where broken souls like yours can find healing."
Grace blinked up at him. "That sounds... nice."
Pastor Gideon smiled. "It will be. But we need your help, Sister Grace. God has placed it on my heart to ask you for a seed offering."
He pulled out a brochure with glossy pictures of the planned retreat—a grand building with marble floors and golden accents.
Grace frowned. "How much?"
The pastor’s grin widened. "Thirty million naira."
Grace’s breath caught. That was more than half of what Michael had given her.
But the pastor leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "This is your chance to buy back God’s favor, Grace. After everything—the divorce, your children abandoning you—don’t you want to be right with the Lord again?"
Grace’s hands trembled.
She thought of Sarah’s laughter. Michael’s arms around her. The family she threw away.
Maybe... maybe this was her punishment. Maybe giving this money would fix things.
She nodded slowly.
Pastor Gideon’s eyes glinted.
Two weeks later, he returned.
This time, he arrived with a prayer group—three women from the church who circled Grace, laying hands on her, speaking in tongues.
"You have a spiritual blockage," the pastor declared. "A curse from your past life is stopping your blessings!"
Grace flinched as the women’s fingers pressed into her skin.
"How... how do I break it?" she whispered.
Pastor Gideon sighed, as if burdened by the weight of her sin. "It will require a mighty sacrifice. Twenty million naira. To cleanse your spirit."
Grace’s stomach twisted. That was nearly all she had left.
But the women nodded solemnly, their eyes wide with manufactured concern.
"God is waiting for your obedience, Sister Grace," one murmured.
Tears spilled down Grace’s cheeks.
She wrote the check.
A month passed.
Grace’s account was almost empty.
She hadn’t paid her electricity bill. The fridge was bare. The mansion felt like a tomb.
When Pastor Gideon came again, she was sitting in the dark.
"Sister Grace," he said, his voice oozing false sympathy. "You look worse."
Grace didn’t answer.
The pastor sat beside her, sighing heavily. "I’ve been praying for you. God has revealed the final step to your freedom."
Grace turned hollow eyes toward him.
"You must sell this house," he said. "And give the money to the church. It’s the last stronghold of your past life. As long as you live here, the devil will torment you."
Grace’s lips parted in shock.
This house was all she had left.
But the pastor pressed on, his voice smooth as poison. "Your children left you, Grace. Michael abandoned you. But the church has stayed. I have stayed. Who else do you have?"
Grace’s breath came in shallow gasps.
No one.
She had no one.
The papers were signed.
The house sold.
Grace handed every penny to Pastor Gideon, her hands shaking.
He smiled, patting her cheek like a child. "You’ve done well, Sister Grace. God is pleased."
Then he left.
And he never came back.
Grace sat on the floor of a tiny, rented apartment, her back against the wall, staring at her phone.
One missed call from Michael.
One voicemail from Sarah.
She couldn’t bring herself to listen.
Outside, the rain fell harder.
And for the first time, Grace realized the truth:
She had been the prey all along.
her bones clean. Now comes the hunger.......

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 5
The courtroom was cold.
Grace sat stiffly on the wooden bench, her fingers clutching the edge of the seat as the judge’s voice echoed through the sterile room.
"Divorce granted."
Two words. That was all it took to end eighteen years of marriage.
Beside her, Michael sat with his head bowed, his broad shoulders slumped in defeat. Their three children—Sarah, Daniel, and little Joy—were huddled close to him, their faces streaked with silent tears. None of them looked at her.
Grace’s heart pounded so hard she thought it might crack her ribs.
Outside the courthouse, Michael approached her, his eyes red-rimmed.
"Grace," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "It’s not too late. We can stop this."
She turned away, but he caught her wrist gently.
"Please," he begged. "For the kids. For us."
For a fleeting moment, Grace hesitated. She remembered the way he used to smile at her in the mornings, the way he’d pull her close during cold nights.
But then Pastor Gideon’s voice slithered into her mind:
"He’s trying to trap you again. Don’t fall for it."
She yanked her hand away.
"It’s over, Michael."
His face crumbled.
Despite everything, Michael didn’t fight her.
Out of love—or maybe guilt—he gave her everything:
- 50 million naira
- A fully furnished house in a quiet estate
- A brand-new car
Their lawyer read out the terms, his voice monotone. Grace should have felt victorious. But all she felt was empty.
When it came to the children, the judge asked them one by one:
"Who do you want to live with?"
Sarah, her eldest, didn’t hesitate. "Daddy."
Daniel, her sensitive middle child, wiped his nose and nodded. "Daddy too."
Little Joy, only six years old, clutched her father’s leg and whispered, "I want Daddy."
Grace’s breath left her lungs in a rush, as if she’d been punched.
They didn’t choose me.
Her new house was beautiful.
Spacious. Quiet. Empty.
Grace wandered through the rooms like a ghost, her footsteps echoing off the polished floors. She slept in the middle of the king-sized bed, drowning in the silence.
At night, she cried until her throat was raw, until her pillow was soaked.
She missed Sarah’s laughter. She missed Daniel’s bedtime stories. She missed Joy’s tiny arms around her neck.
Most of all, she missed him.
But it was too late.
Pastor Gideon visited often, his smile wide and reassuring.
"You’ve done the right thing, Sister Grace," he said, patting her hand. "God is testing your faith. Stay strong."
He brought her scriptures about "new beginnings" and "breaking chains." He told her the children would understand one day.
But when he left, the loneliness swallowed her whole.
One evening, as she scrolled through old photos on her phone, Michael called.
Her finger hovered over the answer button.
Pastor Gideon’s warning rang in her ears:
"If you go back, you’ll regret it. He’ll never change."
She let the call go to voicemail.
That night, Grace dreamed of her old life.
She was in the kitchen, cooking while Michael hugged her from behind, his lips brushing her neck. The children were laughing in the living room.
When she woke up, the house was dark.
And she was alone.
The weight of her mistake crashed down on her.
What have I done?
Days bled into weeks.
Grace stopped wearing makeup. Stopped cooking. Stopped caring.
The money, the house, the car—none of it mattered.
One afternoon, she found Sarah’s hair ribbon tucked in her purse. She pressed it to her face, inhaling the faint scent of her daughter’s shampoo, and broke down.
She wanted to call Michael. To beg for forgiveness.
But pride—and the pastor’s voice—held her back.
Pastor Gideon called her to his office.
"Sister Grace," he said, his voice dripping with false concern. "I’ve been praying for you. God has shown me your next steps."
He slid a document across the table.
"Donation to the church’s new building project."
The amount: 30 million naira.
Grace stared at it, her stomach churning.
For the first time, she wondered—
Was this his plan all along?
TO BE CONTINUED...

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 4
The house was too quiet.
Grace sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing the rim of her morning coffee cup, the steam long gone. Michael had left early again—another "business meeting." But this time, something felt different. Her stomach twisted in knots, and no matter how hard she tried to shake it off, the feeling clung to her like a shadow.
She picked up her phone, scrolling mindlessly until a message notification popped up.
It was from an unknown number.
Her breath hitched as she opened it.
"Your husband and his secretary look so cozy together at the Silver Spoon Café. Thought you should know."
Attached was a photo—Michael sitting across from his young, beautiful secretary, their heads close together as they smiled over documents.
Grace’s hands trembled.
She didn’t remember driving to Michael’s office.
All she knew was the burning in her chest, the way her pulse roared in her ears. She burst through the doors, ignoring the startled receptionist, and marched straight to his office.
And there they were—Michael and her—standing close, the secretary laughing at something he said.
Grace saw red.
"Grace? What are you—" Michael started, his eyes widening as she stormed in.
"Who is she?!" Grace screamed, pointing at the secretary.
The young woman stepped back, her face paling. "Mrs. Thompson, I—"
"Grace, calm down!" Michael moved between them, his hands raised. "This isn’t what you think!"
"Then what is it?!" Her voice cracked, raw with betrayal. "Another business meeting? Another late night? How long has this been going on?!"
Michael’s jaw tightened. "Nothing is going on! We were just going over contracts!"
Grace let out a bitter laugh. "Contracts? Is that what you call it now?"
She lunged forward, shoving him hard. Michael stumbled back, shock flashing across his face.
"Grace, stop!"
But she couldn’t. The rage, the hurt, the months of loneliness—it all erupted. She grabbed the nearest thing—a glass paperweight—and hurled it at the wall. It shattered, the sound like a gunshot in the tense silence.
The secretary screamed, scrambling out of the room.
Michael grabbed Grace’s wrists, his grip firm. "Grace, enough! You’re acting crazy!"
"*Crazy?!" She wrenched free, tears streaming down her face. "You’ve been lying to me! You’ve been cheating on me!"
"I haven’t!" Michael’s voice broke. "Grace, please—just listen to me!"
But she didn’t want to listen.
She couldn’t.
The ride home was a blur.
Michael followed her, pleading the entire way, but Grace barely heard him. All she could hear was Pastor Gideon’s voice in her head:
"If you stay, you will die."
When they got home, the children were there—their three beautiful babies, their faces filled with confusion and fear as they watched their parents scream at each other.
"Daddy? Mommy?" little Sarah whispered, her eyes wide with tears.
Grace’s heart shattered.
But she couldn’t stop.
She packed her bags that night.
Michael begged on his knees, his voice broken. "Grace, please… Don’t do this. I love you. We love you."
The children cried, clinging to her legs. "Mommy, don’t go!"
Grace closed her eyes, her hands shaking as she zipped up her suitcase.
Pastor Gideon’s words echoed louder.
"God wants you free."
She turned away, walking out the door without looking back.
When she arrived at the church, Pastor Gideon welcomed her with open arms.
"Sister Grace," he said, his voice dripping with false warmth. "You’ve done the right thing. God is pleased."
He patted her back, his smile wide. "This is your new beginning."
Grace nodded, but deep down, beneath the numbness, a voice whispered:
What have I done?
That night, alone in the small apartment the pastor had arranged for her, Grace sat on the edge of an unfamiliar bed, staring at her phone.
There were 17 missed calls from Michael.
32 messages from the kids.
And one voicemail—Sarah’s tiny, broken voice:
"Mommy… please come home."
Grace pressed a hand to her mouth, choking back a sob.
For the first time, she wondered—had she made the biggest mistake of her life?
TO BE CONTINUED...

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 3
Grace stood in the kitchen, her hands shaking as she stared at the text on her phone. It was from Michael—short, cold, like always.
"Working late. Don’t wait up."
She had spent all afternoon preparing his favorite meal—peppered snail soup with fresh bread. The table was set, candles lit, the house smelling of spices and warmth. She had wanted to talk, to finally tell him how lonely she felt. How much she missed him.
But now, the food would go cold. Again.
Her fingers hovered over her phone. She wanted to type, "Please come home. We need to talk." But she knew what his response would be—silence. Or worse, annoyance.
She took a deep breath and called him instead.
The phone rang three times before Michael answered. In the background, she could hear laughter, glasses clinking. A restaurant.
"Grace, I said I’m working," he muttered, his voice tight with irritation.
Her heart pounded. "You’re not at the office."
A pause. Then a sigh. "I had a business dinner. I didn’t think I needed to explain every little thing to you."
Little thing. Those words cut deep. To her, it wasn’t little. It was another night alone. Another night where she felt invisible in her own marriage.
"Michael…" Her voice cracked. "I made dinner. I wanted us to talk. We—we can’t keep living like this."
Another pause. Then, "Grace, not now. I’ll be home late."
And just like that, he hung up.
Grace stood there, the phone still pressed to her ear, the dial tone buzzing like a taunt.
When Michael finally came home, hours later, Grace was waiting.
The candles had burned out. The food was untouched.
He walked in, loosening his tie, barely glancing at her as he headed for the stairs.
"Michael," she said, her voice trembling. "We need to talk."
He stopped, exhaling sharply. "Grace, it’s midnight. Can’t this wait?"
No. It couldn’t.
"Every time I try to talk to you, you push me away," she whispered, tears spilling over. "Do you even love me anymore?"
Michael turned, his face unreadable. "This again? Grace, I’m tired. I work all day, and I don’t need this drama when I come home."
Drama.
That word shattered something inside her.
"This isn’t drama!" she cried. "This is our marriage! You don’t talk to me, you don’t spend time with me—I feel like a ghost in my own house!"
Michael’s jaw tightened. "What do you want from me, Grace? I provide for you. You have everything!"
Everything except his love.
Grace wiped her tears, her breath coming in shaky gasps. "I want my husband back."
For a second, something flickered in Michael’s eyes—guilt? Regret? But then it was gone, replaced by cold indifference.
"I don’t have time for this," he said, turning away.
And just like that, he walked upstairs, leaving her standing there, broken.
Grace didn’t sleep that night.
By morning, her eyes were swollen, her heart raw. She needed someone to talk to. Someone who would listen.
So she went back to the only person who seemed to care—Pastor Gideon.
In his office, Grace cried as she told him what happened.
Pastor Gideon listened, nodding sympathetically. Then he leaned forward, his voice grave.
"Sister Grace… I fear for your life."
Grace froze. "What?"
He sighed, shaking his head. "A man who treats his wife this way… it’s not just neglect. It’s spiritual warfare. The devil is using him to destroy you."
Grace’s hands trembled. "But—but what do I do?"
Pastor Gideon placed a hand over hers. "God is telling me… if you stay, you will die in that house. Not just your heart—your life."
Grace gasped, her blood running cold.
"The Bible says, ‘Come out from among them and be separate.’ You must leave, Sister Grace. Before it’s too late."
Her mind spun. Leave Michael? After eighteen years?
But the pastor’s words sank deep, feeding her fears.
You will die if you stay.
That evening, Pastor Gideon "coincidentally" ran into Michael at a charity event.
"Brother Michael!" he greeted warmly, clapping him on the back. "How are you, my friend?"
Michael, unaware of the pastor’s conversations with Grace, smiled. "Doing well, Pastor. Keeping busy."
The pastor sighed sympathetically. "I actually wanted to speak with you. Your wife came to me recently… she’s been struggling."
Michael’s smile faded. "Grace?"
Pastor Gideon nodded. "She’s… very emotional. I’ve been counseling her to find peace in God’s word. Marriage is sacred, after all."
Michael relaxed, grateful. "I appreciate that, Pastor. She’s been… difficult lately."
The pastor smiled, hiding his deceit behind holy concern. "We’ll keep praying for you both."
Meanwhile, Grace sat at home, staring at her wedding ring, wondering if removing it would save her life—or destroy it.
TO BE CONTINUED...

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 2
Grace sat in the front pew of the church, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her lace scarf. The air smelled of polished wood and faint incense, and the stained-glass windows painted colorful patterns on the floor. She had come early, hoping to speak to Pastor Gideon before the service began.
Her heart pounded as she rehearsed what she would say. "Pastor, my marriage is falling apart over small things. Michael doesn’t talk to me anymore. We used to be happy, but now… I don’t know what to do."
When the pastor finally emerged from his office, his smile was warm, his eyes kind. He looked like a man who carried the wisdom of God in his voice.
"Sister Grace," he said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You look troubled. Come, let’s talk."
Inside his office, Grace poured out her heart—how Michael was always busy, how they barely spoke, how she felt like a ghost in her own home. She expected comfort, maybe even prayer. But Pastor Gideon leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard as if God Himself had whispered a revelation into his ear.
"My daughter," he said, his voice smooth as honey, "sometimes what we think is a trial is actually God’s way of redirecting us."
Grace frowned. "What do you mean, Pastor?"
He sighed dramatically. "Perhaps… this marriage is not God’s will for you anymore."
Grace’s breath caught. Not God’s will? After eighteen years?
The pastor continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "A man who neglects his wife is not a man of God. And you, Sister Grace, are too precious to waste your life waiting for love that isn’t there."
Her hands trembled. "But… we took vows. What about forgiveness? What about trying?"
Pastor Gideon shook his head sadly. "Some people are sent to test us, not to stay with us. Maybe God is calling you to let go."
Grace felt dizzy. This wasn’t what she had come for. She had wanted hope—a way to fix her marriage. Not… this.
The church doors closed behind her, and the bright sunlight felt like a cruel joke. Grace stumbled down the street, her vision blurred by tears.
"Leave him?"* How could that be God’s plan?
Yet the pastor’s words slithered into her mind, whispering doubts. "Michael doesn’t love you. You deserve better. God wants you free."
By the time she reached her house, her chest ached as if someone had reached inside and ripped out her heart. She barely made it to the bedroom before collapsing onto the bed, sobbing into the pillow.
Downstairs, Michael sat at the dining table, flipping through contracts. The sound of Grace’s cries floated down the hallway, but he didn’t look up.
When she finally came downstairs, her eyes red and swollen, he barely glanced at her.
"You, okay?" he asked absently, not waiting for an answer before turning back to his papers.
Grace stared at him, her heart breaking all over again.
He doesn’t even see me.
Pastor Gideon’s voice echoed in her mind: "You’re wasting your life."
For the first time in eighteen years, Grace wondered if the pastor was right.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw two paths:
1. Stay and fight for her marriage—but what if Michael never changed?
2. Leave and trust "God’s plan"—but what if the pastor was wrong?
Meanwhile, miles away, Pastor Gideon sat in his lavish home, counting the offerings from Sunday’s service. His phone buzzed—a message from a wealthy widow in his congregation. He smiled.
Then he thought of Grace. Vulnerable. Heartbroken. Married to a rich man.
Perfect.
He sent her a text:
"Sister Grace, God laid you on my heart tonight. Remember—He never closes a door without opening a window. I’m here for you."
Grace read the message in the dark, tears rolling down her face.
She had no idea the window the pastor wanted to open… led straight into a trap.
TO BE CONTINUED...

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 1
Grace wiped her hands on her apron, the scent of fried plantains still lingering in the air. The kitchen was warm, the way her husband, Michael, liked it. Eighteen years of marriage had taught her that—just like she knew he preferred his tea with two sugars and a splash of milk. Little things. The kind of things that should have bound them closer, but instead, they had become silent reminders of the distance between them.
She glanced at the clock. 8:47 PM. Michael was late again.
Not that it was unusual. His construction business had been demanding more of his time lately, and Grace understood. At least, she told herself she did. But understanding didn’t stop the loneliness from creeping in, didn’t stop the quiet resentment from settling in her chest like a stone.
The front door clicked open, and Michael’s heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway.
"You’re late," Grace said, not looking up as she arranged his plate on the table.
"Traffic," he mumbled, loosening his tie.
She wanted to say more. Wanted to ask why he hadn’t called, why he hadn’t texted. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she watched as he sat down, his eyes fixed on his phone, fingers scrolling mindlessly.
"The food’s getting cold," she said softly.
Michael grunted in response, finally setting his phone aside. He took a bite, chewing slowly, his mind clearly somewhere else.
Grace sat across from him, picking at her own food. The silence between them was thick, suffocating. It hadn’t always been like this. Once, they used to talk for hours—about dreams, about their daughter, Sarah, about everything and nothing. Now, it felt like they were two strangers sharing a meal out of obligation.
"You forgot to pay the electricity bill," Grace said, breaking the silence.
Michael frowned. "I thought you handled that."
"I did last month. You said you’d take care of it this time."
A sigh. "Grace, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. You couldn’t just remind me?"
Her grip tightened around her fork. "I shouldn’t have to remind you, Michael. This is your house too."
He rubbed his temples, exhaustion lining his face. "Can we not do this tonight? I’m tired."
Tears pricked at the corners of Grace’s eyes, but she blinked them away. This was how it always went. A small issue, a minor misunderstanding, and instead of fixing it, they let it fester. Like cracks in a wall, ignored until the whole structure threatened to collapse.
She wanted to scream. Wanted to shake him and say, "We’re slipping away! Don’t you see it?" But she didn’t. Because maybe he didn’t see it. Or maybe he just didn’t care enough to try.
Instead, she stood, taking her plate to the sink. "I’m going to bed," she whispered.
Michael didn’t respond.
Upstairs, Grace sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her wedding photo on the nightstand. They looked so happy then. So, in love. Where had they gone wrong?
Was it the long hours at work? The missed anniversaries? The way they stopped holding hands in public. Or was it the slow, painful erosion of communication—the assumption that love alone would carry them through, even when they stopped trying?
She picked up her phone, scrolling absently until she saw a notification from Pastor Gideon’s weekly sermon: "God’s Plan for Your Marriage."
Her finger hovered over the link. Maybe… maybe he had answers. Maybe he could help her understand why her marriage felt like it was crumbling over things that should have been so easy to fix.
With a deep breath, she clicked on it.
Little did she know that one click would change everything.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Zubaida and the Forbidden Grove

Episode 2: The Grove Remembers

The Blood-water Eclipse arrived with an eerie hush. The Nile glowed crimson under the moon’s eye. Zubaida and Sayid, dressed in sacred white cloth, approached the Forbidden Grove. The trees parted like watching guardians, and the air shimmered with memory.

As they stepped deeper, visions surrounded them—echoes of lost villagers, fragments of time caught in a loop. Zubaida heard laughter, then a cry. Her sister’s voice.

They reached the heart of the grove—a mirror-lake, still as glass. Zubaida peered in and gasped.

Across the lake stood Safina, unchanged, barefoot, eyes glowing. But she was not alone—she was part of the grove, a keeper between worlds. Trapped, yet thriving.

“I didn’t vanish,” Safina spoke. “I was chosen. The grove called one twin to stay and one to remember.”

Zubaida’s heart ached. “I came to bring you back.”

“You already have,” Safina smiled, touching the surface of the lake. A swirl of energy surged, and Zubaida fell unconscious.

When she awoke, she was at the edge of the grove. In her hand: a golden leaf glowing with warmth. Sayid helped her up.

From that day on, Zubaida’s tapestries became portals of wisdom. Her weavings told truths no one dared speak. People journeyed from kingdoms afar to hear her stories and learn from her gift.

She never married, but with Sayid by her side, she lived fulfilled, whispering to the grove each night.

And it is said—when a brave soul enters the Forbidden Grove now, a twin voice sings from the trees, guiding lost hearts home.

Zubaida and the Forbidden Grove
Origin: Sudan (Nubian Influence)

Episode 1: The Shadow Beneath the Date Palms

In the ancient village of Karma, along the banks of the Nile, lived Zubaida, a skilled weaver known for her mesmerizing tapestries. Her fingers danced like whispers over thread, telling stories of gods, crocodiles, lost queens, and sky spirits.

But Zubaida was haunted.

When she was just a child, her twin sister, Safina, disappeared after wandering near the Forbidden Grove—a stretch of sacred land said to be cursed by the goddess Nyarai, guardian of balance and time. Since then, Zubaida had seen glimpses of Safina in her dreams—eyes glowing like stars, hair dripping with river reeds.

Their father, once a palace advisor, had forbidden any talk of the grove. The village had moved on. But Zubaida had not.

At 25, Zubaida was unmarried—a rarity in her land. She was feared for her visions and her refusal to marry. Secretly, she made a vow: She would find the grove, and if Safina was alive—or even a whisper in the wind—she would bring her back.

One day, a stranger arrived: Sayid, a traveling scribe who came seeking a legendary pattern Zubaida had once woven of a “twin sun.” He claimed it matched ancient texts about portals hidden in sacred places.

As the two bonded over scrolls and stories, Sayid revealed something more:
His great-grandfather had once wandered into the Forbidden Grove and returned... changed. He spoke of a mirror-world, of spirits trapped between memories and time.

Together, Zubaida and Sayid made a plan to enter the grove during the Bloodwater Eclipse, when the moon turned red and the Nile whispered its oldest songs.

But the grove was watching. And something—or someone—was waiting.

To be continued

Story Time
Title: Zubaida and the Forbidden Grove
Origin: Sudan (Nubian Influence)

Episode 1: The Shadow Beneath the Date Palms

In the ancient village of Karma, along the banks of the Nile, lived Zubaida, a skilled weaver known for her mesmerizing tapestries. Her fingers danced like whispers over thread, telling stories of gods, crocodiles, lost queens, and sky spirits.

But Zubaida was haunted.

When she was just a child, her twin sister, Safina, disappeared after wandering near the Forbidden Grove—a stretch of sacred land said to be cursed by the goddess Nyarai, guardian of balance and time. Since then, Zubaida had seen glimpses of Safina in her dreams—eyes glowing like stars, hair dripping with river reeds.

Their father, once a palace advisor, had forbidden any talk of the grove. The village had moved on. But Zubaida had not.

At 25, Zubaida was unmarried—a rarity in her land. She was feared for her visions and her refusal to marry. Secretly, she made a vow: She would find the grove, and if Safina was alive—or even a whisper in the wind—she would bring her back.

One day, a stranger arrived: Sayid, a traveling scribe who came seeking a legendary pattern Zubaida had once woven of a “twin sun.” He claimed it matched ancient texts about portals hidden in sacred places.

As the two bonded over scrolls and stories, Sayid revealed something more:
His great-grandfather had once wandered into the Forbidden Grove and returned... changed. He spoke of a mirror-world, of spirits trapped between memories and time.

Together, Zubaida and Sayid made a plan to enter the grove during the Bloodwater Eclipse, when the moon turned red and the Nile whispered its oldest songs.

But the grove was watching. And something—or someone—was waiting.

To be continued

Makena’s Dowry – The Price of a Brave Heart
Episode 2: The Trials of Kamau

The elders gathered at the village square beneath the mũgumo tree, their faces solemn. Kamau stood before them, barefoot but unshaken, as Baraka declared the three sacred trials.

Trial One: The Cursed River of Nyaki.
The river was feared. It whispered names of the dead and swallowed canoes whole. Kamau was to retrieve a calabash of water from its center by moonrise.

Makena watched him depart, heart thudding. By dusk, the villagers gathered, murmuring prayers. Kamau approached the river’s edge, whispered an old lullaby his grandmother once taught him—a song meant to calm angry spirits. The winds slowed. The waters stilled. With steady steps, he crossed on foot, as if the river bowed to him. He returned with the calabash full and the river silent.

Trial Two: The Leopard of Gituamba Forest.
This beast had terrorized farmers, killing goats and even warriors. Kamau had to either slay it or tame it. Armed only with a spear and courage, he entered the dense woods. Two days passed.

On the third morning, he emerged—not with the leopard’s head, but walking beside the beast, which followed him like a companion. He had removed a thorn from its paw, fed it, and shared his warmth through the cold night. The elders gasped.

“Even the wild bows to one with peace in his heart,” Baraka whispered.

Trial Three: The Question of Legacy.
Baraka’s voice thundered: “What makes a man worthy of a daughter whose spirit is bigger than a village?”

Kamau answered:
“I do not seek to own Makena or silence her fire. I seek to guard it, stand beside it, and be warmed by it. I will build with her, not ahead of her.”

The wind shifted. Drums began to beat.

Baraka stood, eyes moist. “Then take her, not with gold, but with honor.”

Makena ran into Kamau’s arms. And as the village sang and danced, it was said that even the prophecy bowed that day, for Makena’s brave heart had found its match—not in wealth, but in spirit.

Makena’s Dowry – The Price of a Brave Heart
Origin: Kenya (Kikuyu people)

Episode 1: The Weight of a Name

In the village of Ndaro-ini, nestled among Kenya’s highlands, lived Makena, the only child of Mzee Baraka, the respected village elder. Makena’s mother had died at childbirth, and her father had raised her with the fierceness of a lion and the tenderness of a weaverbird. Unlike the other girls, she hunted, debated with elders, and often mediated conflicts with uncommon wisdom.

By the time she turned 20, she was the pride of the village—beautiful, headstrong, and fearless. But Baraka, aging and mindful of his lineage, announced her hand in marriage at the annual harvest festival.

To the village’s shock, he demanded twenty bulls, ten ivory bracelets, and land near the sacred fig tree as dowry. It was an outrageous request. Even chiefs’ daughters never commanded such a price. The villagers whispered that Baraka sought to price his daughter out of marriage.

But Baraka had his reasons. He remembered a prophecy given at her birth:
"The child born under the blood moon will carry a fire that may burn or build a kingdom."
He feared for her. If she married weakly, she would be destroyed. Only a man of vision, courage, and wisdom could walk beside her.

Days turned into weeks as suitors came and failed. Some scoffed at the price. Others tried to bargain. Makena rejected all who didn’t carry heart or purpose.

Then came Kamau, a humble herder from a distant ridge. He arrived not with bulls or riches, but with a single white cow, a carved flute, and stories of helping unite his war-torn village.

When questioned by the elders, he said, “I have not wealth in cattle, but I bring peace wherever I walk. Let me earn her hand through the trials of honor.”

Baraka, intrigued, set three impossible tests for Kamau—one involving the cursed river, one the rogue leopard, and one, a question no man had yet answered.

Makena watched from afar, heart caught between hope and dread.

To be continued in Episode 2

Makena’s Dowry – The Price of a Brave Heart
Episode 2: The Trials of Kamau

The elders gathered at the village square beneath the mũgumo tree, their faces solemn. Kamau stood before them, barefoot but unshaken, as Baraka declared the three sacred trials.

Trial One: The Cursed River of Nyaki.
The river was feared. It whispered names of the dead and swallowed canoes whole. Kamau was to retrieve a calabash of water from its center by moonrise.

Makena watched him depart, heart thudding. By dusk, the villagers gathered, murmuring prayers. Kamau approached the river’s edge, whispered an old lullaby his grandmother once taught him—a song meant to calm angry spirits. The winds slowed. The waters stilled. With steady steps, he crossed on foot, as if the river bowed to him. He returned with the calabash full and the river silent.

Trial Two: The Leopard of Gituamba Forest.
This beast had terrorized farmers, killing goats and even warriors. Kamau had to either slay it or tame it. Armed only with a spear and courage, he entered the dense woods. Two days passed.

On the third morning, he emerged—not with the leopard’s head, but walking beside the beast, which followed him like a companion. He had removed a thorn from its paw, fed it, and shared his warmth through the cold night. The elders gasped.

“Even the wild bows to one with peace in his heart,” Baraka whispered.

Trial Three: The Question of Legacy.
Baraka’s voice thundered: “What makes a man worthy of a daughter whose spirit is bigger than a village?”

Kamau answered:
“I do not seek to own Makena or silence her fire. I seek to guard it, stand beside it, and be warmed by it. I will build with her, not ahead of her.”

The wind shifted. Drums began to beat.

Baraka stood, eyes moist. “Then take her, not with gold, but with honor.”

Makena ran into Kamau’s arms. And as the village sang and danced, it was said that even the prophecy bowed that day, for Makena’s brave heart had found its match—not in wealth, but in spirit.

Makena’s Dowry – The Price of a Brave Heart
Origin: Kenya (Kikuyu people)

Episode 1: The Weight of a Name

In the village of Ndaro-ini, nestled among Kenya’s highlands, lived Makena, the only child of Mzee Baraka, the respected village elder. Makena’s mother had died at childbirth, and her father had raised her with the fierceness of a lion and the tenderness of a weaverbird. Unlike the other girls, she hunted, debated with elders, and often mediated conflicts with uncommon wisdom.

By the time she turned 20, she was the pride of the village—beautiful, headstrong, and fearless. But Baraka, aging and mindful of his lineage, announced her hand in marriage at the annual harvest festival.

To the village’s shock, he demanded twenty bulls, ten ivory bracelets, and land near the sacred fig tree as dowry. It was an outrageous request. Even chiefs’ daughters never commanded such a price. The villagers whispered that Baraka sought to price his daughter out of marriage.

But Baraka had his reasons. He remembered a prophecy given at her birth:
"The child born under the blood moon will carry a fire that may burn or build a kingdom."
He feared for her. If she married weakly, she would be destroyed. Only a man of vision, courage, and wisdom could walk beside her.

Days turned into weeks as suitors came and failed. Some scoffed at the price. Others tried to bargain. Makena rejected all who didn’t carry heart or purpose.

Then came Kamau, a humble herder from a distant ridge. He arrived not with bulls or riches, but with a single white cow, a carved flute, and stories of helping unite his war-torn village.

When questioned by the elders, he said, “I have not wealth in cattle, but I bring peace wherever I walk. Let me earn her hand through the trials of honor.”

Baraka, intrigued, set three impossible tests for Kamau—one involving the cursed river, one the rogue leopard, and one, a question no man had yet answered.

Makena watched from afar, heart caught between hope and dread.

To be continued in Episode 2

For the Sake of Love

Episode 2: The Return of the Fisherman

(Seven years later. The village has changed. Amina, now in her late twenties, is treating a child with herbs.)

Village Woman:
"They say a shadow walks by the lake at dawn. Looks like the dead come alive."

Amina:
(pausing)
"By the lake?"

Village Woman:
"Yes. Some say it’s Jabari’s ghost. Others say it's a lost traveler. Who knows? But the wind carries his name."


(The baobab tree. Early morning. Amina walks slowly, her heart pounding. She sees a figure facing the lake.)

Amina:
"Jabari…?"

(The man turns. His face is older, bearded, but his eyes—still the same.)

Jabari:
"Amina… You still come here."

Amina:
(running into his arms)
"They told me you were dead. I cried for you… every night. Where did they take you?"

Jabari:
"Baraka had me sold to a slave trader. I escaped in Zanzibar. It took years, but I followed the stars home."

Amina:
"You came back… after all this time. I waited. I never married him."




( Village square. Jabari tells his story. The chief and elders listen.)

Village Elder:
"Such cruelty… Baraka dishonored us all."

Chief:
"And Amina waited seven seasons. Their love endured more than any war or treaty. Let no man break what the spirits themselves have guarded."

(Cheers erupt. Women dance. Drums beat.)

Baobab tree again. Amina and Jabari hold hands.)

Jabari:
"We’ve lost many years."

Amina:
"Yet found forever. And it was worth every tear… for the sake of love."

For the Sake of Love

Episode 1: The Promise

Late evening under the ancient baobab tree near Lake Nyasa. The moon glows softly. Amina and Jabari sit beside each other, their hands barely touching.

Amina:
"Jabari, promise me something… If they ever try to take me away, you’ll come for me. Don’t let them bury me in a loveless union."

Jabari:
(squeezing her hand)
"Amina, I swear by the waters of this lake and the roots of this tree… I will never let you be lost to me. Even if I must face lions or chiefs—I will come."

Amina:
"But your boat brings in barely enough for you and your mother. My father… he’s given my hand to Baraka. They say it’s to unite the clans."

Jabari:
"Then let the clans remain divided. Let peace come another way. What is peace built on chains? You’re not a token for trade, Amina."

Amina:
"I wish they saw it like you do. Tomorrow, I’ll plead again with Baba. But if he won’t listen… we must leave. I’d rather face the wild with you than live in a palace with a stranger."

(The wind whistles gently through the baobab leaves.)


The herbalist’s home. Amina confronts her father.

Amina’s Father:
"You shame me, Amina. Do you not understand what this alliance means? The chief’s son wants you. That is an honor."

Amina:
"I don’t want honor without joy. My heart belongs to Jabari. If you force this marriage, I’ll never forgive you."

Amina’s Father:
"Love feeds no family, Amina. It keeps no roof over heads. Baraka is a warrior, respected—"

Amina:
"Respected by all but me! If you loved Mama, you would remember how love feels."

(He pauses, softening, then hardens again.)

Amina’s Father:
"You will marry Baraka at the full moon."

Night. Amina runs to the lake, finds Jabari waiting with a small bundle.)

Jabari:
"Are you ready?"

Amina:
"Yes. We must go now—before they realize I’m gone."

(Suddenly, footsteps. Torches. Baraka’s men rush out.)

Baraka:
"Trying to steal what’s mine, fisherman?"

Jabari:
"She was never yours, Baraka."

(A scuffle ensues. Jabari is overpowered. Amina screams.)

Amina:
"Jabari! No! Please don’t hurt him!"

Baraka:
"Take him to the eastern caves. Let him rot there."

(They drag Jabari away. Amina falls to her knees, weeping.)

To be continued...

Episode 2' The Aftermath

The confrontation was inevitable. Ava's voice trembled as she asked Emma about the email. Emma's expression was cold, calculating.

"You were holding me back, Ava," Emma said, her words slicing through Ava's heart. "I deserve better than being stuck in a partnership that's limiting my potential."

Ava's world shattered. She had given Emma her trust, her loyalty, and her heart. The betrayal cut deeper than any business deal ever could. Ava realized that sometimes, the people closest to us can hurt us the most.

The aftermath was messy. Lawyers got involved, and the company was torn apart. Ava was left to pick up the pieces of her shattered trust. She knew she'd emerge stronger, but the journey would be long and arduous.

As Ava reflected on their friendship and partnership, she understood that Emma's actions were a reflection of her own struggles and ambitions. Ava chose to forgive, not for Emma's sake, but for hers. Forgiveness wouldn't erase the pain, but it would allow Ava to heal and move forward.

The experience taught Ava a valuable lesson: relationships are complex, and sometimes, people prioritize their own interests over others. Ava's heart would always carry the scar of Emma's betrayal, but she'd learn to navigate future relationships with wisdom and caution.

THE BETRAYAL

The Unraveling
Ava and Emma's friendship was forged in the fire of shared experiences. Growing up, they were inseparable, exploring their small town, sharing secrets, and supporting each other through thick and thin. As they entered adulthood, their bond only deepened. They decided to start a business together, combining their skills and passions.

Their company, a boutique marketing firm, flourished. Ava's creativity and Emma's strategic mind made them a formidable team. They were each other's rock, celebrating successes and weathering storms. Their partnership seemed unbreakable.

But beneath the surface, subtle cracks began to form. Emma started to take more control, making decisions without consulting Ava. Ava brushed it off as Emma being more assertive, but the distance grew. One day, Ava stumbled upon an email that made her blood run cold. Emma was secretly negotiating with their rival firm to sell their company, excluding Ava from the deal.

Ava felt like she'd been punched in the gut. She couldn't believe her business partner, her friend, her confidante could betray her trust so profoundly. The weight of Emma's deception crushed her.

THE BETRAYAL
Episode 1: The Unraveling

Ava and Emma's friendship was forged in the fire of shared experiences. Growing up, they were inseparable, exploring their small town, sharing secrets, and supporting each other through thick and thin. As they entered adulthood, their bond only deepened. They decided to start a business together, combining their skills and passions.

Their company, a boutique marketing firm, flourished. Ava's creativity and Emma's strategic mind made them a formidable team. They were each other's rock, celebrating successes and weathering storms. Their partnership seemed unbreakable.

But beneath the surface, subtle cracks began to form. Emma started to take more control, making decisions without consulting Ava. Ava brushed it off as Emma being more assertive, but the distance grew. One day, Ava stumbled upon an email that made her blood run cold. Emma was secretly negotiating with their rival firm to sell their company, excluding Ava from the deal.

Ava felt like she'd been punched in the gut. She couldn't believe her business partner, her friend, her confidante could betray her trust so profoundly. The weight of Emma's deception crushed her.

Episode 2: The Aftermath

The confrontation was inevitable. Ava's voice trembled as she asked Emma about the email. Emma's expression was cold, calculating.

"You were holding me back, Ava," Emma said, her words slicing through Ava's heart. "I deserve better than being stuck in a partnership that's limiting my potential."

Ava's world shattered. She had given Emma her trust, her loyalty, and her heart. The betrayal cut deeper than any business deal ever could. Ava realized that sometimes, the people closest to us can hurt us the most.

The aftermath was messy. Lawyers got involved, and the company was torn apart. Ava was left to pick up the pieces of her shattered trust. She knew she'd emerge stronger, but the journey would be long and arduous.

As Ava reflected on their friendship and partnership, she understood that Emma's actions were a reflection of her own struggles and ambitions. Ava chose to forgive, not for Emma's sake, but for hers. Forgiveness wouldn't erase the pain, but it would allow Ava to heal and move forward.

The experience taught Ava a valuable lesson: relationships are complex, and sometimes, people prioritize their own interests over others. Ava's heart would always carry the scar of Emma's betrayal, but she'd learn to navigate future relationships with wisdom and caution.

The Betrayal
Episode 1: Sacrificed Love.

Lena's world revolved around her lover, Alex. She worked multiple jobs to support his education abroad, sacrificing her own dreams. Five long years passed, and Lena waited patiently for Alex's return.

When Alex finally came back, Lena's heart swelled with joy. But her happiness was short-lived. At Alex's welcome party, Lena stumbled upon a shocking revelation: Alex had married a woman named Sophia during his time abroad.

Lena's world crumbled. She had given her all to Alex, and this was how he repaid her? The pain of betrayal seared her soul.

Episode 2: The Revenge: Rebirth of Fury

Lena's tears dried, replaced by a burning desire for revenge. She discovered Alex's marriage was a strategic move to secure Sophia's family's wealth and influence.

Lena began gathering evidence of Alex's true intentions. She exposed his deceit to Sophia, revealing the loveless marriage. Sophia, empowered by Lena's revelation, took control of her family's business, cutting Alex out.

As Alex's reputation crumbled, Lena smiled, her heart still aching but her spirit renewed. She had transformed her pain into power.

Sometimes, the best revenge is not destruction, but rebirth.

EPISODE 2: The Ink That Broke Traditions

Amina joined the Tsangaya class, seated among puzzled boys. Her mother wept in secret—“Who will marry a girl that reads?” But Amina's pen danced like water on slate.

She rose faster than anyone imagined. She became known as the Golden Mind of Gidan Daji. Her teachers marveled, and traders from Zaria paid to watch her recite.

At 17, she wrote her first scroll on Women and Wisdom in Islam, combining scripture, culture, and courage. The Emir read it aloud at the central mosque. Women cheered. Men bowed their heads.

She started a school for girls beside the market. And for the first time, mothers brought their daughters with pride.
Amina became a symbol of knowledge, not rebellion.

Her legacy? The red clay school she built with her own hands—still standing today, under the very hill where she once wrote in dust.

“Amina of the Red Clay Hills”

EPISODE 1: The Girl Who Followed Shadows

In the quiet village of Gidan Daji, surrounded by red clay hills and dry winds, lived Amina, a 12-year-old girl with wide eyes and a restless heart. Her father carved calabashes; her mother sold millet cakes. But Amina wanted something different—she wanted to learn how to read the beautiful lines of Arabic her brother traced in the sand.

Each morning, while others fetched water or ground millet, Amina followed her brother to the village Tsangaya school. She’d hide behind the mosque wall, listening closely to the Mallam’s voice.

Villagers whispered, “That girl, always roaming—she’s too wild to marry.”
But Amina didn’t care. She copied the letters in secret, using sticks and the dusty earth as her slate.

One day, the Emir of the town came on a visit. As he passed the mosque, he saw a little girl writing complex verses from memory. Surprised, he asked,
“Who taught you this, child?”
“No one, Sarki. I listened. I remembered.”
He smiled. “Then you will learn properly, with the boys.”

Amina’s world was about to change.....

5. The Sands of Timbuktu (Mali – Empire of Mali/Songhai)

Scrolls of Gold and Ink

In the golden age of Timbuktu, young Ali, son of a manuscript keeper, dreams of becoming a scholar. He lives in a bustling city where camel caravans bring salt, gold, and knowledge from across the Sahara. His father teaches him astronomy, Arabic, and local lore. When Moroccan forces threaten to burn the libraries, Ali hides rare manuscripts and joins secret scholars preserving their culture.

The Fall and the Flame

Timbuktu falls under invasion, and its famous Sankore University is looted. But Ali and his underground network smuggle thousands of scrolls into desert caves and nomadic caravans. Years later, Ali becomes a guardian of Mali’s ancient wisdom, ensuring that knowledge, not gold, becomes Timbuktu’s eternal treasure. Today, his descendants still protect those manuscripts that survived fire and time.

The Warrior of Lake Tanganyika (Burundi – Kingdom of Burundi)

Son of the Spear
Mwezi Gisabo, heir to the Burundian throne, is born during a time of strife. German colonial troops push into the region, demanding treaties. As he trains in spear combat and oral poetry, his elders teach him that the spirit of his ancestors lives in sacred drums and royal cows. When his father dies, Mwezi ascends the throne and refuses to submit to foreign control.

Resistance and the Drumbeat of Sovereignty
Mwezi launches a resistance—combining diplomacy with covert warfare. He maintains the royal drums, symbols of divine kingship, even as German pressure intensifies. His refusal to fully yield earns respect across East Africa. Though forced into limited treaty agreements, Mwezi secures partial autonomy for Burundi and ensures the royal traditions survive colonialism. His leadership inspires later independence movements.