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...

Life is sweeter than money
Is that true

Sergent Solo’s Secret Mission

It was a hot afternoon at the police station. The Captain was sweating, not from the heat, but from stress. A robbery just happened, and his best officer, Sergent Solo, was missing

He grabbed his phone and called angrily.

Hello, Sergent Solo! Where are you? Tell me your position, NOW!

Sergent Solo, half asleep and completely shirtless, picked up the call from under the blanket. He looked beside him a beautiful woman smiled at him sweetly.

Still breathing heavily, he answered confidently

I am under my captain

The line went silent.

The Captain’s face changed from anger to confusion.then SHOCK!

Under your.what

But it was too late. The call ended.

That day, the Captain didn’t find the theef but he definitely found out where his wife was.

And poor Solo? Let’s just say his next mission was cleaning toilets at the station for a year

Be careful what position you report. You might be under the wrong captain

Pregnancy is a sweet journey that every mother has their own experience

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...

Hips Don't Lie

In the heart of a Area 1 street market stood the legendary food joint, Garba Maksin, where the aroma of sizzling jollof and perfectly molded pounded yam could halt traffic and silence arguments.

It was 12:03 PM peak hunger hour. A long queue of rumbling stomachs and sweaty brows stretched from the food stand all the way to the next block. At the front of the line stood a woman whose presence redefined physics Madam Titi, famously known in the area as The Hips of Justice

She stepped up to the vendor, confidence oozing like palm oil in hot soup. Her voice, rich and velvety, echoed:
Please serve me fast. Many other customers are waiting behind me

But before the vendor could respond, the entire line behind her simultaneously forgot their hunger, names, and life goals

One bold man stepped forward, his glasses fogged with awe.
No no, dear… please take your time. We are not in a hurry
The rest of the queue, hypnotized by the seismic sway of Madam Titi’s curves, began nodding like enchanted bobbleheads.

Even the guy at the far back, who hadn’t eaten since yesterday, whispered to the man in front of him,
Bro, you with the cap move aside, you're blocking my view

The vendor, Garba, caught in the conflict between his queue and his conscience, struggled to keep a straight face as he ladled rice with robotic precision. He knew this moment would go down in Maksin history.

Tension brewed.

One guy pulled out his phone not to record the scene, but to set a reminder to come earlier tomorrow. Another man, tears in his eyes, said,
I don’t need food anymore. I’ve feasted on beauty

Madam Titi, aware but unbothered, adjusted her blouse, gave a little extra sway, and said sweetly,
Garba, please add extra mea I deserve it.

The queue moaned in spiritual agreement.
Give her the goat leg The whole leg! one man cried.
Let her bless the pot before leaving, another whispered.

And just like that, what started as a lunch queue became a public demonstration of devotion.

Bra Joe, Food and Pregnancy

In the quiet village of Ga-Mphahlele, somewhere deep in Limpopo, a serious drama was brewing not in the government, but in a small kitchen behind a shack.

Meet Sibongile, a woman with an appetite that could humble a lion. She was glowing with what everyone thought was a pregnancy. Her stomach entered the room five seconds before she did. Her husband, Bra Joe, a retired taxi driver turned house chef, had taken over cooking duties ever since she said the smell of onions made her dizzy.

On this fine afternoon, Sibongile sat outside, legs spread like a queen on her throne, devouring a big bowl of soup with pap. She licked her fingers and sighed,
My husband, the soup you prepared today again is very sweet oh

Bra Joe stood nearby with a big cooking spoon in hand, wearing his famous pink apron that read Chef of Love. But this time, he didn’t smile. He squinted at her belly, leaned on his spoon, and asked:

I say, when did the doctor say you giving birth

Silence. Even the chickens behind the house paused.

Sibongile blinked. Ah-ahn, baby, why are you asking like that now

Bra Joe looked at the empty pot, then at her belly, then back at the pot.

Because this is the 4th month now. Every day you say the baby is kicking, but I think it's the chicken stew kicking inside you

Sibongile gasped. You are saying I’m not pregnant

Bra Joe pointed his spoon like a microphone.
I'’m saying, if this is pregnancy, then I’m the one expecting twins, because I haven’t eaten meat since January

Neighbours started peeking over the fence, chewing on gossip like it was chakalaka.

Old Mama Dineo shouted from next door,
Haaibo! Maybe she’s just food-pregnant, my son. The way she eats, even the fridge is afraid to open at night

Sibongile stood up slowly her belly wobbling like a drum full of jelly. She stormed into the house shouting,
I’m going to the clinic now. You will see the baby scan today

Bra Joe just shook his head, walked to the pot, and whispered:
I hope the doctor doesn’t find meat bones in that scan

In South Africa, love is sweet but if your pap disappears faster than your bank balance, ask questions before the belly grows too big.

Coming next week.."Bra Joe installs a food padlock on the fridge

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....

People always laugh at me because I married for love. They say I married her out of pity. Some even say, "With all your looks, your talent, your smartness, and boldness, you still married someone older, and not even beautiful." When I hear things like that, I just smile. They don’t know what I know.

I chose my wife with clear eyes. She is older than me, yes—but that doesn't stop her from being sweet, peaceful, respectful, loving, and very talented. She cooks very well, and she brings peace to my life. That is what really matters in a marriage.

I always tell my friends—marriage is more than looks or age. It is not easy, but when you find a good woman, hold her. If you’re a man and you’re happy with an older woman, marry her. Forget what people say. In time, they will learn to respect your choice.

— Stan Nze

When you think that you have seen it all

Somewhere in a village that shall remain unnamed (to protect the newlyweds from curious in-laws and nosy neighbors), a 26-year-old man has officially married his 85-year-old sweetheart. Yes, you read that right. Eighty-five.

The groom says it was love at first sight. The bride says she was just trying to buy sugar at the shop when things got serious.

Now, villagers are confused. The youth are calling him a legend. The elders are calling for a meeting. Some claim it’s true love, others are whispering about pension plans, but the groom insists, “She makes the softest ugali, and that’s all I need in life.”

At the wedding, the emcee almost fainted when the bride threw the bouquet and her walking stick followed.

During the first dance, they played a sweet slow jam from 1965 and the groom didn’t even know which way to hold her without asking for permission.

Whether it’s the grey hair or the golden heart, this love story has left the internet speechless, mostly with their jaws dropped .

#SWEET LOVE