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 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...

My First Time (Episode 1)

It was just... my first time.

You see, growing up,
I built fences around my longings.
Barbed wires of scripture.
Walls of willpower.

Yes, I built my world on rules.
Not the ones written by men,
But the kind you etch in your spirit...
When you're desperate to stay pure in a defiled world.

I made promises to God...
With trembling lips and innocent hands.
Whispers at altars.
Tears during youth vigils.
I will stay virgin.
“No touching.”
“No tasting.”
Not even a kiss...
Until I say “I do.”

Chastity wasn’t just a principle.
It was identity.
It made me feel holy.
Set apart.
Safe.

I guarded it with fear,
Polished it with pride,
Wore it like a spiritual medal on my chest.

At first, it was easy.
Temptation was a rumour from afar.
I didn’t know I was bragging,
From the comfort of distance,
Until life dragged me closer...

Closer to the edge.
Closer to my first time.
So close, I slipped...
Into a moment that almost stained
everything I ever stood for.

And guess where it started?
Church.
Yes, church.
The holy ground.
Where fire falls,
And temptation hides in skirts.

I met her in the Lord’s house.
A sister dripping grace and beauty.
Golden.
Glowing.
Spirit-filled.
Fire-filled.
The kind of girl that makes angels blush,
And brothers lose their train of prayer.

You know those sisters...
That carry the Word like perfume?
The ones whose laughter feels like revival?

That was her.
Elegant.
Confident.
Convicted.
When she walked,
Even ushers paused...
Just to feel her presence again.

The first time I saw her,
My chest skipped.
But she didn’t see me.
Of course she didn’t.
I was just one humble brother in Christ.
So I did what humble brothers do.

I behaved.
Dodged eye contact.
Buried desire in devotion.
Tried to crucify my feelings like they were demons.

Every day, I looked away,
Praying she wouldn’t notice...
The war already starting in my soul.

Then Media Unit happened.
God called me... indirectly.
A leader pointed at me.
“You, join Media.”
I didn’t argue...
Who argues with destiny?

Guess who was already in Media?
Her.
Yes. Her.

We were teammates now.
Ministers.
Co-labourers in the vineyard.
Writing scripts.
Designing flyers.
Fighting battles I didn’t know existed.

Then that day...
That tiny moment that changed everything;
They asked, “Who here can write very well?”

I raised my hand.
And that was the beginning.
They gave me bulletins.
Flyers.
Devotionals.
And I was just writing.

Then, from behind me,
Came the voice I had only heard in daydreams:
“Oh! So you can write this well?”

I smiled... small.
Very small.
Calculated.
Not too wide.
Because any wider, would expose the war...
Already going on in my chest.

From that day, we started talking.
Nothing serious.
Just… holy conversations.
Holy laughter.
Holy friendship.

But there was a way she looked at me.
Or maybe the way I looked at her.
Whatever it was,
Emotions began rising like praise and worship
...on a revival night.

But we were just two fire-filled believers,
Caught in the web of silent attraction.
Too spiritual to confess.
Too emotional to ignore.

So, we bottled it.
Suppressed it.
Every glance.
Every brush of hand.
Every awkward silence that felt too loud.

Until…
That evening.

We had a design to finish;
Flyer for Sunday’s service.
The plan?
Meet in church.
Safe ground.

But she said,
“Your house is closer to me than church.
Let me just come there.”

My heart blinked.
My spirit cleared its throat.
Something whispered,
“Oga... be guided.”

But I brushed it off.
Because I had convinced myself...
I was stronger than I actually was.
I had recited enough memory verses
to believe temptation couldn’t find me.

Besides, I had vows.
I had standards.
I had said no so many times in my mind
that I thought it would be automatic.

I even muttered “In Jesus Name”
To make my foolishness sound holy.

She came.
Fifteen minutes early.
Because real sisters don’t keep time,
They beat it.

I served her water,
Like a good host.
We opened the laptop.
Opened Photoshop.
Started designing.

Everything was set.
Except our boundaries.

But that’s where I’ll stop...
Because what happened next, ehn...

...wait for Episode 2.

Depot marketers lamented over Dangote's direct fuel distribution strategy, declaring it a “death sentence.”
After Dangote Petroleum Refinery announced it would start directly distributing petrol and diesel nationwide beginning August 15, members of the Dangote Marketers Group, an association of licensed depot marketers, have voiced significant concerns. They described this change as a "death sentence" for their part in the downstream value chain.

The marketers, who act as links between depot proprietors and fuel station managers, are concerned that the refinery's new approach of sidestepping traditional middlemen to provide direct sales and logistics to consumers will threaten their livelihood.

In a group chat, one marketer straightforwardly claimed that "the supply chain is dead." Others described it as an "evolution masked as a revolution" and cautioned that the resulting ripple effects could impact jobs, businesses, and even families.

Traditionally, independent marketers act as essential links by providing financing and logistical support between fuel depots and retail stations. Owners of fuel stations frequently depend on them for credit, assistance with loading processes, and managing transportation logistics.

Dangote's innovative approach eliminates the need for middlemen by providing direct sales, integrated logistics with a fleet of 4,000 trucks powered by CNG, and even offering credit options for bulk purchasers.

“Now imagine manufacturers boycotting middlemen and going straight to end users,” lamented Black Bishop, another group member. “End users will receive sealed, tamper-proof products delivered on time. All hell is about to break loose.” Mide Leo exclaimed.

Another marketer, Mide Loe, narrated how one of his clients, who owns over 15 haulage trucks, went silent after hearing the news.

“His silence was deafening,” Joe wrote. “Businesses will fold up. Homes will be broken. Fathers and mothers will be rendered jobless. This is sad.”

“Everyone dey collect… depot owners, importers, marketers, truckers, PTD, baranda” said Peter Akande, voicing frustration over the perceived monopoly.

Some marketers also questioned the silence of industry regulators like NMDPRA and the defunct PEF, which had developed the Aquila tracking platform. “What are the regulators doing? Someone should provide rules of the game,” said Stephen, emphasizing the need for policy safeguards to protect existing players.

“This isn’t a revolution. It’s the beginning of a one-man show in the downstream sector,” warned another group member. “May Nigeria succeed, but the market must remain competitive.”

“Let’s ask him how he intends to cover the cost of transportation. Is it embedded in product pricing? Will it lead to a price increase?” asked Black Bishop

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....

“Dialogue and Reconcile” are two of the most insensitive and irresponsible words ever used by a sitting president in the wake of a massacre by a notorious terrorist organization.

But no one is surprised: he once asked in Ondo - where are the cows?

For a man who once publicly claimed that the buck stops at the president’s table, his actions in the last 24 hrs reflects an abdication of responsibility, lack of empathy and glaring incompetence in restoring peace and stability.

This is shameful to say the least.

The death, killing and massacre in the middle belt is one too many. Perhaps the president needs reminding that the primary role of government is ensuring the safety and protection of lives and property.
These killings are unacceptable and a reflection of the failure of leadership to live up to its most basic responsibility.

Is Your Tomato Paste Really Made from Tomatoes?

By Israel Mensah Gothar – Good Living Ghana

Tomato paste is one of the most common ingredients in our kitchens — used in stews, soups, jollof, and more. But did you know that many of the tomato pastes sold on the market today contain very little actual tomato?

Instead, some brands are blending in: Wheat flour or corn starch
Refined sugar
Artificial coloring
Preservatives

The result? A thick red mixture that looks like tomato paste but lacks the nutritional value and purity of real tomatoes.

Why You Should Be Concerned

These adulterated pastes can: Raise blood sugar (because of hidden sugars)
Add empty calories (from starches)
Trigger inflammation or allergies (due to chemicals and dyes)
Deprive you of key nutrients like lycopene, vitamin C, and potassium

What’s worse — it’s often marketed as “pure tomato paste.”

What to Look Out For

Before you buy, read the label carefully. A quality tomato paste should list: Tomatoes
(Optional: salt)
No sugar, no flour, no starch, no coloring

If it includes anything else, it’s not the real deal.

Better still, prepare your own paste at home using fresh tomatoes — it’s healthier, safer, and more nutritious.
“Let’s stop being fooled by red coloring. Our kitchens deserve real food, and our bodies deserve real nutrition.”
Cc

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.

In 1999, the United Nations, through the International Labour Organization (ILO), adopted Convention No. 182 — calling on all nations to take urgent and immediate action to eliminate the most harmful and exploitative forms of child labour.

This includes slavery, trafficking, exploitation, hazardous work, and forced recruitment of children in armed conflict.�

✍🏾 Today, this convention is among the most widely ratified in the world — yet, millions of children remain unprotected.

In Africa alone, according to UNICEF, over 92 million children — 1 in every 5 — are still engaged in child labour.

�Many are out of school, exposed to danger, and stripped of their right to a safe, healthy childhood.

Despite progress, global trends have reversed in recent years — a stark reminder that words must become action.

With Sustainable Development Goal 8.7, the world pledged to end child labour in all its forms by 2025. But the deadline is here — and the urgency is real.

Now is the time to act boldly, implement fully, and protect every child’s right to be a child.

UNICEF

United Nations

#WorldDayAgainstChildLabour #UNICEF #ILO #Convention182 #Convention138 #ChildRights #Africa4Children #EndChildLabour #SDG8 #EducationNotExploitation #2025Deadline #ActNow

*HAPPY FATHER'S DAY, to all our Dad's in the world*

You are the architect of our resilience and the quiet pillar of our aspirations,

Your unwavering dedication has been a profound wellspring of inspiration, fostering within us the courage to navigate life's intricate currents and embrace its myriad challenges with grace and conviction. Your presence has not merely been a constant, but a transformative force, shaping the very contours of our being.

Beyond the tangible lessons and invaluable guidance, it is the quiet strength of your character and the boundless depth of your love that resonates most profoundly.

You have illuminated the path forward with an enduring luminescence, bestowing upon us the invaluable gift of unwavering support and an unshakeable belief in our potentials. For all this, and for simply being you, heartfelt gratitude knows no bounds.

Happy day to you once again!

*May God keep you safe and strong always*

Beloved, let us turn to God for protection. We can't rely on our own strength and abilities to keep us safe. We must trust in God's power and grace to guide us. The Bible reminds us that even the most vigilant can stumble, so let us put our faith in God. In these uncertain times, trusting in God is the best way to ensure our safety. (psa 16 v 1)

Heavenly father, l am so grateful for all you have done in my life. You have kept me safe and prevented the worst from happening. I trust that you will always shield me from evil and anything that could cause me harm. Please guide me to make wise decisions so l can stay out of harm's way... Amen.
Good morning, have a blessed day.