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 Air India plane crash.
To some, it's just another breaking news story.
To me, it was a soul-stirring reminder of how fragile and unpredictable life really is.

Four lives. Four stories. Four powerful lessons changed how I see time, purpose, and grace of each moment.

First: A family who had waited years to fulfil their dream of migrating to the UK.
Life kept getting in the way, responsibilities, delays, and decisions.
They finally made it onto the plane… but never reached their destination

And I realized:
We carry so many plans for “someday.” But if we keep waiting, someday becomes never.

Second: A woman who was supposed to be on that flight. She arrived late. Missed the check-in. Pleaded to get on board but was denied. She was frustrated, angry, and defeated. Only to later realize: that delay was divine protection.

We don’t always get what we want because God sees what we can not.
Sometimes, His “no” is what keeps us alive.

Third: A man who survived.
The plane split in half, and he happened to be in the section that didn’t catch fire.
He walked away, dazed and alive, from something no one thought survivable.

It wasn’t luck. It was purpose. I was reminded of the verse: “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” – Ecclesiastes 3:1

It simply wasn’t his time.

Fourth: And then those who didn’t make it. People with dreams. People with families. People with unfinished stories.
They kissed someone goodbye that morning… not knowing it was the last time.

Their lives remind us that time is not guaranteed. We’re not promised old age. We’re not promised later. What we have is now. A breath. A heartbeat. A chance.

So, while you still have today..
While you’re still breathing, still strong, still able, don’t waste it. Don’t wait for the “perfect” moment.

Love now. Apologize now. Forgive now. Dream now. Speak now.

Because life doesn’t always come with warnings. And sometimes… “next time” never comes.

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.

ABOMINATION! GANG OF HUMAN PARTS SELLERS CAUGHT FOR KILLING A YOUNG MAN.

A gang of ritualists and human parts sellers have been arrested in Eziagulu Otu, Anambra East Local Government Area by members of Udo ga achi security team, for murdering one Mr Samuel, an Ivite Aguleri native.

According to their confession, the gang leader, Chief Chinaka Udealor who is still at large, had lured Samuel, a commercial motorcycle rider, to his house.

They stabbed and shot him, harvested Samuel's body parts, and sold them to a native doctor.

One of the suspects, Mr. Ifeanyi Ogbanje, confessed: "Marcel Bad called the victim, Samuel around 8 pm, telling him Chinaka was around, that he should come and join where we were drinking. Samuel rushed to Chinaka's house, where we were waiting. We held him down, and Chinaka stabbed him. I shot him in the head. Ifeanyi further revealed that after Samuel's death, Chinaka cut off his limbs, and they disposed of the corpse in a nearby river. Ifeanyi Ogbanje claimed he received N40,000 for his involvement, which he used to buy fertilizer. Another suspect, Mr Emeka Ekwealor agreed with the confession of Ifeanyi.

The suspects led the Udo Ga-Achi Anambra East security team to the crime scene, Chinaka's parlour.

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.

If a man die, shall he live again? all the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come

If a man die, shall he live again? all the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come

*SEX BEFORE MARRIAGE, IS IT REALLY A THING?*

I know this is one topic many avoid, but it’s one we need to talk about.
Sex before marriage is becoming so common that it’s now seen as “normal.” Some even believe it’s how you prove love. But just because something is common doesn’t make it right.

Let me ask you:
Have you ever stopped to think about what sex really does?

It’s not just about the body. It connects your soul, your emotions, your heart. That’s why after sleeping with someone, it’s hard to just walk away.

Something deeper has been exchanged.
When you give your body before giving your commitment, things get complicated. Feelings get mixed. Expectations rise. Trust can break easily. And sometimes, heartbreak becomes the result.

Now, I’m not here to judge you. We all have a past, we've all made mistakes. But I’m here to remind you that waiting is not foolish. It’s wisdom. It’s protection. It’s saying, “I value you and I value us, enough to build a strong foundation first.”

If you’ve already had sex, listen, God is not done with you. You’re not damaged. You can start again. You can choose a fresh path. Purity is not about a perfect past; it’s about a decision you make today.

Love that waits is love that honors.
Love that respects boundaries is love that lasts.
You don’t need sex to prove love.

The right person will wait, and work on building a future with you, not using your body before making a commitment to your soul.

So yes, sex before marriage is really a thing. But you have a choice. A wise one.

Let’s build love the right way. Let’s do it God’s way. Let’s protect our hearts.

I love you enough to tell you the truth.

pls wait till the end

The only reason Bola is going to Benue on Wednesday is because the Pope has drawn the attention of the world. Pope Leo XIV is waiting to see Tinubu’s next move. Narendra Modi of India would have gone to Benue on the first day. The Tinubu we know WON’T DARE!

A man in Kano went to a foodseller.
He had not eaten in 3 days.
He bêgged the seller for food on credit.

The foodseller said no because he already gave food to too many people on credit.

The man sat down beside the foodseller’s shop as he had nowhere else to go.

The foodseller told him he’s very sørry and he would like to help but too many people in the neighbourhood have collected food on credit and his business is sínkīng.

The man sat there and said nothing.

As time went on, other people came into the shop to buy foodstuff and went out- they noticed the man at the door sitting there sleeping. But nobody bōthered.

Until one man came later in the day and asked the foodseller: “who is the man sitting at your door?” “Why is he there?”

Then the foodseller said “oh it’s a man who says he has not eaten for 3 days and he wants to collect food on credit but I could not give him because my business is strūggliñg from all the credit I have already given out”.

Then the other man said: “How much is the food he wants?”

The food seller said “It’s a few cups of garri, rice and beans. Everything may be 2,000 naira”.

The other man said “Alright pack everything he wants and more. I would pay for it. Let him go home to his family and eat”.

The foodseller packed all the food and went outside to tell the man with joy that someone has paid for his food.

He saw the man still sleeping.
He tâpped him to wake him up, he didn’t respond. Tâpped him again, nothing.

The man had dīed.
He dīed sitting and waiting for help.

This hâppened just few days ago in Badawa, Kano. Some people who live in that area know this story.

The man was de@d all along while people were coming in and out of the shop thinking he was sleeping.

He dīed høpeless. He dīed hêlpless. He dīed a man who his country faīled.

If you know anyone in this periød who is hūngry around you and you can afford a little food or money to give him/her, please do.

Many people are walking the streets with an ēmpty stomach.