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Boss what's up? Been waiting for a new update.

Keep it coming boss. Been a while since I read a promising story here on NL.

Good read. That's why they say you shouldn't date a co worker, especially if you are a man and in a position of power in the organization. See finish will surely creep in.

I hope you complete this one.

Yes. I do, don't know about others. It's a way I use to relax and take time off screen time.

Good read so far. A storm is definitely brewing in her. She didn't need to emphasize the separate rooms, specifically the room numbers.

Title: "Between blurred lines"

Chinedu had been a grad student for nearly two years now. Sharing an off-campus apartment with Anna, a junior studying psychology, hadn’t been his idea at first—it was just what he could afford. But in time, he had grown used to the odd rhythm of their cohabitation.

Anna was carefree in ways that made him both uneasy and captivated. She often padded through the apartment in boyshorts and a bra, her full, youthful curves on display, her hair in messy knots. At first, Chinedu averted his gaze, embarrassed by how much skin she showed.

But Anna noticed. She always noticed.

Whenever his eyes lingered too long, she would shoot him a wry little smile, the corners of her mouth curling in quiet mischief, as if she were daring him to keep looking. He tried to tell himself it was harmless teasing. She had a boyfriend, after all—a broad-shouldered jock who visited on weekends, during which Anna suddenly remembered the art of sweatpants and hoodies.

Still, when it was just the two of them, the air seemed charged. She would brush past him in the kitchen, lean too close over the sofa to point at something on his laptop, or laugh a little too softly at his awkwardness. Chinedu kept reminding himself not to mistake playfulness for invitation. Yet the line between the two seemed to blur more and more each day.

That night, he had been on the sofa, letting the glow of the television wash over his tired eyes, when the door creaked open. Anna slipped in from class, hair loose, face flushed from the chilly air. She dropped her bag, tugged off her shirt without ceremony, and plopped herself beside him in just her bra.

“Anna—” he started.

She ignored his voice. She turned her back toward him, her voice light, almost childish: “My shoulders are killing me. Massage?”

For a moment, he weighed caution against temptation. But then his hands rose, slow and careful, pressing into her skin. Her breath hitched, a soft sigh escaping as she lowered her bra straps, leaving more of herself bare beneath his touch.

Chinedu swallowed hard, his mind blaring a storm of warnings and alarm bells. She tilted her head, exposing the curve of her neck, and for an instant he imagined leaning forward, his lips brushing against her pulse. Instead, he pulled back, keeping his hands on safer ground.

Anna lingered in the moment, swaying back as though she might collapse into him, before catching herself. She stood, tugging her straps back in place. “Thanks,” she said, flashing that same sly smile before retreating to her room.

He sat in the dark long after, the TV still flickering. His hands tingled from the warmth of her skin, but his mind returned to the same truth: she had a boyfriend, and he was not a fool.

Still, he wondered—how long could he keep walking this tightrope before it snapped?

Title : "The Betrayal"

She had always been defiant, her husband said. Strong-headed. Unyielding. Every warning he gave was brushed aside like smoke in the wind. She dismissed his words as exaggerations — attempts to control her spirit, her movements...her life.

That night was no different.

“I forbid you from going out,” he told her, his eyes hard, dark orbs of coal.
"Who the hell are you to forbid me?" she glared back.
"Who am I? I a, your husband."
"Spare me," she replied defiantly and grabbed her phone and car keys, "go to bed if you cannot bear me leaving."

She never made it home safely.

In the shadows of a deserted street, she was attacked — her car run off the road, brutalized in a way that left her broken in both body and spirit. The memory clung to her skin like smoke, something she could not wash away. When she finally staggered through the door, bloodied and trembling, he froze. For a long moment he only stared, his face caught between horror and disbelief - her body carved with bruises, her clothes torn, her spirit cracked.

Rushing forward, he caught her before she fell. He patched what wounds he could, carried her to the car, and drove her to the hospital.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice tight.
“I was robbed,” she whispered, never lifting her eyes. She told him no more. She told no one more.

Six weeks later, the truth surfaced in silence — the sickness, the missed cycle, the white stick trembling in her hand as the two lines crossed each other.

Her husband’s reaction was swift and merciless.

“I can’t live with this,” he said coldly, filing for divorce within days. He left her to carry a pregnancy that was both a reminder and a wound, never knowing who the father truly was.

But the darkest truth remained hidden. Unknown to her, the man who had sworn to protect her was the very one who had orchestrated her ruin. Her husband had paid another man to “teach her a lesson,” never imagining the act would spiral into something irreversible.

And as she sat alone in the quiet of her empty house, she carried not just the weight of her unborn child, but also the invisible knife of betrayal — one that had been pressed into her back by the person she trusted most.

Title: "The Weight of Gratitude"

The first signs of trouble had been small. An overdue electricity bill here, a late rent notice there. She told herself it was temporary — that another job would come quickly after she lost the last one. But weeks turned into months, and the savings she had carefully built dwindled until there was nothing left but loose change in her purse and the echo of unpaid calls from bank creditors.

When the landlord finally taped the eviction notice to her door, her knees nearly gave way. She had begged him for more time, promised she would catch up, but his answer was cold: “I can’t keep waiting. I need the rent.”

And just like that, Ashley was homeless.

The friends she reached out to sympathized, but none could help for more than a night or two. Shame clung to her — shame for asking, shame for failing, shame for losing everything.

One evening, with tears streaking her cheeks, she confided in Gbenga. He was an old friend, the sort who always listened quietly, never judging. She poured everything out — the eviction, the broken-down car, the gnawing terror of not knowing where she would sleep next week. He listened, nodding slowly, his expression unreadable. He didn’t promise anything then. He only said softly, “You will figure something out. You always do.”

What she didn’t know — what no one knew — was that Gbenga had recently become a very, very wealthy man.

Six months earlier, he had bought a lottery ticket on a whim one evening at a corner store. He hadn’t even checked it right away; it sat tucked away in a corner of his wallet for a very long time until one day he saw it and curiosity nudged him. When the numbers lined up one by one, his breath caught. A substantial win. Enough to change everything.

He told no one. Not even family. People changed when they knew. They asked, they expected, they took. Gbenga wanted time to decide what kind of man he would be with this fortune.

When Ashley poured out her struggles, he felt a strange stirring inside him. Here was his first chance — not to boast, not to buy admiration, but to quietly use his blessing for good. It was a start.

Over the next week, he made calls, signed papers, and arranged things. Then, one afternoon, he asked her to meet him at a small cafe.

“A one-bedroom apartment,” he said, handing her a key, “Two years’ rent already covered.”

Ashley blinked at him in disbelief. “Gbenga…I—I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” he replied with a gentle smile. “You needed some stability while you got back to your feet. Now you have it.”

It didn’t stop there. He had got her a modest used car, reliable enough to get her to interviews. All they needed to do was to sign the final papers. And finally, while she was till trying to get over the shock, he slid an envelope across the table.

“This will keep you going until you find your footing again.”

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the envelope. Inside, a thick stack of bills, enough to pay off her credit cards and still have a lot left over. Tears brimmed in her eyes and poured down her face in torrents. Gratitude and confusion crashed over her in waves.

"I...I d-don't know what to say..." she stammered in a voice she did not recognize as her own.

"You don't need to say anything," Gbenga smiled back, "just promise me you will get back on your feet soon."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her friends were quick to whisper: “Girl, no man does all that without wanting something. The least you can do is sleep with him.”

Ashley wanted to reject the thought, but it lodged deep inside her chest. She hadn’t asked for his help. She hadn’t earned it. Maybe this — her body, her intimacy — was the only repayment he would truly want, even if he hadn’t said so.

But then…he had never made a move. Not once. His kindness had come with no strings, no lingering glances, no hints.

At night, she lay awake in the quiet of her new apartment, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound. The mattress beneath her was soft, too soft, and the unfamiliar comfort made her uneasy. She stared at the ceiling, watching shadows shift as car lights passed outside the window.

Her mind returned to the envelope, to the car parked below, to the key that now hung from her keychain. Every kindness Gbenga had shown pressed down on her chest like a weight. Gratitude, sharp and heavy.

Her friends’ voices echoed. No man does all that for nothing.

She turned on her side, hugging the pillow, her heart pounding. If she offered herself, would he accept? Would that be the unspoken price of his generosity? Or would he recoil, hurt, thinking she had reduced his kindness to a bargain?

Her gratitude had twisted into guilt. Guilt into fear.

Ashley pressed her palms to her face. What do I really owe him? And what does he truly want?

This story kept getting removed.

Title: "The Quiet War"

She was a refugee from a war-torn country.

Three years earlier, her family had fled their village under the cover of smoke and chaos. Her father was killed fighting for their country. With no time to grieve, her mother bundled her, her younger brother, and sister into the back of a stranger’s truck, beginning a journey marked by hunger, displacement, and loss.

She had once been an eager student — bright, focused, with dreams of becoming a teacher. But the war didn’t just take her father. It took her future, too. In her final year of secondary school, just months from graduation, the shootings, killings, burnings, and looting reached her village. Schools shut down. Classrooms became shelters. Books turned to ash — or pillows. Education became a luxury reserved for those who weren’t running for their lives.

For two years, they wandered from one refugee camp to another. Life in the camps was harsh — food was scarce, clean water scarcer, and medicine nearly nonexistent. Her brother suffered from chronic asthma, and her mother’s health, weakened by grief and stress, declined quickly. It fell on her to find ways to keep them alive. She learned fast: in the camps, nothing came by fairness or by queue. You had to know who to ask, when to speak — and how. It wasn’t just about need. It was about timing, charm, and sometimes quiet desperation. She learned to use both her wits and her body — bartering, pleading, persuading randy camp officials and aid workers for extra rations, leftover medicine, or access to supplies others had long given up hope of receiving.

Eventually, they arrived at a better-organized refugee settlement run by a multinational NGO. There, they found some stability: clean shelter, regular meals, and free primary education for her younger siblings. It was a new beginning, but money was still a problem. Her mother, once a teacher herself, had no strength left for formal work, so they opened a small canteen inside the camp, selling simple meals to aid workers and fellow refugees — pap and akara in the morning, rice, beans and stew in the afternoons, yam and fish by night.

One day, another family in the camp told them about job opportunities across the border — households in the neighboring country looking for domestic help. The pay was modest, but consistent — a way to support her family from across the border. She took the chance.

Her new employers were a well-off family. The wife was polite, if distant. The work was heavy but not abusive, and she was grateful for the regular meals and safe place to sleep. But survival brought new challenges. Cleaned up and clothed in borrowed dignity, she turned heads, her voluptuous beauty no longer hidden behind the grit of harsh refugee life. Her skin glowed, her breasts bounced, her hips swayed. Men began to notice — including the man of the house she worked for, a respected barrister and church pastor with a wife and children of his own.

His offers were subtle at first: slipping her extra cash. Small amounts, handed over quietly with remarks like, “You’re doing well,” or “Just a little something for all your hard work.” At first, she assumed it was out of generosity. Perhaps he admired her work ethic. But soon, the motive became clear.

One evening, when his wife was away at a women’s fellowship retreat, he called her into his study. He was calm, measured. Not crude. He said he appreciated her, that she was different from the others they’d hired in the past. Then he said, plainly, that he could double — even triple — her pay. No conditions. No contract. He didn’t spell it out, but the meaning lingered in the air.

That night she lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling. She wasn’t stupid. She understood exactly what he meant. There was no shouting, no threats, no force — just a quiet proposition, padded in money and politeness. Enough to cover her siblings’ school fees. Enough to help her mother get her constant medication and keep food on the table. Enough to keep shelter over their heads and clothing on their backs.

She didn’t want to betray the woman who had come to trust her. She didn’t want to become another secret in a man’s private life. But the money — the money could change everything.

This wasn’t the first time she had to weigh dignity against survival. In the camps, everything had been desperate and visible. Hunger made choices simple. Here, things were quieter — but the weight of need hadn’t changed. It had just become quieter too. One path offered self-respect but continued struggle. The other, compromise — and relief.

This one was much harder.

She had survived so much.

But this...this was a different kind of war.

Title: "The Weight of Want"

The three men in her life:

The ex-boyfriend – The first man she ever slept with. Charming, charismatic, and dangerously persuasive, but also a habitual womanizer. Broke her heart repeatedly, treating her like a fool and cheating on her without remorse. Yet, she struggles to let him go, always falling for his sweet words and tearful apologies. She once had an abortion for him—an experience that left a scar. Despite everything, a small ember of love for him still smolders within her.

Her best "friend" – The dependable one. The man she turns to for comfort each time her ex leaves her shattered. He is always there: listening, holding her, pulling her back together, never judging. She often wonders what it would be like to be with him—he possesses the kindness and tenderness she had always longed for in ex-boyfriend. But she feared losing the closeness of their friendship. She stopped by his place one evening on her way from the gym. What began as a simple moment of massaging her sore shoulders and calves led to a passionate, nearly uncontrollable making-out session that stopped just short of sex. They agreed never to let it happen again, but deep down, she knows that if it did, she might not have the strength to stop it.

Current boyfriend – Met him at a wedding. He had asked her for a dance, and that simple moment turned into something more. They kept in touch, and eventually began dating. He loathes her ex-boyfriend with a passion, yet treats her friend with warmth and respect. With him, she has found steadiness—something she hadn’t experienced before—and has managed to maintain a consistent, drama-free relationship.

Yet her heart dallies. Who does she choose? Who really owns her heart?

Title: “More Than Comfort”

How It Started:

When the accident happened, it shattered him. His wife and six-year-old daughter, gone in an instant—a drunk driver, a rainy highway, and within moments, a twisted wreck of metal and grief.

She had been a close friend of the family, especially his wife’s. It felt only natural to be there for him—cooking meals he barely touched, helping with funeral arrangements, sitting beside him through the numbing silences of those early days after the internment.

That stormy night, she had only planned to check in on him. The rain had started just as she parked outside his house, thunder echoing like the grief still trapped in her chest. He’d been sorting through old boxes—his daughter’s school drawings, his wife’s perfume bottles still half full. He hadn’t eaten. He looked exhausted, hollowed out.

He broke down in front of her—raw, shaking, inconsolable. She held him and cried too. It was instinctive. Her arms wrapped around him as they wept, grieving not just what he had lost, but perhaps what he didn’t know how to go on without.

The kiss was unexpected. Soft. Searching. She didn’t stop it. Maybe she should have.

But in that moment, it felt less like crossing a line and more like letting him grieve in a way neither of them had words for. His hands moved with a tenderness that broke her heart—tracing the curve of her face, the length of her arms, resting with aching familiarity on her breasts. There was no urgency in his touch. Just silence and sadness and a need to feel something—someone—in a world that had gone numb.

She still didn’t stop him. Let him grieve. He misses his wife. He misses his daughter.

He pulled her into him, his forehead resting against hers, both their eyes wet from shed tears. Slowly, his fingers reached for the back of her dress. Tugged at the zipper—hesitating at first, then drawing it down until the thin fabric slipped from her shoulders, gliding silently down her body and bundling in a heap at her feet.

She stepped out of the dress. Wordless. Bare. And when she reached for his hand, he didn’t hesitate. She led him to the bedroom.

Let him grieve.

There were no whispered promises. No declarations. Just shared breath, lingering touches, and a fragile surrender to a moment neither of them could name. It wasn’t passion—it was pain. An intimate ache. A desperate kind of comfort.

Afterward, he held her tightly, as though afraid she too might vanish if he let go. She ran her fingers through his chest hairs and felt his body tremble against hers.

In the morning, he couldn’t meet her eyes.

“It shouldn’t have happened, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hollow.

“I know,” she replied, and began to gather her things.

They never spoke of it again.

The Dilemma:

She stares for the umpteenth time at the ultrasound photo tucked into the back of her notebook. A tiny fluttering heart where silence used to be.

Morning sickness is no longer subtle. Her clothes are beginning not to fit right. Her bras no longer able to contain her naturally busty figure.

She rehearses the words every night before bed, but they stick in her throat. She’s burdened with a secret she cannot ignore, and a question echoing louder each day:

Does she tell him?

Or does she carry this alone—this secret, this child, unexpectedly conceived that night nine weeks ago that was supposed to be just comfort, but became something more? Or should she just end it, terminate it quietly and act like it never existed?

sportflex:
Thank you for your feedback.

Chika is in a very precarious position. It seems the children are the major reason why most people remain in toxic relationships. The young man obviously love his children but need to rebuild his life so that he can provide adequately for them as they grow up.

Quite understandable, but parenting from afar is very very dangerous. This is something the wife is and will continue to use against him to poison the kids minds,and soon they will begin to see things her way if his absence continues to grow longer.

I feel Chike should have persevered for the sake of his kids. His absence is going to have a lasting effect on their young minds. Being a dad is not only about calling them. His physical presence in their lives matters a lot. Ijeoma will definitely use that as a tool to turn them away from him as they grow older.

Please continue with this. Been a while I've read such a well crafted piece.

OOOKEWALE:
quite intriguing Mr. Metalgear1. Where have you been?

Been around, just not posting as regularly as I used to.

CHAPTER NINE: The Room With No Applause

It was all quiet now. No calls. No confrontation. No whispered gossip that found its way to her ears through mutuals and middlemen. Just a stillness that felt neither peaceful nor empty.

Amaka sat in her apartment, barefoot on the cold tiles, legs folded under her, surrounded by unopened boxes. They were meant to be for the move to Kola’s new duplex in Lekki Phase 1. Wedding gifts still trickled in. Someone had forgotten to remove her from the guest registry. A silver toaster gleamed from one of the open boxes. A gift card attached read "Wishing you both joy and ease. Love always — Mrs. Eze."

She wanted to throw it. Instead, she took a picture of the card and sent it to Adaora with no caption.

[Return it. Or burn it. No in-between.] Her sister replied.

Amaka smiled, weakly. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach the skin, let alone the soul.

________________________________________

Her mother came by unannounced that evening.

Amaka opened the door in sweatpants and no bra. Madam Stella barely blinked. She looked elegant as ever, though less like a mother and more like a diplomat preparing for crisis management. She didn’t hug her daughter. Didn’t sit either. She looked around the apartment, then said, flatly: “Have you no shame?”

Amaka didn’t flinch. “I’ve had plenty. It didn’t change anything.”

Her mother inhaled, nostrils flaring like she’d just stepped into the fumes of disgrace. “You embarrassed this family. Do you know what people are saying? That we raised a girl with no virtue. That even a man as good as Kola wasn’t enough for you.”

“And maybe he wasn’t,” Amaka said. “Maybe I wasn’t enough for that life either.”

“You were enough. You just didn’t want to be contained.”

The silence between them was sharp. Mama stepped closer. Her voice softened, but it cut deeper.

“Whatever fantasy you had with that boy — it’s over. It was always going to end. Now you have to carry what it cost.”

“I already am.”

“You think you are. But wait until the next man looks at you and sees the story before he sees your face. Wait until you hear your name in rooms where you’re not even present. That’s what consequence is.”

Amaka swallowed. Her throat ached with everything she couldn’t say — that she didn’t regret Michael, not fully; that maybe she wanted to be seen differently, even if it meant being judged. That maybe she was tired of being everyone's good idea.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” she said finally.

“I know,” her mother replied. Then, after a beat, “You’re still my daughter. But Lagos doesn’t forget. Just make sure you can live with who you are now.”

And then she left.

-----------------------------------

That night, Amaka stood before her bathroom mirror. She looked older — not in years, but in wear. In the creases around her eyes. In the small hardness behind her gaze. She used to look at herself and see a woman in progress. Tonight, she saw a woman who had broken her own compass — and was learning how to walk without one.

She opened Instagram, hovered over the “delete account” button.

Then stopped. Instead, she posted a photo of herself in the mirror. No filter. No caption. No applause. She logged off.

And for the first time in weeks, she slept. Alone. Unloved. Undisguised.