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Good day, dear friends.

Here is another sizzling and fascinating story.

Happy reading.







Beyond the Glamour





Femi Allen is an enthusiastic, young journalist when he meets Princess Betty Alowonle, the glamorous and influential Lagos woman. His profile changes and he keeps moving up the ladder.
He soon realizes that there are lot of sleazes behind wealth and glamour. He fizzles out, but then, he finds peace and contentment.









The newsroom of The Bliss newspaper throbbed with its usual hum of energy. Phones rang off the hook, keyboards clattered like distant gunfire, and editors barked instructions across desks stacked high with paper. Reporters rushed in and out like bees in a hive, chasing leads, checking sources, and arguing over headlines. Over by the glass windows that overlooked the city, I sat at my cluttered corner desk, poring over the latest write-ups from my team.

As the Entertainment Editor, I had grown used to the noise, the chaos, the ceaseless demand to stay ahead of the curve. The entertainment desk was hot these days—celebrity feuds, music releases, high-society weddings—it was a goldmine. But even amid all the glamor and gossip, I still sought something deeper. A real story. One that would make waves. I just didn’t know yet that it was already on its way to me.

My phone buzzed on the desk. The screen lit up with an unknown number. I hesitated a moment, then picked it up.

“Hello?”

A crisp, professional voice came through. “Is that Mr. Femi Allen?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“Good. I am Mr. Lawal, personal assistant to Princess Betty Alowonle. You are invited to her office tomorrow—Friday—for the exclusive interview. Ten a.m. sharp.”

Before I could even respond, the line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a second, my mind racing. Princess Betty Alowonle? That name wasn’t just any name—it was the name.

In Lagos, she was royalty both in blood and in stature. Heiress to the Alowonle dynasty, an old aristocratic Yoruba lineage, Betty had reinvented herself as a philanthropist, socialite, and power broker in high society. From elite fashion galas to hush-hush political fundraisers, she was everywhere, commanding headlines with her effortless poise and elusive aura. Yet despite her fame, she rarely spoke to the press. Rumors of scandal followed her like a shadow, but none had ever stuck.

And now, she had invited me for an exclusive interview.

Adrenaline surged through me. This wasn’t just a feature—it was a career-defining moment.

Her office was located in Ikeja, just a fifteen-minute drive from our Acme Road headquarters. I glanced at the framed newspaper cover on my desk—my first front-page story. A reminder of how far I’d come. And tomorrow might be another headline that bore my name.

That night, I didn’t sleep much. I spent hours researching everything about the Princess—her known business interests, past interviews (there were only two, both over five years ago), and the charitable foundation that bore her name. Whispers of political ambitions floated in blogs and podcasts. There were stories of a bitter family feud, a mysterious offshore account, and an ex-lover who had disappeared under strange circumstances.

Was she ready to set the record straight? Or was she playing another game, using the press to steer the narrative her way?

Either way, I intended to find out

Was she ready to set the record straight? Or was she playing another game, using the press to steer the narrative her way?

Either way, I intended to find out.

At exactly 9:30 a.m., I pulled up to the towering monolith that was Obsidian Place—a shimmering structure of glass and steel that seemed to slice the Lagos sky in two. Its mirrored surface caught the morning sun, throwing blinding reflections onto the cars and pedestrians below. A line of black SUVs was parked along the curb, their drivers standing guard, earpieces tucked discreetly behind their collars.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my blazer, and stepped out of the car. The air was heavy with humidity, thick with the diesel-and-salt scent that defines Ikeja in the summer. But as I passed through the massive revolving doors, the chaos of the city fell away like a shed skin.

Inside, the lobby felt more like a five-star hotel than an office tower. Cool air wrapped around me. The floor was Italian marble, smooth and pale, reflecting golden light from crystal chandeliers. A soft scent of lavender and citrus hung in the air—clearly pumped through the vents by design. Security men in suits eyed me silently from behind polished counters.

The receptionist, a young woman dressed in navy silk and pearls, looked up with a polite smile. “Mr. Femi Allen?”

I nodded. She offered me chilled cucumber water in a crystal tumbler, then gestured toward a private elevator guarded by biometric scanners. “Princess Betty is expecting you.”

Princess. I still wasn’t used to hearing that word outside fairytales or tabloids. But this was Nigeria, where royalty and politics intertwined like a double helix. And Princess Betty Alowonle wasn’t your average monarch.

The elevator hummed upward, silent and smooth, its walls lined with dark walnut panels and backlit touchscreens. As the numbers climbed, so did my curiosity—and something else. A twinge of unease. This wasn’t just a profile piece for The Bliss. This was a descent—or perhaps an ascent—into power’s inner sanctum.

The elevator dinged softly at the top floor. The doors slid open with a hush.

I stepped into a world that seemed carved out of ambition and old money. The penthouse office was cavernous, all clean lines and towering glass walls that offered a panoramic view of Lagos—sprawling, bustling, alive. You could see the ocean from here, a silver thread unspooling toward the horizon.

And there she was.

Princess Betty Alowonle stood by the window, dressed in an ivory power suit that sculpted her silhouette like it had been tailored by the gods. Sunlight glinted off the diamonds at her ears and danced along the slender gold bracelets on her wrist. Her skin was the color of rich mahogany, smooth and flawless. She looked like a queen who had stepped out of time and into a boardroom.

She turned to face me. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Mr. Femi Allen,” she said, extending a hand.

Her voice was low, smooth, and undeniably regal. The kind of voice that had commanded rooms since birth. I took her hand—it was cool, firm, precise. Her gaze, sharp as obsidian, never wavered.

“Shall we begin?” she asked.

I took her hand—it was cool, firm, precise. Her gaze, sharp as obsidian, never wavered.

“Shall we begin?” she asked, motioning toward the pair of velvet armchairs near the center of the room.

As I walked past her, I noticed every detail. The subtle scent of jasmine and oud. The soft click of her heels on the oak floors. The distant hum of a classical piano track playing from hidden speakers.

Her office was a study in controlled opulence. Minimalist in color, yet rich in texture—cream silk curtains, a floating mahogany desk, and walls lined with white orchids and rare books.

Behind her desk hung an oil portrait that dominated the room: her late father, Chief Dapo Alowonle, staring down like an emperor. He had once been Minister of Trade, a political kingmaker whispered to have toppled and built governments with a single phone call.

I placed my recorder gently on the coffee table between us, opened my notebook, and clicked my pen.

She sat opposite me, legs crossed, spine straight. Not a single hair out of place. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes? They watched me like a hawk measuring the wind before diving for the kill.

“I don’t usually do interviews,” she said with a small, knowing smile. “But I’ve read your work, Mr. Femi Allen. You ask the questions others are too afraid to.”

That threw me. I was used to press agents and curated scripts. Used to billionaires and ministers buttering me up with backhanded compliments. But this? This was different. Her words were a blade wrapped in silk.

“Thank you, Your Highness. That means a lot,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady as I flipped to a clean page.

“Please,” she said, with a quiet laugh. “Just call me Princess, I dropped the ‘Her Royal Highness’ nonsense when I turned twenty-one. Titles are for people who need them. I don’t.”

Something about the way she said it—offhand, but razor-edged—made me glance again at the portrait behind her. A daughter born into legacy, but not defined by it. At least not outwardly.

And yet… beneath that calm exterior, I could feel it. There was a storm coiled behind her eyes. Power like that never came without a cost.

“Alright, Princess,” I said, pressing ‘record.’ My voice was calm, but beneath it, a current of unease stirred.

She smiled politely, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Not quite.

I’d interviewed CEOs in oil-stained boardrooms, warlords in jungle compounds, dissidents in safe houses that smelled of mildew and fear. I’d learned to feel it—the shift in the air, the quickening of the blood when something unspoken hung in the room like smoke.

With Princess Betty Alowonle, it wasn’t just a hunch.
It was certainty.

There was something behind her charm. A shadow behind her smile.

And if I wasn’t careful, I had the distinct, chilling sense that this story—this woman—could consume me.
Whole.

She crossed one leg over the other, the movement graceful, deliberate. The silver bangle on her wrist caught the light as she adjusted it, the tiny etchings on its surface glinting like symbols of an ancient language. Her posture was relaxed, but I had the distinct impression that it was all a performance. Every glance. Every word. Every breath.

“I’ll keep this brief,” she said, smoothing an invisible crease in her trousers.

“My life is already too public for my liking. I grew up between Lagos and Geneva. My father raised me under the weight of legacy—his, our ancestors’, and the dynasty he hoped I’d one day uphold. My mother…”

Her voice softened, just for a beat. “God rest her soul. She taught me to wear dignity like armor. Even when the world claws at your back.”

Her voice softened, just for a beat. “God rest her soul. She taught me to wear dignity like armor. Even when the world claws at your back.”

I nodded, jotting her words down, though I knew already that this wasn’t going to be a conventional profile. There was a gravity to the moment, a sensation like standing at the edge of something far larger than myself.

“And now?” I asked, my pen pausing. “What drives you today?”

Her eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something—regret, maybe. Or something harder. Something colder.

“Peace,” she said. The word landed like a pebble dropped into a still pond. “And power. Not the kind that crushes… the kind that builds. I want to make things that last. Institutions. Ideas. Legacy.”

Just as I opened my mouth to ask what that legacy might look like, she leaned in slightly, her voice dropping half a register. It wasn’t a whisper, but it felt like one.

“But that’s not why I brought you here.”

My brow furrowed. “No?”

She gave a knowing smile—one that suggested she had been playing a different game all along.

“I wanted to meet the man behind the pen,” she said. “I read your piece last month. The one about Ojuelegba. The underground music scene. You told the truth without making a spectacle of their poverty. That takes discipline. And empathy.”

I blinked, caught off guard. She wasn’t flattering me—her tone was too precise for that. She was observing me. Measuring me.

There was a silence. A stretch of space filled only by the distant hum of Lagos traffic below. Then she stood—fluid, elegant—and moved to a black lacquered cabinet near the far wall. From within, she retrieved a small, cream-colored envelope.

“I’m having a birthday gathering this weekend,” she said, not looking at me. “Private. Discreet. I’ll be fifty-three.” She turned and gave a wink that made her seem suddenly much younger, mischievous even.

I chuckled lightly, unsure where this was going.

She walked back and extended the envelope. It was thick, the paper heavy, embossed with gold filigree. The weight of it in my hand was more than literal—it felt like I was being handed something rare. And potentially dangerous.

“It’s not a red carpet affair,” she said. “No journalists. No cameras. Just people I trust.” She held my gaze. “I’d like you to come.”

I hesitated. “You want me to attend? As…?”

“As my guest,” she said smoothly. “Not as a journalist. Not as the Entertainment Editor of The Continental Weekly. Just Femi Allen.”

There was a beat. I looked at her, truly looked—and saw it again. That flicker. Not quite vulnerability. Not quite manipulation. Something in between.

“I… I’m honored,” I said finally, meaning it more than I expected.

She nodded, satisfied. “Good. I want you to see something.”

“What kind of something?”

She smiled, that enigmatic curve of her lips returning. “Not everything in this city is as it appears in print. Sometimes, the real stories don’t live in press releases or government briefings. They live behind velvet curtains. In laughter at 2 a.m. In whispered arguments over vintage champagne. In the faces of people who never make the news.”

Her expression softened again. “Be at Magodo GRA. Number 17A. Saturday night. Come alone.”

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Her expression softened again. “Be at Magodo GRA. Number 17A. Saturday night. Come alone.”

The finality of her voice closed the moment like a book snapped shut.

I left her office with a strange sensation in my chest—like standing at the edge of a cliff, wind rushing past your ears. Excitement. Apprehension. Awe.

Down in the elevator, I stared at my reflection in the mirrored paneling. I didn’t look like someone invited to Lagos’ inner sanctum. But the envelope in my breast pocket said otherwise.

It felt like a key. A key to a world I had only written about.
The world behind the glass. Behind the power suits and polite press conferences.
A world that had rules of its own—and consequences I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

But I was going. I already knew it.

Because beneath the danger and mystique… was a story.
And stories, real stories, are hungry things.
They wait in the dark. And they pull you in.


---



The night air in Magodo was cooler than usual, tinged with the faint scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. The gates of 17A slid open silently after I pressed the intercom, and a black-uniformed security man waved me through with a nod.

Princess Betty’s mansion was nothing short of regal. Expansive, sleek, and drenched in understated opulence, the exterior alone made my breath hitch. But it wasn’t the marble lions or the grand chandelier visible through the front windows that caught my attention—it was the silence. No cars parked in rows. No distant hum of a crowd. Just stillness.

A maid in a blue dress greeted me at the door. “Mr. Allen? Please, this way.”

I was ushered into a living room that looked like something out of an architectural magazine. Marble floors stretched beneath our feet. Gold-accented sofas stood poised beneath soft lighting. Every corner gleamed.

“Femi.”

I turned. Princess Betty stood at the far end of the room, dressed in a deep emerald gown that shimmered like water under moonlight. Her hair was swept up elegantly, and her neck glistened with a necklace of black pearls.

“Happy birthday,” I said, handing her the small gift I brought—a vintage copy of The Collected Writings of Maya Angelou. She looked surprised, then pleased.

“You’re full of taste, Mr. Allen,” she said, accepting it with a smile that lingered just a little too long.

Then she turned. “Come, meet my family.”

I followed her past a set of tall glass doors into another section of the open-plan mansion, where two people stood near a low table set with gold-rimmed dinnerware and crystal glasses.

“This is Jolade, my daughter—my heart. And that,” she said with a fond glance, “is Daniel. Jolade’s fiancé.”

Jolade, graceful and elegant, looked like a younger version of her mother but with a softer edge. Her dress was simple, silk, her smile polite.

Daniel was tall, neatly bearded, and wore a fitted white kaftan. He greeted me with a firm handshake. “I’ve read your interviews,” he said. “I hope you’re not here to dig dirt.”

I laughed. “Not tonight.”

Princess Betty laughed too, though her eyes never quite left me. “It’s a very private affair,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. “Just the four of us. No fanfare, no noise. Just truth.”

Princess Betty laughed too, though her eyes never quite left me. “It’s a very private affair,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. “Just the four of us. No fanfare, no noise. Just truth.”

The table was set on a low platform beneath a series of delicate pendant lights. As we sat, two maids moved quietly between us, setting down plates of peppered goat meat, grilled lobster, jollof rice with prawns, and steaming bowls of yam porridge laced with truffle oil. The wine was French—old, expensive, and silky on the tongue.

Conversation flowed easily, with Princess Betty steering the mood like a conductor. She asked about my family, my background, and even my opinion on the current state of Nigerian cinema. Jolade mostly listened, Daniel occasionally chimed in with humor.

But I couldn’t ignore the way the Princess kept looking at me—curious, assessing, almost… familiar. As if she were seeing something in me that even I hadn’t discovered yet.

After dessert—coconut cream with caramel drizzle—Jolade excused herself to take a call, and Daniel followed shortly after, stepping onto the terrace to give her privacy.

That left just the two of us.

The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind Jolade’s voice, sealing the room like a vault. The sounds of music and laughter from the garden faded until they were little more than background static—like a memory already slipping away.

Princess Betty stood at the bar and poured us both another glass of deep red wine, the kind that moved like velvet and smelled like black cherries and smoke. She handed me one without a word, her fingers brushing mine for the briefest second—cool, deliberate, unreadable.

She returned to her seat, curling into the armchair opposite mine with a grace that felt instinctual. No pretense. No theater. Just presence. The firelight from the nearby hearth cast warm shadows along her cheekbones, softening her edges. But her eyes—those eyes remained sharp as ever.

The silence that fell between us was deep. Not awkward. Not tense. It was… full. Like the moment right before a confession or the second before a storm breaks.

“You know,” she said finally, swirling the wine in her glass, “I’ve had more lavish birthdays than I care to remember. Gold-leaf cakes. Champagne flown in from Reims. Six-course dinners curated by Michelin chefs. Presidents. Royalty. Entertainers trying too hard to be seen.”

She took a sip, her gaze distant, then glanced over at me. “But tonight—this? Just a few voices, no cameras, no agendas? This is what I wanted.”

I nodded slowly. “It’s… intimate. Peaceful.”

“Yes. And rare.”
Her tone changed on that last word. Something weighted. Intentional.

She looked at me—fully now. No smile. No mask.

“But rare things,” she continued, “are often misunderstood. Feared. Or worse… broken by people who think they know what they're handling.”

Her words settled like dust on glass—fine, almost invisible, until the light hits at just the right angle. I could feel there was more beneath them. A deeper story unspoken.

“I invited you, Femi,” she said, leaning forward slightly, “not just because I admire your work.”

I looked up. Her voice had shifted. Lower. Steadier.

“I admire your eyes,” she said. “The way you see the world. Not just the grit or the pain—but the beauty in it. You don’t look away. You don’t romanticize it either. You just… witness.”

She paused, wineglass resting against her knee. Her gaze didn’t falter.
“And I miss that,” she said quietly. “In people. That honesty.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “You think I see you clearly?”

“No,” she said, barely above a whisper. “But I want you to.”

That line hit me like a blow I didn’t expect—soft but staggering. It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t seduction. It was something far more dangerous.

It was trust.

Or the beginning of it.

The space between us grew charged. Not romantic. Not sexual. But electric in a different way—like the quiet tension between two people who had just stepped off the edge of something irreversible. A bond was forming, subtle and risky, in the places where most people build walls.

I opened my mouth, unsure of what I was going to say, when—

“Mummy!”
The voice from the hallway shattered the moment like glass dropped on tile.
Jolade again. “Daniel and I are heading out!”

Princess Betty stood immediately, her gown whispering across the marble floor. The moment snapped shut. Whatever had been stirring between us folded itself away—quietly, efficiently.

“Alright, darling,” she called out. “Drive safe. Call me when you get home.”

I rose, wine glass still in hand, my heartbeat trying to make sense of everything that hadn’t been said.

She turned to me, smiling again—but it was the public smile now. The one she used for diplomacy and boardrooms. Not the one from before.

“Thank you for coming, Femi,” she said, extending her hand once more. Polite. Professional. But her grip lingered half a second longer than necessary.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I said, still searching her eyes for the woman who had whispered I want you to just minutes ago.

Outside, the air was cooler than before. The kind of Lagos night where even the wind feels like it’s carrying secrets. I walked back to my car slowly, the envelope still in my coat pocket, the taste of wine on my tongue, and something else sitting deeper in my chest:

A truth that hadn’t yet revealed itself.
And a woman who had just opened a door.
The only question was—what waited on the other side?


“I’ll be in touch,” she said.

A truth that hadn’t yet revealed itself.
And a woman who had just opened a door.
The only question was—what waited on the other side?


“I’ll be in touch,” she said.

And as I stepped out into the cool Lagos night, I knew without a doubt—this wasn’t just a party.

It was the beginning of something.

And whatever it was… I wasn’t ready for it.


---


A week had passed since the birthday dinner, yet the evening lingered in my mind like perfume on skin—faint but unforgettable. Princess Betty’s gaze, her words, that last pause before she said goodbye—it all haunted the quiet moments between deadlines and editorial meetings.

It was Friday morning when the message came.

A text.

Princess Betty:
Hello, Femi. I’m hosting a retreat for selected personnel tomorrow. Thrills Guest House, Lekki. 10 a.m. sharp. Would love for you to be there. Don’t mention this to anyone.
—B



No explanation. No RSVP request. Just an address, a time, and that signature closeness she had mastered—equal parts command and seduction.

I stared at the message for a long time.

Was this another story? A lead? Or was I already inside the story, unknowingly playing a role?

Still, I replied simply:

I’ll be there.


---

Saturday – Suite 202

Thrills Guest House, Lekki.

Tucked behind flowering bougainvillea and tall, whispering palms, the guest house didn’t shout luxury—it murmured it, discreetly. The kind of place you never noticed until you were told to. A place for people with secrets, and the resources to keep them.

The valet took my car without saying a word. Not even a look. He moved with the practiced indifference of someone used to politicians and CEOs pretending they weren’t afraid.

Inside, the lobby gleamed with marble floors and hushed air-conditioning. The front desk manager greeted me with a nod that felt rehearsed.

“Suite 202,” he said, sliding a key card across the desk. “Top of the stairs. She’s waiting.”

She?

No sign-in sheet. No questions. Just those words—She’s waiting—spoken like a secret passed under the table.

I climbed the stairs slowly. My nerves weren’t loud, not yet. But they were stirring, like something waking in the dark.

I’d expected a conference room, maybe a breakfast buffet with name tags and filtered coffee. A gathering of staffers, NGO reps, maybe a panel on sustainable policy or press ethics.

But this?

This was something else.

I reached Suite 202 and knocked once.

The door opened almost immediately.

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But this?

This was something else.

I reached Suite 202 and knocked once.

The door opened almost immediately.

She stood there barefoot, in a long silk robe the color of cream and candlelight. Her hair was pinned in that effortless way women in power seemed to master. No jewelry, no visible makeup. And yet… she looked even more commanding than she had at the birthday dinner. Stripped of artifice, she was somehow more royal.

“Femi,” she said. No title. No pleasantries. Just my name, spoken low, like a note held on a piano.

I stepped inside.

The suite smelled faintly of jasmine and warm vanilla. Daylight filtered through half-drawn blinds, casting soft gold across the floor. A breakfast tray sat untouched on a glass table—fruit, croissants, fresh orange juice. But there was no one else. No movement. No sound but the subtle hush of classical music in the background—strings, mournful and slow.

She closed the door behind me. The soft click might as well have been a lock.

“You’re wondering what this is,” she said, watching me with that stillness she wore like a weapon. “I asked you here alone because I didn’t want distractions.”

I swallowed. My throat felt dry. “You mentioned a retreat. For selected personnel…”

She gave the faintest smile. “I lied.”

No flinch. No apology. Just the truth, handed over like a gift.

“There is no retreat. No agenda. Just you and me.”

She moved across the room, sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed at the ankle. Her robe slipped slightly, revealing a length of thigh she didn’t bother to adjust. Her calm was disarming. Practiced. Almost dangerous.

“I’m not here to confuse you,” she said. “I know what I want. I’ve spent years surrounded by men who wear ambition like armor. Men who bark and grovel and believe that makes them lions. But you… you observe. You listen before you speak. You still believe in truth. That’s rare.”

She leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, her voice dropping into something softer.

“And I want something rare.”

I stayed where I was, unsure whether to sit or run. The floor beneath me felt both solid and shifting.

“This city,” she continued, “grinds people like you down until you forget who you were. But I can shield you from that. I can give you air. Space. Power—quiet power. No one ever has to know. It would be just us. Discreet. Respectful. Mutually rewarding.”

I heard the offer behind her words—the doors it could open, the noise it could silence.

“You’d still be yourself, Femi,” she said. “You wouldn’t lose your integrity. You’d simply gain protection. And access. Your words could reach further. You’d move differently.”

Then, a pause.

“I don’t want a boy toy. I’m not interested in play. I want a partner. A confidant. A fire no one else sees.”

The room was very still now. The music slowed. Outside the window, a bird sang once, then was silent.

I didn’t speak. My hands were at my sides, fists slightly clenched. My heartbeat had climbed into my ears.

I didn’t speak. My hands were at my sides, fists slightly clenched. My heartbeat had climbed into my ears.

And then—like a flash—I saw it all:

Solape, at home in the kitchen. Her fingers stained with tomato, humming to a gospel song. Her softness, her steadiness. The way she laughed without trying to impress anyone. The prayers she whispered each night for me, for us. Our small but honest life. Rent paid on time. Love without leverage.

But lately, even with her, something had dimmed. The conversations shorter. The space between us wider. I’d blamed work. Fatigue. The world.

Now I wondered if I’d simply been waiting for something… other.

And here it was. In silk. Barefoot. Unblinking.

This wasn’t about seduction.

This was about power. About invitation. A rewriting of rules.

Princess Betty stood then, walked past me without touching me, and paused at the threshold to the inner room.

“If you stay,” she said softly, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Then she disappeared into the bedroom. The door remained open.

And I stood in the middle of Suite 202, every instinct at war.


---

I didn’t move. Not at first.
The silence grew legs. Walked up my spine. The smell of her perfume—oud and something honeyed—drifted in the air. My phone buzzed once in my pocket. I didn’t check.

In the corner, a clock ticked.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Choices. Every life is a series of them. Most are small. But some?

Some shape the version of you that wakes up years later—older, wiser, maybe wealthier—but still wondering about the version that walked away.

I looked down at my wristwatch. I didn’t remember taking it off, but there it was on the table, beside a folded napkin and untouched butter.

I picked it up. Held it in my palm.

Then placed it back down.

And walked toward the bedroom door.



---

Later

She lay beside me, one leg draped over mine like a claim written in silk and warmth. Her robe had fallen open slightly at the thigh, the cream fabric catching the soft light filtering through the blinds. Her skin, smooth and perfumed, was warm against mine—but not clingy. She wasn’t the type to cling. She existed beside you like a force of nature—present, inevitable, unmoved by your hesitation.

I stared at the ceiling. The silence had changed. It was no longer filled with mystery, but with consequence. My thoughts spiraled slowly, thick and unwelcome. I felt the guilt rising in my chest—not sharp, not immediate, but slow-burning. A creeping tide.

My thoughts spiraled slowly, thick and unwelcome. I felt the guilt rising in my chest—not sharp, not immediate, but slow-burning. A creeping tide.

Solape’s name hadn’t been spoken, but she was here now. Not in body, but in weight.

“I knew you’d stay,” Princess Betty said softly.

Her voice was calm, almost tender. She didn’t need to raise it. Everything about her operated beneath the surface—suggestion, gravity, pull. Her fingers moved across my chest with the grace of someone who knew the effect of her touch, but wasn’t trying to prove anything.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t—not yet.

She turned slightly, her face just above mine. “You understand what this is now?”

I looked at her then. Her eyes held mine, unflinching. Not cold, not manipulative—but clear. Certain. The kind of clarity most people search for in therapy or religion. She had it in her gaze like it had been there since birth.

“I do,” I said.

No need for questions. No declarations of love. No illusions. This wasn’t romance. It wasn’t even, strictly speaking, desire. It was recognition. Mutual advantage. Two people seeing the world the same way for a moment—and deciding to share it, however briefly, from the same side of the line.

She smiled faintly and pressed her lips to my shoulder. The kiss wasn’t possessive or passionate. It was… affirming. A nod. A seal.

“You’re smarter than most men I’ve known,” she said.

Her words could have sounded like flattery. They didn’t. They sounded like observation. She wasn’t trying to seduce me. She already had.

I let out a slow breath. My body was still, but my mind wasn’t. Somewhere deep inside, a version of me was pacing. Restless. Regretful. Or maybe just afraid of what this moment might become—what I might become if I let it grow.

Princess Betty shifted, pulling the robe tighter around her waist. She sat up, her back straight, silhouetted against the soft spill of light from the window.

“This world eats men like you, Femi,” she said. “Not because you’re weak. But because you still believe in truth. In fairness. That’s dangerous in a place like this. That makes you visible.”

I watched her. Every word she spoke felt both like a warning and an invitation.

“I want to give you cover,” she said. “Not chains. Cover. So you can keep being you—only… protected.”

Protected. That word again. A promise. A threat.

Outside, somewhere distant, a car horn sounded. Life moved on, unaware of what had shifted inside Suite 202.

I sat up slowly, pulling the sheet across my lap. I didn’t want to seem vulnerable—not to her. But she had already seen the part of me I tried to keep out of reach.

“This isn’t going to be simple,” I said.

She turned her head slightly, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Simple is for civilians.”

I met her gaze. There was something there. Not love. Not lust.

Respect.

And in its strange, careful way… maybe even trust.

I wasn’t sure if I was falling into something dangerous or stepping into the beginning of a second life.

I am enjoying this. Very well put together and you leave the reader wanting more.

You write very well, grammar is impeccable and the story flows easily.

I have a confession though, I copied down the menu for the birthday dinner and the plan is to have that when I celebrate my birthday....so thanks for that. Didn't copy down the desert though.

Can't wait for the next episode. Following ASAP

Please can I get the full story and how

I wasn’t sure if I was falling into something dangerous or stepping into the beginning of a second life.

But for now, I stayed.

And in the quiet between us, something unspoken solidified—an alliance dressed in skin and secrets.

---


By the time I pulled up to the flat, it was just after nine. The hum of the generator filled the night air, low and constant, like a heartbeat beneath the street’s silence. I sat in the car a while longer, engine off, lights dimmed, watching the orange flicker of the compound’s security bulb reflect off the bonnet. I could already hear the faint sounds of our neighbor’s baby crying, someone washing plates next door, and the echo of laughter from a small TV upstairs.

The world hadn’t changed.

But I had.

When I finally stepped inside, the smell of egusi and crayfish met me at the door—home, unmistakable. Warm, textured, familiar.

Solape was curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, wearing my old “Olamide Live in Concert” hoodie. The sleeves hung long past her wrists. She was half-watching a K-drama on the small TV, sound low, the glow of it dancing off her cheek. A bowl of garri and groundnut balanced in her lap like it had always belonged there.

She looked up the moment the door clicked shut.

“Babe. You’re back late o.” Her voice carried no suspicion, only concern. “Hope no wahala?”

I dropped my bag by the shoe rack and forced a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Work stuff. Something in Lekki.”

It wasn’t technically a lie. Just… not the kind of truth anyone deserves.

She stretched as she stood, arms overhead, hoodie riding up slightly to show a sliver of soft belly. She yawned, rubbing one eye. “You want your food? I kept small egusi for you. With semo.”

“Yeah. Maybe later,” I said, my voice hoarse.

She didn’t press. She never did.

She crossed the room and kissed my cheek gently, her lips warm, faintly sticky from groundnut dust. Then she padded toward the kitchen, humming a tune from her show—soft, unbothered, the kind of peace that comes when you trust the world around you.

I watched her go, her steps light, barefoot on the tiles.

And the weight in my chest grew heavier. Not like guilt exactly—guilt is sharper. This was heavier than that. Slower. The kind of weight that settles behind your ribs and makes a home there.

She had no idea.

No idea where I’d been. No idea what I’d done.

And I didn’t know if I wanted her to.

Maybe I was already too far in. Too far gone.

There was something deeply unfair in how easily she moved through our space—so certain of love, so secure in us. I envied her for it. And hated myself for ruining the thing she still believed in.

I walked to the bathroom, washed my face. Looked at myself in the mirror. My own eyes looked like a stranger’s.

When I came out, she’d dished the food, covered it neatly, and gone back to her spot on the couch. She glanced up at me and smiled.

When I came out, she’d dished the food, covered it neatly, and gone back to her spot on the couch. She glanced up at me and smiled.

“Sit small. This episode is mad,” she said, patting the cushion beside her.

And I did. I sat.

Not because I wanted to watch.

But because sitting next to her was the only thing anchoring me to the man I used to be.



---


Monday morning came with rain.

The Lagos sky was the color of wet concrete, clouds sagging low, impatient with their burden. Raindrops traced crooked paths down the office windows, the city’s usual soundtrack—horns, shouts, street vendors—muted by the downpour. It was the kind of weather that slowed everything down, made people late, made stories stall.

But I got to the newsroom early.

Partly out of habit. Mostly because I needed the noise, the emails, the deadlines. Something ordinary. Something clean.

I walked in soaked from the waist down, umbrella useless in the wind, and waved at the receptionist without much energy. My desk lamp was off, same as I’d left it Friday. Papers still sat where I’d pushed them aside—draft edits, a fact-checking sheet, an old press badge from a statehouse briefing.

But when I pulled open the top drawer, something new was waiting.

A small white envelope.

No name. No logo. Just sealed. Clean. Quiet.

I looked around. No one seemed to be watching. Janet from Layout was arguing with IT again. Deji was eating puff-puff over his keyboard like always. Normalcy.

I opened it.

Inside: a handwritten note in crisp, looping script. And beneath it, a black card—heavy, metallic, engraved with a single symbol I didn’t recognize. It caught the light in a way plastic never could. Almost like it was meant to glow.

I read the note twice before it sank in.

Femi,
You’re on the list now.
Discreet travel.
Private access.
Other doors.
When you need me, call.
Let no one know.
—B



Folded behind the card was a reservation slip. Cream paper, thick, embossed.

The Jewel Club – VIP Lounge, Victoria Island.
Permanent Access.
Last Fridays only.

No explanation. No instructions. Just access.

I stared at the card again, holding it in the fluorescent hum of the newsroom, watching how it shimmered. Not gold. Not silver. Something darker. Sleeker.

Like it wasn’t just currency—but a kind of key.

A key to what, though?

The Jewel Club. I’d heard of it—whispers, not facts. An invitation-only lounge for Lagos’ inner circle. Not just the rich. The entrenched. The ones who don’t show up on Instagram or campaign posters, but make the rules the rest of us live by.

And now, apparently, I had a seat.

I closed the drawer gently, tucking the envelope into a manila file labeled “Pending Pitches.”

Then I sat back in my chair and stared at the rain hitting the glass.

I had stepped through a door.

And on the other side was a life I had only written about—distanced by ink and ethics.

But now, it was mine.

Not a story.

Not a scoop.

A reality.

A choice.

And maybe… a trap.

Not a scoop.

A reality.

A choice.

And maybe… a trap.



---


The street outside was unmarked.

No signboard. No valet stand. Just a single door tucked between a shuttered furniture store and a dark, glassy law firm that looked closed even when it wasn’t. I’d passed the place a hundred times and never once noticed it.

Tonight, I did.

I wore a charcoal blazer. No tie. The kind of look that said “journalist off-duty,” which was code for: don’t ask questions, I won’t answer them.

My hand hovered as I pulled the black access card from my wallet. It felt heavier in my hand tonight—like it knew what it meant. I pressed it to the slim panel beside the door.

A faint click.

Then the door slid inward—no creak, no drama. Just smooth, silent permission.

Inside, the air shifted.


---

The club didn’t look like a club.
Not in the way Lagos nightlife understood it.

There was no pounding music. No neon lights. No sticky cocktails or men trying too hard.

Instead, it felt like the inside of a private library redesigned by a billionaire architect with something to hide. Walls paneled in dark wood, lit by warm, golden sconces. Velvet chairs arranged in tight, intimate clusters. A smell of aged whisky and sandalwood hung in the air, like the place had been waiting years for me to arrive.

A woman in black greeted me. No name tag. No words. Just a glance at the card in my hand and a small nod.

She led me through a narrow hall into the lounge.

At least thirty people were inside, scattered in murmuring groups. Some wore agbadas tailored to perfection. Others were in foreign suits with no visible branding, the kind you couldn’t buy—you inherited. I recognized a media mogul, two former ministers, and a woman I was almost certain headed one of the country’s covert financial intelligence units. But no one made eye contact. Everyone was looking at no one, and noticing everything.

A waiter glided up, silver tray balanced with exactness. “Welcome, Mr. Femi.”

He didn’t ask what I wanted. He handed me a glass already poured—neat, amber, and expensive.

“Princess Betty is expecting you. Would you like to join her now?”

I nodded, my throat dry.


---

She sat in the corner booth, alone.

Not isolated—deliberately placed. Like a queen in a game where everyone else had to keep moving. She wore black tonight. Not mourning black. Power black. Silk, tailored sharp at the shoulders. Her hair was down this time, a cascade of soft curls resting just below her collarbone. Around her neck, a single gold chain glinted under the low light.

She looked up as I approached, and smiled.

Not the public smile. Not the rehearsed one. This was smaller. Private.

“Femi,” she said. “Right on time.”

Not the public smile. Not the rehearsed one. This was smaller. Private.

“Femi,” she said. “Right on time.”

I slid into the seat across from her. The booth was rounded, cocooned by velvet walls. No one could hear us. That was the point.“I wasn’t sure if I’d come,” I admitted.

“You came,” she said, sipping her drink. “That’s what matters.”

She placed her glass down and leaned in, eyes gleaming with something between mischief and strategy.“You look good in this world.”

"I don’t know what this world is yet.”

“You will.”---

We didn’t talk business at first.We talked stories.She told me about her grandmother in Abeokuta who used to run a market stall but kept the ledger like a banker. I told her about my uncle in Ilorin who taught me to listen more than I speak.

We shared laughter, small details, a dance of histories neither of us trusted anyone else with.Then the mood shifted.Her voice dropped a key.

"Femi… everything you think you know about how this city works is only the first layer. Journalism lives on the surface. But access… lives beneath.”

I didn’t speak. I sipped the whisky, feeling it burn low and clean.“You’ll be contacted soon,” she said, calmly. “A story will come your way. A real one. But it won’t come through normal channels. And it won’t be clean.”

“What kind of story?”

“The kind that changes lives. Or ruins them.”

She reached into her clutch and slid a folded slip of paper across the table.

Cream again. Handwritten. Coordinates and a name.“You’ll know what to do when it arrives.”

Then she stood, smooth and tall, finishing her drink in one elegant motion.She didn’t kiss me. Didn’t touch me.But before she turned to leave, she paused and said:

"Be careful what you dig up, Femi. Some truths are too heavy to carry alone.”

And then she was gone.

“Be careful what you dig up, Femi. Some truths are too heavy to carry alone.”

And then she was gone.


---

I sat there long after she left, the paper still folded in my hand, the whisky untouched now.

Around me, The Jewel Club carried on—quiet power trading hands in nods, in silences, in glances.

I looked down at the coordinates again.

Something was happening.

And I had crossed the point of no return.



***


The envelope came on a Wednesday.

No stamp. No courier mark. Just slid under my apartment door sometime between 3:00 and 3:40 p.m.—the window I used the downstairs kiosk for bread and the dry cleaner for my shirts.

Cream paper again. Always cream.

Inside, a name I recognized immediately:

Alhaji Sani Dikko – Lagos Inland Revenue Service (LIRS)
– Unreported offshore accounts
– 3 audio files (2 hrs total)
– Surveillance folder: “Rooster/Port”
– Trust no one. Not even your editor.



At the bottom: coordinates—this time pointing to a locked mailbox in Dolphin Estate.

No instructions. No signature. Just the facts.

But facts, I was beginning to learn, were rarely ever simple.


---

I sat with the envelope in my lap for over an hour.

Alhaji Dikko wasn’t just anyone. He was one of the untouchables—a quiet titan in Lagos politics. A man who never gave interviews. Never showed emotion. He controlled revenue collection with the precision of a man counting other people’s heartbeats.

I’d written about him before—but from afar. Safe pieces. Public record. Quotes from press releases. The sort of journalism that wins awards but never changes anything.

But this?

This was a kill shot.

If it was real.

And if it was traceable… it could kill me too.


---

Dolphin Estate – Thursday Evening

I waited until just after sunset.

I parked two streets away and walked in. No cameras. No one loitering. I kept my cap low, my steps casual. The mailbox was wedged between an abandoned salon and an empty-looking flat. I reached in, found a thick padded envelope at the back, and walked away without pausing.

Back home, I opened it.

Inside:

A flash drive

A printed list of transaction dates and account codes

A photograph: grainy, night-vision, showing Alhaji Dikko entering what looked like a private jet hangar


The flash drive contained three audio files—recorded calls.

The first voice was unmistakable: Dikko.

The second: A woman. British accent. Precise. Cold.

Dikko: “The Swiss end needs to be routed through the South African front. I can’t afford direct movement anymore.”
Woman: “Understood. But the funds need to clear before the 29th, or London will ask questions.”



The third voice—on file two—sounded almost familiar.

Almost.

It wasn’t just corruption.

It was transnational laundering. The kind of story that took down governments in other countries.

Here? It could take down me.


---

The Dilemma

I didn’t sleep that night.

Not because of the danger—but because of the decision.

Do I break the story?

Or do I play the game?

If I publish, I put a target on my back. I risk Solape. I risk my colleagues. And Betty’s note had been clear:

Trust no one. Not even your editor.

Trust no one. Not even your editor.



But if I don’t?

I become what I used to write against.

A man holding the truth—and doing nothing with it.


---

The phone rang at 3:11 a.m.

Unknown number.

I answered without speaking.

A pause. Then Betty’s voice, low and steady.

“You’ve received the file.”



I stayed silent.

“Femi… this is only the beginning. If you want out, say it now.”



She gave me five seconds.

I didn’t respond.

“Good,” she said, reading my silence. “Then start writing. But keep your drafts offline. Handwritten. Printed. Nothing digital. They’re watching all channels now.”



Click.

The line went dead.


---

And that was it.

No instructions. No help. Just a storm heading toward me—and one chance to ride it.

I looked at the flash drive again. Then at the wall where Solape’s framed scripture verse hung:

“The truth shall set you free.”

But no one ever talks about the cost.



---



I started getting home later.

Not by design—at least not at first—but because time bent strangely around her. What started as a lunch would blur into a long drive, a stop at a discreet gallery, or hours spent in her apartment’s dimly lit library, where she’d pour wine and speak in circles that felt like sermons.

Princess Betty had a way of rearranging my hours. My thoughts. The rhythm of my week.

She never asked where I needed to be. It was assumed that if she wanted my time, I’d offer it. And slowly… I did.

Our lunches happened in places that didn’t exist online—restaurants with no signage, no menus, just smiling men in black who called her Madam like it was a sacred title. I once saw a senator stand up from his table just so she could pass. Not greet her. Not shake her hand. Just stand. Like being in her presence demanded altitude.

Then came the gifts.

A new phone—untraceable, “for clean communication.” It rang only once a week, and only with her voice.
Tailored shirts appeared in a flat box one day. Charcoal, navy, soft whites. No labels. But the fabric melted against the skin.
An envelope followed—neatly folded, plain. Inside, cash. Stacked, clean. Unmarked.

She handed it to me like a document. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t refuse. I told myself it was temporary. A season. A means to an end.

But seasons bleed. And this one was seeping into everything.


In her hands was the card.

The black access card.

It must have slipped from my wallet as I was pulling out change near the shoe rack. Rookie mistake. Sloppy.

She held it like it might burn her.

When she looked up, her face was calm in the way still water is calm—right before something pulls you under.

“What’s this?” she asked.



My throat tightened. I hadn’t prepared for this version of the evening.

“It’s nothing,” I said too quickly. “A press pass. For an exclusive event in VI.”



I forced a smile.

She didn’t return it.

Her eyes didn’t leave mine. She studied me—not like someone guessing, but someone confirming.

“You’ve changed, Femi Allen.”



It was the first time she said it out loud.

Soft. Measured. But it cut like broken glass.

“Changed how?”



She shrugged, but the movement was brittle. Her voice cracked, barely holding itself together.

“You talk less. You come home late. You smell like wine and a perfume I don’t own.”



I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but the words knotted behind my teeth.

What could I tell her? That I was in a complicated, coded arrangement with a woman more powerful than half the state cabinet? That I’d stepped into a world where truth was currency and silence was survival?

There was no version of that truth that didn’t break her.

She stood then, slowly, like something had settled inside her. She walked past me toward the bedroom. Then stopped at the door.

She didn’t turn around when she asked:

“Are you seeing someone?”



The words hung in the air—too direct for lies, too fragile for the full truth.

I stood there.

Cowardly. Quiet.

The silence between us grew teeth.

“Femi,” she said again, and this time I heard the tears in her voice. “Are you?”



I shook my head.

“No,” I said. “I swear.”



It wasn’t a full lie. I wasn’t seeing Betty. Not in the way Solape meant.

But it wasn’t the truth either.

She didn’t believe me. I could see it in the way her shoulders sagged slightly. In the way her hand brushed her face before she disappeared into the room.

That night, when I slipped into bed beside her and reached for her waist, she turned away from me.

No words. No resistance.

Just distance.

A new, unfamiliar coldness had taken root between us—quiet, but growing. Like a draft through a window I didn’t know was open.

And I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was the cost of the life I’d stepped into. Not drama. Not destruction.

Just the slow, unbearable loss of the person who once saw me completely—and now barely knew who I was.

Then she left.

I didn’t move for a long time.

Just sat there, staring at the drive like it was an old photograph of a man I barely recognized.


---

The Crossroads

That night, I didn’t make any calls.

I didn’t send anyone to Ogudu. Or track her phone.

I went home, poured a drink.

Turned on the music.

Nina Simone. Sinnerman.

And I played the file.

Not to bury it.

But to remember why I started.

And to decide whether I still had the strength…

…to stop.

I woke up before dawn. Not from guilt. Not from fear.

But from something older. Something I hadn’t felt in years.

Purpose.

The flash drive sat on my desk, next to the untouched whiskey. I’d played it twice. Every word. Every image. Every bank transaction, bribe trail, murdered name, buried voice.

I was in all of it.

Not just as a footnote.

As the architect.


---

Detachment Protocol

I knew what had to happen next.

First: burn everything. Not literally. Symbolically.

I called Chuks at 6:12 a.m.

“I’m out.”



He didn’t speak at first. Then:

“Out of what?”



“Everything.”



He laughed. Short. Nervous.

“Boss, you don’t walk away from this.”



“I just did.”



I hung up.

Next: I wiped my private network. VPNs, routers, call logs. I disconnected Sunday, Ngozi, the surveillance teams.

Then I drafted two letters—
One to The Guardian. One to the EFCC.
Each with everything: accounts, names, locations, footage.

I set them on a 48-hour dead man's switch. If anything happened to me, they’d go public. Irrevocably.


---

The Last Call

I dialed Adesuwa.

She didn’t answer.

No surprise.

So I left a message.

“Tell Betty it’s over. I don’t expect forgiveness. Just silence. If anyone comes after Adaeze, I will drag us all down.”



I paused.

“Tell your father I know what he did in Port Harcourt. I kept it buried. That ends if they touch her.”



Click.

For the first time in years, I felt… free.


---

Confession

The newsroom smelled the same.

Ink, sweat, ambition.

I hadn’t been back in over six years. The security guard at the door recognized me, but didn’t stop me. Just nodded like he’d seen a ghost.

Inside, they stared.

Phones dropped. Keyboards stilled.

Then I saw her.

Kemi. Editor-in-chief now.

The woman who gave me my first front-page story.

“Femi?”

“I have something,” I said. “But I’m not staying.”

She led me to the back. No questions.

I handed her a new flash drive.

“This has everything. Proof. Documents. Audio. It’ll burn the Ministry, the police, the godfathers.”

“And you,” she said quietly.

I nodded. “Especially me.”

She took a breath. “You sure about this?”

“No.”

She waited. I added:

“But it’s time.”


---

Adaeze's Message

That night, I got a text.

From an unknown number.

Just one line:

“I saw. He’d be proud. I am too.”



No name. But I knew.