Chapter 12: THE GIRL OF HIS DREAMS

His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the muted light filtering into the room. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what had pulled him from sleep, but then he saw her. Jemima moved with a grace that seemed born, not learned—effortless, natural. She was still in her lingerie, soft fabric clinging to her frame like a second skin, modest yet sensual, the kind of elegance that didn’t beg to be noticed but demanded it all the same. She bent to gather the clothes strewn about the floor, moving with the unhurried rhythm of someone comfortable in her own presence.

Karim let the corner of his mouth tilt upwards. For a man so long consumed by shadows, the sight of

her—light, calm, deliberate—felt almost absurd, as

though he had stumbled into someone else’s dream. He groaned softly, stretching. The sound made her glance over her shoulder. Her smile broke across her face like sunlight slipping free of clouds.

“Did I wake you?” she asked, her voice bright, tinged with amusement. She strode toward him, and even the simple act of crossing the room carried its own rhythm, its own gravity.

“No.” His voice was low, still sandpapered by sleep. He tried for humor, but it came out as truth. “Sleep and I have a complicated relationship.”

She laughed lightly, the sound brushing past him like air through an open window. She bent over the bed,

kissed his forehead, and turned back to her task. She stacked the clothes neatly in her arms, then opened

his wardrobe. Karim’s brows furrowed as he watched her retrieve a roll of masking tape and a small pen from her bag. She scribbled quickly on the tape, tore a strip, and pressed it firmly above the pile.

He sat up, curiosity tugging at him. She didn’t stop there—she repeated the act with more clothes, more stacks, each time labeling carefully. His frown

deepened. What in God’s name was she writing?

When she turned briefly to fetch another shirt, he slipped from the bed and padded closer.

The words leapt out at him, blocky but neat in her handwriting.

“Casual tops.”

On another: “Denim trousers.” On a third: “Work shirts.”

He stared at the labels as though they carried some hidden code, something greater than the sum of their parts. To anyone else, it was a small thing, a trivial act of tidying. But to Karim, the gesture hummed with meaning. She wasn’t just cleaning. She wasn’t judging. She was weaving order into the cracks of his chaos.

He stood there too long, staring, trying to name the strange warmth blooming in his chest.

Jemima caught him watching and raised an eyebrow,

teasing. “What? You look like I’ve written some kind of spell.”

“You kind of have,” Karim admitted. His voice came out more vulnerable than he intended. “Nobody’s

ever… done that.”

“What? Organized your wardrobe?” Her laugh was

soft, like glass chiming against glass.

“Not like this,” he said. His eyes lingered on her,

then on the tape. “You make it look like it belongs to someone who has a life.”

She smirked, folding another shirt. “Well, maybe that’s what I’m here for—to remind you that you do.”

The words landed heavier than she intended, and for a heartbeat Karim let them sit. He thought of Irene— her neatness had always been sharp, efficient, almost military. He had admired it once, even envied it, but it had also felt like scrutiny, like a silent reminder of what he lacked. Jemima’s order was different. It carried no judgment, no pressure. Only care.

For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine. A different life. A home where clothes were labeled, smiles came easily, and the weight of the world

didn’t claw at him every waking hour. He almost

laughed at himself for entertaining it. But before he could fall too far into that dangerous softness, the sharp buzz of his phone cut through the air.

It vibrated angrily against the table, the sound coarse, insistent. His chest tightened. He reached for it, saw the precinct’s number flashing on the screen, and sighed. The world, relentless as ever, had found him again.

He glanced at her one last time—her small, unbothered smile, her hands busy folding his shirts— and then answered. Duty had clawed him back.

—

By the time he arrived at the precinct, the sweetness of the morning had evaporated. He carried Jemima’s quiet tenderness with him like a fragile glass in a storm, but already it was cracking under the weight of reality. The precinct hummed with a restlessness he knew too well—brisk footsteps, clipped voices, papers shuffled with too much force. Something had shifted. Something heavy.

Salako passed him in the hall, file clutched tight,

eyes glued to the floor. He didn’t nod, didn’t greet. Karim didn’t ask. The atmosphere told him enough.

His attention sharpened when he saw the man waiting in the office.

Okoro Daniel.

One of the last two names on the list. A man alive today, but maybe not tomorrow.

Okoro was dressed to impress, expensive suit stretched tight across his midsection, gold cufflinks glinting beneath the fluorescent light. Yet the armor did little to conceal the man beneath. His leg bounced faintly. His fingers tapped against his thigh. His eyes skittered, restless, never daring to settle on Karim.

Karim stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him with deliberate care. The sound echoed,

sharp, final. He studied the man openly, his

expression giving nothing, his gaze a weight Okoro

couldn’t seem to bear.

“You’re jittery,” Karim said flatly.

“I’m fine.” Okoro’s voice was too quick, too hollow.

“No. You’re guilty.” Karim leaned against the desk, folding his arms. His tone carried an edge, simmering with restrained ire. He had seen this face before, this posture, this trembling guilt. Nights spent hunched over files had led him here—to this man, another vulture fattened on corruption, another stone in the grave of justice. “You’ve been carrying

something. And I want to know what.”

Okoro bristled. His lips parted, then closed again. His throat worked, but no sound came. He glanced at the door, as though salvation might come from beyond it.

Karim stepped closer, his presence heavy,

inescapable. “Did you and your friends handle a case that stank of rot? Something you buried before it saw daylight? Tell me.”

The silence stretched, thick and rancid. Okoro’s eyes flicked away, unable to hold. His jaw tightened. He wouldn’t answer—not here, not with Karim in the room.

The door opened, slicing through the tension. DSP Dewale entered, his bulk filling the space like a storm cloud. His eyes swept the room, landing on Karim with quiet warning.

“That will be enough, Detective.”

Karim turned slowly, jaw clenched. “With all due respect, sir, it is not enough. Men are dropping dead, one after the other. He knows something. I can see it.”

Dewale’s tone cracked like a whip. “I said enough.”

His gaze shifted to Okoro, dismissive but firm. “You may go.”

Relief cascaded over Okoro’s face. He rose at once, fumbling with his tie as though the fabric itself had strangled him. He gave a stiff nod and all but bolted from the room, not daring to meet Karim’s eyes.

The door closed. Silence lingered, heavy and suffocating.

Karim stood rigid, fury burning through him. His fists curled. He forced his voice low, but it trembled with rage. “You’re letting them choke the truth back down their throats. You’re protecting them.”

Dewale stepped closer, unflinching. “You forget yourself, Karim. I am protecting the case.”

“The case?” Karim’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “What case? You’ve turned this into babysitting duty. Men who should be rotting in cells are trembling under your shield. And you want me to stand here and

pretend it’s justice?”

The DSP’s eyes narrowed, voice low and cutting. “You will watch your tongue.”

Karim’s chest heaved. He could feel the storm rising

in him, the years of disgust, the nights haunted by

victims he couldn’t save. “They’re not worth it. None of them. And you know it.”

Dewale’s reply was cold, final. “Enough. You are reassigned.”

The word landed like a blow.

“Reassigned?”

“You will join the security detail assigned to Okoro Daniel. If this killer wants him, you’ll stand between them. That is your job now.”

Karim’s breath caught. The fury in him surged higher. They wanted him—him—to guard the very men whose corruption had spawned this entire mess. To shield them with his life while their sins sat

unpunished.

But Dewale was already gone, leaving only the echo of his command behind.

Karim stood in the office, fists trembling, chest tight. For the first time in weeks, he wondered if the fight was even worth it.

—

He slumped into the chair, burying his face in his

hands. Jemima’s morning warmth still lingered faintly—the smell of her perfume, the neat labels on his wardrobe, the image of her smile as she folded his shirts. It clashed violently with this place, with

this moment.

Her small acts had whispered of a life where things could be different. But here, staring at the wreck of justice, he was reminded of what his life truly was: a battlefield where he was ordered to shield the very men who had poisoned it.

He wondered how long before the warmth would be gone.

How long before she would be, too.