Chapter 15: EVERYTHING EVERYTHING

Karim moved through the streets with his mind in turmoil, every step weighted with questions he

couldn’t shake. He knew what he should have done—report her, cut her off, bury the memory of her—but a stubborn fragment of his mind clung to the possibility that there was a reason. A reason for everything.

He wanted to believe that what they had shared had been real. That he hadn’t imagined the tenderness in her voice, the warmth in her touch, the rare quiet between them that felt almost sacred. He wanted to believe that there had been something special,

something untainted by deceit.

The city bustled around him, indifferent to his storm. He kept glancing back, every few blocks, scanning faces, watching for shadows that lingered too long. The DSP’s eyes had followed him in his memory,

sharp and suspicious, and Karim wasn’t naïve

enough to think he was free from surveillance.

The afternoon sun bore down with punishing heat, pressing against his shoulders like a physical burden. He had left his car behind, knowing it was easier to shake a tail on foot. Sweat gathered at his temples, slid down his back, but he pressed on.

He persevered, driven by the one thing that outweighed duty, outweighed reason: the need for answers.

He would look her in the eyes and demand the truth. He would know why she had been there, why she had walked the path of violence with such deliberate steps. He would know what she had seen, what had pushed her into this madness.

He would know.

The streets eventually spilled him into Victoria Island, the air cooler but tinged with the salt of the Atlantic. Karim moved with the crowd, shoulders

hunched, eyes sharp. When the pale façade of Eko

Hotel rose into view, he stopped briefly across the road. It towered above the smaller buildings like a sentinel, its windows glinting in the sun. Unlike the gaudy excesses of the men he had grown to despise, its luxury carried a quieter dignity. Polished marble, precise architecture, not screaming for attention but standing firm, timeless.

He crossed over, his throat dry, his pulse heavy in his ears. The revolving glass doors admitted him into a world of controlled coolness. The air-conditioning brushed over his skin, banishing the Lagos heat. The lobby stretched wide—marble floors gleamed under soft golden light, velvet armchairs hosted businessmen murmuring in hushed tones, and a faint

scent of lilies floated from discreet vases.

It wasn’t overwhelming wealth. It was restraint. The kind of class that didn’t need to prove itself. Karim noticed the contrast, even as his thoughts tried to resist distraction.

He moved to the front desk, his voice clipped. “Suite 407.”

The receptionist nodded politely, professional eyes betraying no curiosity. A keycard was slid across, and Karim took it, his hand briefly trembling. He slipped it into his pocket, suddenly aware of how heavy his legs felt.

The elevator ride was slow, deliberately so. His reflection stared back at him in the polished steel walls—creased shirt, tired eyes, face worn down by too many nights without rest. He almost didn’t recognize himself.

Each floor ticked past like the steady toll of a bell.

Four… zero… seven.

When the doors opened, the corridor stretched ahead in muted beige. Plush carpet muffled his steps. Wall sconces gave off warm light, enough to see but not enough to erase the shadows. Every step was indecisive, his body moving forward while his mind screamed at him to turn back.

The suite was at the far end. His pace slowed, his heartbeat climbing into his throat. With every step closer, questions multiplied, tightening his chest. Would she be alone? Would she confess? Was it a trap?

He stopped before the door. Suite 407. The brass number gleamed softly under the hall light.

For a long moment, Karim simply stood there, his hand hovering over the wood, his breath shallow. His knuckles curled into a fist, uncurled, then curled again.

Finally, he knocked.

A pause followed—too long, too sharp. Then came the voice. Low, steady, unmistakably hers.

“Come in.”

Karim’s chest seized. He slid the keycard into the

slot, the lock clicked, and he pushed the door open.

The suite was dimly lit, curtains half drawn against the daylight. The air carried the faint perfume he already associated with her—floral, restrained, unforgettable.

And then his eyes found her.

Jemima. Reclining in a chair, her posture calm, her eyes already fixed on him as though she had known every step he would take to get here.

But she was not alone.

Seated beside her was another figure, partially in shadow. The shape was familiar, painfully so. When the figure shifted, the light revealed her face. Aisha.

Karim’s breath stopped in his chest.

Her arm was bandaged, the stark white wrap breaking against her skin like a wound that refused to hide. Her gaze locked with his—familiar, haunted,

unyielding.

In that moment, the ground seemed to tilt beneath him. The world he thought he knew folded in on itself, collapsing into this single room.

Jemima and Aisha. Together.

And he, caught between them.