Novels by Abimbola

We left the island at sunrise.Not in the usual way.No suitcases. No goodbyes.Just Czar carrying me down the dock barefoot, wearing his black shirt and nothing else, while the guards loaded one single duffel bag and a baby car seat still in plastic.The yacht was gone.In its place: a matte-black submarine tender disguised as a fishing boat.He’d planned this for months.He handed me up the ladder, climbed after me, and the captain cast off without a word.Czar stood at the rail, arm locked around my waist, watching the island shrink.“You okay?” I asked.He didn’t answer for a long time.Then: “I just ordered every server farm holding my records torched. Every offshore account emptied into new names. Every man who ever called me boss is either dead or paid enough to forget I exist.”He turned to me, eyes ancient.“I’m a ghost now, Eden. For real this time.”I pressed my hand to his cheek.“Good. Ghosts can’t be hunted.”He kissed my palm.We sailed north for three days: no flags, n

I didn’t open the paternity kit for three days.It sat on the nightstand like a loaded grenade.Every time I reached for it, my hand shook so hard I had to pull back.Czar never came home.No calls. No messages. Just radio silence and an island full of guards who wouldn’t meet my eyes.On the fourth morning, the doctor arrived.Older woman. Swiss. Face like she’d seen every version of hell and still showed up to work.She set her bag down, looked at the unopened kit, then at me.“Mrs. Aslanov, we can do this two ways. Cheek swab now, results in six hours. Or I come back when you’re ready.”I laughed: wet, broken.“I’m never going to be ready.”She waited.I rolled up my sleeve.She swabbed the inside of my cheek first, then laid out the second swab.“The alleged father needs to provide a sample too,” she said gently.“He’s… unavailable.”She nodded like that wasn’t the first time she’d heard it.“Then we can use the fetal cell-free DNA from your blood. Higher accuracy. Twenty ccs and

The letter arrived on a Tuesday.Plain white envelope. No stamp. Delivered by hand.I found it on the breakfast table while Czar was in the gym, punching a bag until his knuckles bled.My name was written in ink I recognised instantly.Nathaniel.My first love.The boy I’d planned to run away with before Czar burned that future to the ground.The boy who supposedly died in a car bomb five years ago.I opened it with shaking hands.Inside: one sheet of thick paper and a single photograph.The photo was me, asleep on the island, three weeks pregnant, sun on my face.Taken from inside the house.The letter was short.Eden,The baby is mine.Ask your husband about the night in London, two months before Santorini.He knows.I’m coming for what’s mine.—NMy stomach dropped through the floor.I was still staring at the words when Czar walked in, sweat-soaked, towel around his neck.He took one look at my face and went predator-still.“What is it?”I couldn’t speak. Just held out the letter.

The island looked different when we came back.The guards were doubled.The windows were now bulletproof.The ankle chain was gone, but the invisible one felt heavier than ever.Czar hadn’t slept in four days.He stood on the terrace at 3 a.m., shirtless, gun on the table, staring at the dark ocean like it had personally betrayed him.I watched from the doorway, one hand on the small curve that had finally started to show.He hadn’t touched me since the rescue.Not like before.Not even a kiss that lasted longer than a second.He touched my stomach every hour, like he needed proof we were still real.But the rest of me he treated like glass about to shatter.I walked out barefoot, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and sat beside him.Silence for a long time.Then: “I killed my brother today.”His voice was flat. Dead.I didn’t ask how.I didn’t need to.“I put three bullets in his chest and watched him sink,” he continued. “He smiled the whole way down.”I reached for his hand.

Lightning cracked the sky open the second Dimitri stepped inside.He looked exactly like Czar, if Czar had been carved from ice instead of fire. Same height, same cruel mouth, same eyes that stripped you bare.Only difference: the long scar running from Dimitri’s left temple to his jaw, the one Czar had given him the night he buried him alive.He smiled like the devil collecting a debt.“Put the gun down, krasotka. We both know you won’t shoot.”My hand shook so hard the barrel danced.He walked forward slowly, palms open, rain dripping from his black coat.“Easy. I just want to talk.”“Talk from there,” I said, voice cracking.He stopped three metres away, tilted his head.“Look at you. Pregnant. Glowing. Terrifyingly brave.” His gaze dropped to my stomach. “My nephew. Or niece. How poetic.”I cocked the pistol.He laughed softly. “Czar taught you that, didn’t he? Good. Means he’s finally learning to protect what’s his.”Another step.“Stop.”“Or what? You’ll kill me and explain to y

The first week on the island passed like a fever dream.Days bled into each other: sun, salt, sex, sleep.Czar woke me with his mouth between my legs more mornings than not.He cooked barefoot, fed me mango from his fingers, carried me into the ocean when the heat got too heavy.No phones. No news. No Lagos.Just us, the guards who pretended to be invisible, and the baby growing quietly between us.But paradise always has cracks if you look hard enough.It started with the nightmares.I’d wake gasping, sheets twisted around my legs, convinced I was back in the cellar he’d once locked me in.He’d pull me against his chest, rock me like a child, whisper promises in Russian until I stopped shaking.“You’re safe,” he’d say.I never believed him.Then came the boat.Every dawn, a sleek white yacht appeared on the horizon, dropped anchor for exactly thirty minutes, then vanished.Supplies, the chef said. Nothing more.But on the eighth morning, I saw something else.A man on the deck. Tall.