Novels by Elizabeth Ajibade

Jamal’s POVThe summons had been a cold, handwritten note left on the windshield of my car. My study. 8:00 PM. Alone.I told Kassy I was going over to her parents' house to "smooth things over" with her father. She had kissed me, her eyes full of a tragic kind of hope, and told me I was the bravest man she knew. I felt like a fraud. I wasn't brave; I was just a man trying to outrun a landslide.Walking into Greg’s house felt like walking into a trap. I found him in his study. The room was dark, lit only by a single lamp on the desk and the dying embers in the fireplace. He was standing by the window, his back to me, holding a glass of scotch.I sat. My knees felt like they were made of water. "Sir, I know we started on the wrong foot. I love Kassy. I want to make this right.""Do you?" Greg finally turned. He didn't look angry. He looked... disgusted. "You want to talk about 'right'? You want to talk about the 'truth'?""Yes," I said, trying to steady my breath. "I have nothing to hid

“I slept with him.”The words came out of Kassy’s father like a confession ripped loose by force, not choice. He didn’t soften them. Didn’t explain them. Just said them—raw, exposed, irreversible.His best friend froze mid-step.“You what?”“You said he was your partner,” the friend said carefully. “I thought you meant business.”“I didn’t meet him in a boardroom. I met him in a strip club.”Greg said it like a man ripping off his own skin.His best friend didn’t laugh. Didn’t flinch. Just stared at him, waiting—because some truths arrive so bluntly they leave no room for disbelief, only consequence.“A friend took me there,” Greg continued. “Said he knew a place where men went when they wanted to forget who they were. He said there was a special guy. Someone who didn’t just perform, but made you feel chosen.”He paused, jaw tightening.“That guy was Jamal.”The name sat heavy between them.“Jamal was working there,” Greg went on. “Not openly. Private rooms. Masked appearances. No rea

Jamal’s POVThe phone felt like a live wire in my hand. I stared at Lily’s message until the letters blurred into meaningless shapes. I missed my period.Those four words carried the weight of a death sentence. I hadn’t even finished grieving the child Kassy and I just lost—the child whose absence had left a hollowed-out crater in Kassy’s soul—and now, the universe was playing a sick, twisted joke on all of us.I met Lily at a small park three towns over, far enough away that we wouldn’t run into anyone who knew the "perfect" Kassy and her "devoted" fiancé.When I saw her, the guilt hit me so hard I felt nauseous. She looked pale, her eyes darting around nervously. This was Kassy’s sister. My future sister-in-law. A woman I should have protected, not someone I should have shared a bed with in a moment of weak, grief-stricken madness.“Tell me you’re sure,” I said, my voice barely a whisper as I sat on the bench beside her.“I’m sure, Jamal.” Lily’s voice was flat, devoid of the playfu

Jamal’s povI went to her house because the silence was unbearable.Kassy had gone quiet after that night with her parents, and at first, I told myself she needed space. Anyone would. Her father’s reaction had been… unhinged. Terrifying, even. But hours passed. Then a full day. My messages stayed unread. My calls went straight to voicemail.That wasn’t Kassy.By the second evening, worry had settled into something darker. Something heavier. So I drove over, rehearsing apologies in my head for things I didn’t even know I’d done wrong.I knocked.The door opened, and my chest loosened in relief—until I realized it wasn’t her.Her sister stood there instead.“Oh,” she said. “Jamal.”“Hey,” I replied, my eyes already scanning behind her. “Is Kassy home?”She shook her head. “No.”My stomach tightened. “Where is she?”“She hasn’t been back,” she said, stepping aside. “Do you want to come in?”I hesitated. Every instinct told me to wait, to leave, to respect whatever space Kassy was carving

Kassy’s POV “You have to call off the engagement.” My father didn’t ease into it. He didn’t clear his throat or soften the blow with small talk. He didn’t even look at Jamal when he said it. The words came out cold, absolute, like a verdict already decided long before this evening. I blinked, convinced for half a second that I’d misheard him. “I’m sorry… what?” I asked. “You heard me,” he said, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “You cannot get married to him. I don’t want it.” The room went unnaturally still. Jamal sat beside me on the couch, his posture stiffening, his hand hovering near mine but not quite touching it, like he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to. I could feel his confusion radiating through the small space between us. This was not how this was supposed to go. I had imagined this moment a hundred different ways—my parents smiling politely, my mother asking wedding questions too soon, my father giving Jamal that measured, intimidating stare he reserved for impor