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View MoreMy phone lit up at exactly 12:03 a.m., dragging me out of that hazy space between sleep and awake. I squinted at the screen, heart stuttering when I saw the name: Jacob.Mona’s boyfriend. My best friend’s boyfriend.I should have ignored it. Instead, I opened the message.Jacob: Can’t stop thinking about you tonight, Soma.My stomach flipped. Another text came before I could process the first.Jacob: You’re so fucking sexy. Always have been. That little black dress you wore last week? Killed me.Heat rushed through me, traitorous and instant. I typed back with shaking fingers.Me: You’re with Mona. This isn’t okay.He sent a voice note. God, I knew I shouldn’t play it, but I did, volume low, pressed to my ear.His voice was rough, intimate, like he was whispering right against my skin. “Soma… you’re gorgeous. Those curves, that laugh, the way you bite your lip when you’re nervous… I’ve wanted you for so long. Mona’s sweet, but she’s lazy, boring in bed, everywhere. You’re different. Y
I had always been the responsible one, the girl with plans and dreams. But everything shattered the night my parents died in that horrific car crash on the icy Austrian highway. One moment, I was a university student with a loving family; the next, I was an orphan with nothing but grief and a suitcase of clothes.My uncle, my father’s brother, wasted no time. He swooped in like a vulture, claiming the family home under some obscure clause in my father’s will that no one had ever mentioned. He made my life hell—constant belittling, locking me out in the cold, treating me like an intruder in my own childhood home. I endured it for months, hoping things would improve, but they only worsened. Finally, I packed what little I could and fled to Vienna, the city where my old friend Zara lived.Zara had been my classmate back in school, before my family moved. We’d reconnected online, and when I poured out my story, Zara didn’t hesitate. “Come stay with me,” she’d said. “I have plenty of space
I froze for a split second, my heart slamming against my ribs like a drum in a highlife band. Mr. Yinka’s words hung in the air—“I do not want your money, Amaka. I want you.” His eyes, those sharp, assessing eyes behind his glasses, weren’t on my face anymore. They roamed down, lingering on the swell of my breasts straining against my blouse, the curve of my hips in my tight skirt, the way my thighs pressed together as I shifted in the chair. Heat flushed my skin, but it wasn’t just embarrassment. There was a thrill there, dark and forbidden, ing low in my belly.He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his desk, a slow smile curling his lips. “Stand up,” he said, voice low and commanding. “Give me a 360.”I blinked, processing. A full turn? To show off my body like some mannequin? Part of me wanted to slap him, storm out, report him to the dean. But the other part—the baddie in me, the one who’d hooked up with half the boys in my department just for the fun of it—knew this was my ticket
The sun hung low over the bustling campus of the University of Lagos, casting long shadows across the cracked pavements where students hurried between lectures. It was the kind of afternoon that promised rain—thick clouds gathering like unspoken worries. For Amaka, a 22-year-old final-year student in Business Administration, those worries had just become a storm.She clutched her result slip in her trembling hands, the paper crinkling under her fingers as she stared at the failing grades glaring back at her. Marketing: D. Accounting: F. Business Law: E. How? She had studied hard, pulled all-nighters in the library, sacrificed weekends with friends. But the numbers did not lie. No signing out ceremony for her. No cap and gown, no tossing her mortarboard into the air with the rest of her class. Instead, an extra year—maybe more—if she did not fix this.Tears blurred her vision as she sat on a bench near the faculty building, the chatter of excited final-year students around her feeling
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