CHAPTER 5: THE PRICE OF SILENCE

BECCA’S POV

The evening sun was casting long, orange shadows across the NUAT campus when I finally left the library. My head throbbed from the stress of the day, my reputation currently being shredded by every gossip-monger in the Faculty of Food Science and Human Ecology.

I was walking toward the park where the shuttle buses picked up students when I felt a sudden presence. Before I could turn, a pair of strong arms reached out, attempting to pull me into a familiar, possessive embrace from behind. The scent of expensive oud cologne hit me—the same scent that had lingered on my bedsheets that morning.

"Becca, wait," Josh’s voice whispered near my ear, smooth and confident as ever. "About today in the hall—"

Slap!

The sound echoed in the quiet evening air. I had turned with the speed of a desert cobra, my palm connecting squarely with Josh’s cheek.

Josh stood frozen, his hand slowly rising to touch the reddening skin. The "King of NUAT" looked genuinely stunned. Nobody slapped Josh.

"Don't you dare touch me," I hissed, my voice vibrating with a convulsing rage. My eyes were furious and blazing. "You stood there and watched them tear me down. You let them call me names I’ve never even whispered in my prayers. You used me to hide, you used me to heal, and then you threw me to the wolves to save your precious political image. You pathetic user!!"

"Becca, it’s complicated," Josh started, his eyes darting around to see if anyone was watching. "If I told them the truth, the people chasing me would—"

"I don't care about your 'complicated' life, Joshua!" I stepped into his space, my petite frame radiating power. "You’re a coward. You’re ambitious, intelligent, and handsome, but you have no soul. Do not ever come near me again. Do not speak to me. Go back to your 'bimbos' and your fans who think you’re a demigod. To me, you’re just a boy who’s afraid of his own shadow. A pathetic Judas!"

"Don't let me set my eyes on you ever again... else—!" Josh barked.

"Else what? What would you do? Hit me? Arrest me? Set your admirers after me? I repeat: do not ever come near me again!"

I didn't wait for a response. I left him stunned; apparently, he was shocked into incoherence by the slap. I turned and walked away, my heart hammering. I felt a strange mix of triumph and devastating sadness.

"Depart from evil, and do good; and dwell for evermore," (Psalm 37:27) I whispered. I had departed from the evil of his influence, but the "good" felt very lonely.

It was nearly 9:00 PM by the time I reached my apartment. The hallway was dark. The bulb had burnt out again, and the silence felt heavier than usual. I reached into my bag for my keys, my fingers brushing against my Bible. I let out a breath of relief when I finally stepped inside and flipped the light switch.

But as I moved toward my small kitchen to get a cup of water, I stopped dead. My clothes were scattered everywhere—I made sure I folded them properly before leaving for school. The bag I took to school the previous day was scattered.

What's happening?

Sitting right in the middle of my neatly made bed—the bed Josh had slept in—was a single piece of paper. It wasn't a standard NUAT memo. It was heavy, expensive cardstock. My hand trembled as I picked it up. There were only four words written in a sharp, jagged script:

"STITCHES DON'T HIDE SECRETS."

Underneath the words was a small scrap of fabric pinned to the paper. It was a piece of the hand-dyed indigo linen I had been working on in the lab the night before.

My head reeled, voices echoed in my head. Questions swirled one after the other.

How'd they get in? How did they know I live here?

So we were followed last night. My hostel was no longer safe. The "sinister voice" hadn't forgotten me. They hadn't just followed Josh; they had followed me. The air in the room felt like it had been sucked out. I stared at the scrap of indigo Adire fabric, the very fabric I had been stitching when Josh bled onto my life.

The handwriting wasn't just jagged; it was confident. Whoever left this knew my schedule. They had been in my home.

I muttered to myself, "For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind." (2 Timothy 1:7)

I took a deep breath. I couldn't call the police, at least not yet. In NUAT, the police often asked too many questions. Instead, I did something Josh wouldn't have expected. I went looking for him.

JOSH’S POV

I stood in the middle of the path, the sting on my cheek burning hotter than the evening sun. My skin felt like it was on fire where her palm had connected.

No one slaps me. No one speaks to me like that.

But as I watched Becca’s voluptuous petite figure disappear into the shadows of the park, the anger I tried to summon felt hollow. I had expected a "Good Girl" who would cry or beg for an explanation. Instead, I’d found a woman who looked at my fame and my power and saw nothing but a "pathetic Judas."

I touched the welt on my face, a dark fascination twisting in my chest. She was right. I had used her. But now, as the realization of the danger I'd dragged her into settled in, the "King of NUAT" felt like a fraud. I hadn't just put myself in the crosshairs—I'd put her there, too. And if she knew about the drive... she was already a dead woman walking.