Kemi burst into the store with her emotions spilling out like the contents of her unzipped bag.
Sweating and swearing under her breath, she vowed never to "unwind" again—just like her friends always advised. Never again.
She high-fived the security guard absentmindedly and walked straight to the counter to begin the day's shift.
"Kems, where have you been? Mr. Claude has the whole of NYC looking for you!"
"Sorry," she mouthed, barely above a whisper.
Tasha, ever the nosy bestie, stared at her. "Girl, that's not like you. Late? Looking like life hit you with a frying pan? Nah. You're always put-together, punctual, perfect. What kept you up all night?"
Kemi forced a tired smile as she turned to greet a customer walking in. "Welcome to Daily Delight."
Tasha leaned in again. "Don't think you're escaping this gist. That's why you call me Tea—I serve it hot, I leave nothing untouched."
"Thanks," Kemi said curtly, pretending to stay focused.
"Oh come on, help me here, Kems. I'm dying. What got you so… hooked?"
Help me.
The phrase struck her like déjà vu. That was what she had said—those exact words—to the stranger who tried to help her. A stranger who ended up taking her to a hotel room. Not his bed exactly, but still…
Her heart raced. Her mind clouded.
What is wrong with me? she muttered out loud.
"There you are!"
Mr. Claude's voice echoed from the kitchen into the reception area.
Oh God.
"I'm so sorry, sir. I overslept. I didn't hear the alarm. It's all my fault and it won't happen again—I promise," Kemi said quickly, hoping to redeem herself.
"Nonsense," he barked.
"I've been begging you to take a break for ages. You never use your days off, never ask for leave. You work yourself too hard, and we're not even short-staffed. One hour late isn't going to destroy anything. I just thought… you left. That's all."
Kemi sighed in relief.
Tasha gave her a smug, "Told you you need to loosen up" look.
"Thank you, sir," she whispered.
Meanwhile, Jeddah dragged himself back into his house like a storm cloud. He walked past his staff like they were invisible. No one was surprised.
Jeddah had always been a loner.
But not the usual kind of loner.
He was… complicated.
Women were a daily rotation—different shapes, mostly stunning and elegant. They came in droves. They wanted him, but he never wanted them past a few hours.
Voices echoed through his house every night. Arguments. Screams.
Always ending the same way: they had to leave. That night. No negotiations.
Commitment? It terrified the man. He couldn't risk feelings getting involved.
He once drove out of his own luxurious, five-star-worthy mansion just because one girl refused to leave. Said she could stay till morning.
She didn't make it through the night—his security team dragged her out.
They even told the tabloids she was "a sexy Russian burglar."
His phone rang.
Oh great.
"Mom, for the 99th time, I'm not getting married. Even if I finally decide to settle down in this lifetime, I'm not doing it for you and your best-friends club.
"Please, tell Mrs. Adesola's daughter to get a life and stop plotting to marry me. I'm sure she's the one pushing her mom to talk to you. These Nigerian girls, ehn—once they hear the guy is super handsome, rich, and lives abroad? Boom! Instant bridal fantasies."
Silence.
"Mom?"
Still nothing.
"Mom, I know you can hear me. Let's not do this."
Her voice came through, cold and firm: "Jedidiah, I don't know what you're talking about, but I'm sending you Mrs. Adesola's daughter's number. You better call the poor, innocent girl."
He scoffed. "Yes, poor. Poor and ambitious. In fact, send her number. Let me warn the gold-digger myself. Mom, you're making me talk too much. And by the way—it's Jeddah.
J-E-D-D-A-H."
Click.
He collapsed onto his bed, chest heaving with frustration.
Only his mother could get him this worked up.
She never understood his decisions—from leaving Nigeria and the family business, to being 35 and still single, with not a single woman introduced as serious.
So she took matters into her motherly hands.
A loud bang jolted him out of thought.
Followed by fast, determined footsteps.
"Jeddah!"
A familiar voice.
"Jeddah, where are you? I know you can hear me!"
He rolled over, muttering, "Not now. Not now. Not now."
Stacy.
She knew exactly where to find him.
The door flew open.
"You were with a girl last night? At a brothel? What the hell, Jeddah?! Have you lost your mind?"
Perfect. Just what he needed.
His blonde-haired American… situationship.
"Stacy," he groaned.
"Who is she?" she fired back.
"What? You follow me now?"
"Who is she, and why were you at a hotel with her? You never take the others out. What's different this time? You couldn't wait? You liked her enough to not bring her home first?"
"Stacy," he repeated, this time with a gentler tone—calculated, deliberate.
His hand brushed against her skin.
Just like that, her rage melted.
That's what made her stay.
Despite the games, despite everything—he got to her.
She was a fool for him.
But he was her fool, too.
Because Stacy had a plan. One he didn't know about yet.
"You letting this give you wrinkles, baby?" he pouted.
"You slept there, Jeds. You never sleep in."
His mind drifted.
The scent.
Jasmine.
Sweet, intoxicating, like ripe fruit on a warm day.
Then—
"Yo, my bro!" Sterling's voice echoed through the hallway.
Oh, thank God.
Stacy hated Sterling. His presence would send her packing.
It worked.
She walked over to Jeddah, gave him a long, bitter kiss—staring right at Sterling—and left with a smirk.
"See you tonight, babe."