Bella couldn't sleep, not after the call and not after the strange text.
The memory of his voice still clung to her skin like sweat, raw and consuming. Every groan and breath Chris had let slip over the line replayed in her head. Each sound sank deep between her thighs. Her body betrayed her—burning with a hunger she hated to admit.
She wanted him. God, she wanted him so much it twisted her stomach and made her chest ache.
She curled into herself on the bed, biting her lip hard enough to sting. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel him. The phantom of his hands—rough, sure, shameless—traced her skin as if claiming it all over again. Her body pulsed with the memory of how he undid her, even from miles away.
"Stop it," she whispered to herself, pressing her palms against her eyes. "Stop thinking about him."
But her body didn't stop. It throbbed with the ache of absence, with the knowledge that he had always known exactly how to break her open.
Then—her phone buzzed.
She flinched, her heart lurching into her throat. For a second, she thought it was another unknown call. But no—the screen glowed with a message. A strange number.
Let's see this out. Abuja.
Her heart stopped. Heat flushed through her body, wild and terrifying. She didn't need to guess. She knew. Chris. He was here.
But she still couldn't decipher who she had unfinished business with. All fingers were now clear and pointing towards Adrian. The only thorn in her flesh.
Her breath came short, sharp, and uneven. The thought alone made her thighs press together, shame pooling low in her stomach. Seeing Chris would wreck her. One smile, one brush of his hand, and she'd crumble. She knew it.
She tossed the phone aside like it was poison, pacing the room. "No. I can't. I won't."
But the thought burned, louder, hotter: He's here.
Her door creaked. Bella's mother stepped in, her sharp gaze scanning her daughter's restless figure. "What's going on with you?"
"Nothing," Bella muttered.
Her mother folded her arms. "Don't lie. You're shaking. Who messaged you?"
Bella's lips parted, then closed again.
Silence.
Her mother sighed, her tone softening but firm. "It's him, isn't it?"
Bella froze.
Her mother walked closer, touching her arm. "Bella, you can't keep running from this. Look at you—you're restless, weak, a shadow of yourself. You won't eat, and you won't sleep. You think hiding will heal you, but it won't.
Closure is the only cure."
Bella's throat tightened. She wanted to scream, to deny it, but the truth was too raw, too obvious.
Her mother's voice dropped lower. "He came all the way here. For you. Don't tell me you don't want to see him, because I can see it written all over your body. You're tearing yourself apart, Bella. You need to go."
Bella's legs trembled beneath her. Shame and desire warred inside her chest. Her mother was right. She wanted him—wanted to taste him, touch him, even if it meant burning herself again.
Her lips quivered. "Mama…"
Her mother squeezed her hand and said, "Go. If not for him, then for yourself. You owe yourself peace, even if it means pain."
Bella closed her eyes, her body shuddering. The truth was ugly. She didn't only want peace. She wanted him. Every filthy, forbidden part of him.
And now… he was here.
She felt him before she saw him.
That scent—clean soap and faint spice—drifted through the café's doorway like a warning bell. Even before she saw him, her body betrayed her. Her stomach clenched. Her palms grew damp. Her pulse beat like a drum. Chris was back in Abuja.
Bella's breath caught as her gaze lifted. He was there, by the window, framed by sunlight.
A white shirt stretched across his shoulders. His sleeves rolled up, showing the forearms she once clung to. His mouth curved in that small, knowing smile—the one that used to undo her. And those lips—God. They were still red and soft, exactly as she remembered. She could almost taste them without touching them.
She gripped her phone tighter, nails biting her palm. She had told herself she wouldn't see him. She had promised herself she'd stay in control. But now he was here, and she could already feel herself coming undone.
He stood when he saw her, and something in the way he looked at her made the air between them heavy. He didn't rush forward or speak. He only let his eyes travel down her body, then back to her face. Slow. Reverent. Like a prayer, he didn't dare say aloud.
Her heart thudded. She hated how her knees weakened only from being near him. He didn't rush forward or speak. He only let his eyes travel down her body, then back to her face. Slow. Reverent. Like a prayer, he didn't dare say aloud.
She had come to this café prepared to be stoned. Instead, she felt fire.
Chris took a step closer, his voice low and warm. "Bella."
The sound of her name on his lips was a caress and a wound.
She sat down across from him, arms folded, trying to make her expression cold. "You shouldn't have come."
"I had to," he said, sitting. "I couldn't stay away. Not anymore."
Silence pressed between them, but it wasn't empty. It was thick, charged, and dangerous. The hum of cutlery and quiet chatter faded, and for a second it was only them—two storms locked in the same sky.
Chris leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Do you know how it feels to crave someone so fiercely you can't sleep? To wake up with their name already in your mouth?"
Bella's throat went dry. She shifted in her chair, pressing her thighs together. His voice was a knife and a hand at once—cutting her open and holding her steady.
"Stop," she murmured, but it lacked strength.
He didn't stop. "Do you know how many nights I've imagined you, Bella? Your skin under my palms, the way you arch when I kiss that spot below your ear…" His eyes darkened. "I'm losing my mind."
Her chest rose and fell too fast. She gripped the edge of the table like it could anchor her. "Chris…"
"I'll wait," he said, his tone softening. "I'll wait until you're ready. I won't touch you unless you ask. But don't doubt this—I want you. All of you. Not only your body. Your trust. Your love."
Something inside her trembled. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to want him. Both were true, and both were tearing her apart.
Later, after their words spilled like confessions, they left the café together. Chris led her to a quiet corner of his hotel lobby. Dim lights. Low couches. Shadows where no one could hear them.
The hotel lobby lay quiet, shadows thick in every corner, the kind that made sin feel close. Chris led her to a couch tucked away, far from the eyes of staff and strangers. They sat too close. Close enough for her to feel the heat rolling off his body. Close enough that her thighs pressed together on instinct—and she hated that too.
"I missed you," Chris said, his voice gravel and silk. His gaze swept down her face and her neck, lingering where her blouse dipped. "Not only your laugh and your voice. I missed all of you."
Her pulse stuttered. She tried to keep her face cold, but her lips trembled when he leaned in.
"Do you know," he whispered, his breath brushing her ear, "how many nights I've thought about you? How you taste? How your thighs would shake if I slid my hand between them right now?"
Bella's whole body tensed, betraying her. Heat flushed her skin, and she snapped, "Chris—stop." But her voice wasn't sharp enough. It cracked at the edges, weak with need.
He smirked, low and wicked. "You're shaking, Bella. God, you don't even know how much I want to ruin this self-control you're clinging to." His knee brushed hers, slow and firm, and her breath hitched.
"You're disgusting," she muttered, pressing her legs tighter together.
Chris leaned back, studying her like prey. "No. I'm desperate. Desperate for you. Desperate to have your nails down my back again.
Desperate to feel your moans in my mouth." His voice dropped darker. "Tell me you don't want it too. Look me in the eyes and tell me you're not wet thinking about it."
Bella's cheeks burned. Her throat was dry. She turned her face away, furious at her body for betraying her, furious at him for knowing.
Chris chuckled, but there was no cruelty in it—only hunger. He reached out, his fingers brushing hers on the couch, slow, testing. "I could have you right here, Bella. Nobody would know. I'd lift this little skirt of yours, sit you on my lap, and—"
"Enough." Her hand jerked back, her voice sharp this time. Her chest heaved, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."
He leaned closer, lips hovering a whisper from hers. His voice burned when he spoke. "You'd beg me to finish it if I tried."
Her whole body shook. She wanted to kiss him. To slap him. To let him ruin her. But instead, she shoved herself to her feet, trembling.
"I should go," she said, her voice unsteady.
Chris rose too, his eyes searching hers. "Can I walk you out?"
She hesitated, then nodded.
Outside, the Abuja night glowed under the street lamps, warm and golden. They walked side by side, close but not touching. Every step was a war between restraint and desire.
When they reached her car, she turned to him, her throat tight, her chest aching. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to slap him. She wanted everything at once.
Instead, she whispered, "Goodnight, Chris."
And before he could respond, she slid into the car and shut the door.
Chris stood and watched as she drove away, his heart breaking and rebuilding in the same breath.
Bella drove home in silence. Her knuckles gripped the wheel, her lips tingling with the ghost of a kiss he hadn't given. Her thighs ached from how hard she'd pressed them together.
And inside her chest, her heart whispered what her mouth refused to say: She wasn't ready to let him go. Not yet.
But as she parked in front of her gate, her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: Be careful, Bella.You made the wrong choice. Don't believe anything he says.
Her heart stopped.
Her mom wasn't the only one who knew she was in Abuja with Chris that very evening on a date.