RECKLESS GAMES
1751 Words
CHAPTER 4
By the time we landed, the party was already alive.
Lagos shimmered below us like it was dipped in diamonds—slick roads, neon-lit streets, the occasional siren weaving through the chaos like a warning no one ever heeded. Lekki was worse. Or better, depending on your sins.
The senator’s son had spared no expense. Chauffeurs waited in blacked-out SUVs, guards in designer sunglasses nodded at guests like bouncers at the gates of hell, and girls poured out of vehicles in glitter and skin. Not much else.
It was the kind of gathering where names didn’t matter. Only reputation.
Belema adjusted her wig in the rearview mirror and smiled like a girl who knew exactly how dangerous she looked.
“I give it ten minutes,” she said, stepping out. “Before someone asks if we’re influencers or trouble.”
I didn’t answer. I was too busy watching the crowd. Too busy wondering if the one face I wanted to see was already inside.
Belema wore a red dress cut so high it could start wars. I’d gone with black—mesh on skin, no bra, leather shorts that made a statement every time I moved. Our heels clicked against the pavement like a countdown.
Inside, the house was absurd.
Glass walls. A rooftop pool. Staff in white gloves. A private DJ spinning amapiano that throbbed in my chest. Every corner glittered with excess: champagne in ice buckets, gold-plated hookah, men with money in their eyes and women who already knew what they wanted in return.
I belonged here. And I didn’t. That was the magic of it.
We moved through the room like fire and smoke—compliments trailing behind us, hands reaching but never touching. Belema flirted with a man in a grey suit who looked like he’d kill for her attention. I let a boy with a foreign accent buy me a drink I didn’t ask for.
Still no sign of him.
Until I turned.
And there he was.
Duke.
Standing by the balcony, a glass in his hand, wearing a dark green native that looked custom-made to punish women. His frame was built for violence and velvet, and his eyes—God, those eyes—were already on me. Watching.
Not admiring. Studying.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t smile either.
Instead, I took a long sip from my drink and looked away. Let him come to me.
He didn’t.
He kept his distance, like a lion too bored to chase.
But I could feel it—the pull between us, thick as desire. I danced a little. Laughed too loudly. Pressed my body against another man’s, just to see if Duke would flinch.
He didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
He waited.
It wasn’t until the rooftop began to clear out—some guests leaving, others slipping into dark corners—that I felt him again. His presence, before his voice.
“You don’t take warnings well.”
I turned.
He was closer now, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Not sweet. Sharp. Spiced. The kind of scent that made bad decisions feel worth it.
“I don’t like being told what to do,” I said.
His gaze dropped, then rose slowly. “That much is clear.”
A beat passed.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Same reason you are. Pleasure.”
He smiled, just a little. “You think you know what that means?”
“I know what it costs,” I said. “And I can afford it.”
His expression changed—just for a second. A flicker of something between approval and concern.
“Careful,” he said. “The kind of games I play don’t end in forgiveness.”
“I’m not looking for forgiveness.”
“What are you looking for, then?”
I stepped closer, slow. Deliberate. Until our shadows touched.
“Something that makes me forget how boring everything else is.”
He said nothing.
But his eyes did.
They said: I can give you that. But it’ll cost you more than you think.
When he turned to leave, I followed.
The hallway was quiet. Dimly lit. The music behind us thudded faintly, like a heartbeat we were walking away from. He opened a door. Didn’t look back.
I stepped inside anyway.
It wasn’t a bedroom. Not exactly. Just a private space. Leather chairs. A bar cart. A long mirror that reflected both of us too clearly.
He poured a drink. Didn’t ask if I wanted one.
“You’re your father’s daughter,” he said finally. “I can see it in your eyes.”
I took the glass. “He doesn’t own me.”
“No. But he owns everything around you. Including the silence that follows your mistakes.”
That stung. I didn’t show it.
“I don’t make mistakes,” I said.
“Everyone says that. Until they do.”
I downed the drink. The burn was real. So was the need building between my legs.
He took a step forward, his voice lower now. “You want me to f**k you?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a sentence.
“Yes.”
He didn’t move.
“I’m not like those boys you toy with,” he said. “I don’t leave pieces behind. I take them.”
I met his gaze. “Then take me.”
And he did.
Not quickly. Not gently.
But with the precision of a man who knew exactly what power tasted like—and how to feed it to you slowly, until you craved it more than air.
When it was over, I lay there, sore and silent, staring at the ceiling like it held the secrets I was now part of.
He lit a cigar.
Said nothing.
And I realized something terrifying.
I wasn’t in control anymore.
Not of him.
Not of myself.
And not of whatever this was becoming.
He didn’t look at me right away. Just exhaled smoke into the dim air, slow and measured, like everything else about him. I pulled the sheet tighter around me—not out of modesty, but because the silence suddenly felt sharp. Intimate in a dangerous way.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.
I rolled onto my side, propping myself on one elbow. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
He turned his head slightly, eyes cutting toward me through the haze. “It’s a warning.”
“You already gave me one,” I said. “Didn’t work.”
He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked... distracted. Like he was replaying something in his head. Something that had nothing to do with me—or maybe everything to do with me.
“I don’t usually do this,” he said, standing and zipping his trousers with military precision.
I sat up, letting the sheet fall just enough to keep things interesting. “What? Sleep with girls who look like trouble?”
He looked at me then—really looked—and for a moment, I saw it: the ghost of a man who’d once had a line he didn’t cross. Maybe it was still there, somewhere deep. Or maybe I’d just stepped over it.
“I don’t sleep with liabilities,” he said coldly.
Ouch.
I got up, unapologetically naked, and began pulling my clothes back on one piece at a time. Let him watch. Let him see exactly what he was calling a liability.
“You think you’re the only dangerous man I’ve met?” I said, tugging on my mesh top. “You think you’re the first to act like he’s above it all?”
He didn’t reply.
I slipped on my heels and grabbed my purse. The silence stretched, taut and charged.
“I knew your father before Abuja corrupted him,” he said finally.
I froze, hand on the door.
“Back then, he would’ve killed a man just for looking at you twice.”
I turned slowly. “Then thank God he doesn’t know how many times you’ve looked.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re playing a game you don’t understand.”
“No,” I said, softer now. “I just don’t care about the rules.”
For a beat, neither of us moved. Then I opened the door.
“Tell Belema I’ll meet her downstairs,” I said.
And I walked out.
**
The corridor was colder than I remembered. Or maybe it was just my body coming down from whatever spell Duke had wrapped me in.
I didn’t feel ashamed. Not even close. But I did feel... exposed.
Like he’d touched more than skin.
I found Belema in the kitchen, legs curled up on a marble counter, drinking champagne straight from the bottle while scrolling through her phone.
She looked up, took one look at my face, and grinned.
“So,” she said, “was it worth it?”
I leaned against the fridge, heart still racing.
“I think I just slept with the devil,” I muttered.
She handed me the bottle. “Welcome to the club.”
I took a long swig, letting the burn coat my throat, and tried to steady my breath.
“I thought I’d feel in control,” I said.
Belema laughed. “Babe. You don’t walk into a lion’s cage and expect to lead the hunt.”
There was a knock on the door.
A housekeeper peeked in. “Madam, Oga say car is ready.”
We left without another word.
**
In the car, I stared out the window as Lekki passed us by—bright and hollow, like a dream that didn’t want to be remembered.
Belema watched me for a while, quiet for once. Then she said, “This isn’t a love story, Alice.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“Then don’t act like the girl who thinks she can change the ending.”
“I’m not.”
“Good,” she said. “Because men like Duke don’t get rewritten. They write you.”
I didn’t respond.
Because deep down, I knew she was right.
But I also knew something she didn’t.
I wasn’t just another girl in his bed.
Not this time.
I was the chapter he didn’t plan for.
And if he thought I’d fade into the margins…
He was about to learn I always take up space.
Especially in places I’m not supposed to be.
- Writer
