Chapter 59 Lagos night

Chapter 59 Lagos night


Richard’s POV

The softness of Jocelyn’s voice still hummed in my ear as my eyes closed, ready to drift to sleep.

Then a gentle knock came at the door.

I let out an impulsive hiss and ignored it.

But it became more persistent and harder.

“Who would be at my door at this time of night? It’s almost midnight,” I mumbled furiously and headed toward the door.

It was Armand.

He was dressed in black pants and a blue shirt, wearing that particular smile that irritated me the most—wide, easy, and completely unbothered by the hour.

“Sorry for interrupting you,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Just thought perhaps you’d have a change of mind and join me at the party.”

“I told you earlier that—”

“That you would ask your wife first,” he interrupted, his brows furrowing with curiosity. “And I was wondering about her response. What did she say?”

I hadn’t asked Jocelyn. It felt unnecessary, and I knew she’d overthink it.

“You didn’t ask her?” Armand’s voice cut across my thoughts.

I looked at him, defeated. “No. I didn’t.”

He paused briefly, then took a deep breath.

“Look, I understand you may not want to go. Maybe you don’t want to hurt her, or maybe personal reasons. But this is an opportunity to meet other guests, try some Nigerian delicacies. You know what I mean?” he said.

“I’ve been to this country before. I know what happens at these kinds of parties.”

“It’s common in Nigeria, but a disciplined man won’t let his guard down. If you really love your wife, no girl in there can seduce you,” he replied with a shrug.

“Armand, I’d love to accompany you, but I didn’t pack party wear when coming here.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem at all. I always pack extras.” He said it so matter-of-factly that I stared at him in disbelief.

“Christine! Christine, love!” he called out.

“Yes, papi!” A blonde French woman, definitely in her early twenties, hurried out wearing bum shorts and a skimpy singlet that left very little to imagination.

“Get me the other pair of clothes from my wardrobe,” he said, and she dashed inside.

“Who is she?” My voice dropped to almost a whisper.

Before he could respond, Christine reappeared with the clothes and walked toward us. She handed them over to Armand, then leaned up slowly and kissed him on the lips. Then she turned to me and reached up, attempting to stroke my beard.

I quickly took several steps back.

She rolled her eyes at me and stuck out her tongue playfully.

“Christine,” Armand said, his tone sharp with mild annoyance.

She withdrew immediately and sauntered back into the room, deliberately swinging her small waist in a slow, rhythmic movement until she disappeared completely.

“Your wife?” I asked, a frown forming.

Armand chuckled softly. “Man, that’s my girlfriend.”

I looked at him intently.

“What? Are you a child?” he asked, confused by my stare.

“Would those clothes fit me?” I deliberately changed the subject.

“Surely. They’re adjustable too,” he replied, handing them over. “One minute,” I said.

“Sure, I’ll wait at the garage.”

The clothes fitted surprisingly well, a deep navy fitted shirt with subtle gold buttons and tailored black trousers that sat perfectly at my waist. Simple, but sharp enough for a night out.

“Told you,” Armand said with satisfaction as I joined him downstairs.

“I’ll drive,” I said.

“You don’t have to,” he protested.

“I insist.”

We took the hotel car into the Lagos night. The city was alive in a way that only African cities could be at midnight—loud, colorful, unrestrained. Street vendors still hawked under flickering lights, music drifted from every direction, and the air carried the thick scent of suya and exhaust fumes.

The club was one of Lagos’ most prestigious—a sleek, modern building in Victoria Island with a glowing neon sign and a line of luxury cars stretching down the street. Two bouncers in all-black stood at the entrance, built like walls.

But even before we stepped out of the car, the scene was already apparent. Women in barely-there dresses lingered near the entrance, their eyes scanning every arriving vehicle with practiced precision. They were beautiful, deliberately so, and they knew it.

I stepped out of the car without making eye contact with any of them.

One approached immediately, placing a hand on my arm.

I kept walking.

“Are you married?” I asked Armand as we approached the entrance.

The question threw him off balance. He blinked. “Yeah… why do you ask?”

“I want you to respect her in there.”

“Relax, dude. Who knows what the woman is doing in France right now? You respect who respects you, dear.”

“Think about Christine you left at the hotel!”

He stopped and looked at me carefully, his brows arched. Then something shifted in his expression—something almost serious beneath the casual exterior.

“I hope your wife loves you as much as you love her,” he said quietly. “One-sided love isn’t love.” He patted my shoulder and walked inside.

I stood there for a moment, then followed.

Inside, the party was in full swing. The music was loud—afrobeats pulsing through the floor, vibrating in my chest. Colored lights swept across a packed dance floor where bodies moved freely and without inhibition. Waitresses in fitted outfits wove between tables carrying drinks. Laughter, clinking glasses, and shouts over the music created a wall of noise.

I found a quiet corner table and sat.

I ordered a glass of wine and sipped it slowly, watching everything from a distance. Men who should have known better were scattered across the room, surrounded by women half their age. Armand had already disappeared into the crowd, and the last I saw of him, he had no fewer than five women competing for his attention.

I shook my head slowly.

Armand’s last words echoed in my head.

One-sided love is not love.

What if Jocelyn didn’t love me at all? What if the child she carried wasn’t mine? What if she was the one scheming, not Colton?

Even now, I struggled to fully believe that Colton was capable of everything he’d been accused of.

I raised him like my own son. He called me his second father with pride. I remembered the day a ten-year-old Colton had stood in the family living room, tears streaming down his face, insisting with absolute conviction that he’d been switched at the hospital and that he was truly my child.

“It was forged, Uncle! I am your child and I want to go with you,” he’d insisted.

Everyone laughed. But Colton was completely serious.

It was my mother Lilian who’d stepped in with the wisdom that only she possessed.

“Come on, boy. You shouldn’t cry. You should be happy that you have two fathers—Uncle Richard and Daddy Eric.”

And just like that, Colton had beamed. He bragged to everyone for months afterward that he had two fathers, but loved one more than the other.

That one was me.

So why would he turn against me?

I’d heard of women who dismantled families from the inside, quietly and deliberately, until everything fell apart. Women who used love as a weapon and loyalty as a tool.

Was Jocelyn one of them?

Before the thought could fully form, a presence materialized beside my table.

A tall, strikingly beautiful woman stood before me, her dark skin luminous under the club lights. She was Ghanaian, judging by the accent she used when she smiled and said something softly. Her dress—if it could be called that—clung to generous curves and revealed more than it concealed. Her smile was practiced, warm, and deliberate.

“Good evening,” she said, moving to take the seat across from me.

“The seat is taken,” I said flatly, not unkindly.

She tilted her head, smile still in place. “I don’t see anyone.”

“It’s still taken,” I repeated.

She held my gaze for a moment longer, then retreated with quiet grace, disappearing back into the crowd.

“Saw how you chased that beautiful woman away,” a voice said, and a man settled into the now-empty seat with easy confidence.

He was roughly my age—mid-forties, well-dressed, with the composed bearing of someone accustomed to authority. He extended his hand.

“I’m the High Commissioner,” he said, naming one of East Africa’s most respected nations. “I caught your presentation this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” I said, shaking his hand.

“It was impressive. But the real question isn’t infrastructure—it’s engagement. Who fills those spaces? Looking at today’s youth, they all prefer easy returns.”

“Exactly,” I said, leaning forward with genuine interest. “We don’t need to fight that. We maximize productivity using what they’re already best at. No exhausting labor—just smart systems they can operate from wherever they are, generating real profit.”

His eyes lit up. “My country would benefit tremendously from this proposal.”

“I appreciate that.” I extended my hand again, and he shook it firmly.

“You’ve been seated in this corner the entire evening,” he observed with mild amusement. “Surely your back hurts.”

“Not at all.”

“Come,” he said, standing. “Let’s try some Nigerian food before the night ends.”

The restaurant attached to the venue was a different world entirely—quieter, warmer, fragrant with spices that immediately made me forget the noise outside.

We ordered generously. Egusi soup with pounded yam—rich, nutty, deeply satisfying. Oha soup with its distinctive tender leaves and bold seasoning. Beans and fried plantain, simple but perfect. Pepper soup that cleared every thought from my mind and replaced it with focused, burning warmth.

I ate more than I’d eaten in days.

And somewhere between the egusi and the plantain, I made a quiet decision.

I’m bringing Jocelyn here. She needs to taste this.

The image of her face lighting up at the food made me smile to myself.

By the time the party wound down, Armand was spectacularly drunk. He was singing something in French that made no linguistic sense, his arm around a stranger’s shoulders for support.

I collected him with the patience of someone who had not signed up for this, guided him to the car, and drove back to the hotel.

At his door, I knocked. Christine appeared immediately, took one look at Armand, and without a word—she clearly spoke no English—simply nodded and gathered him efficiently from my arms, maneuvering him inside with surprising competence.

I scoffed quietly and turned toward my own room.

Inside, I loosened my collar and sat on the edge of the bed.

Tomorrow. The final meeting. Ten o’clock.

Lord, let it go well, I prayed quietly.

For Jocelyn. For the baby. For everything waiting for me back home.

I lay back and closed my eyes.