I should have known from the way he always said the right thing at the right time. For some reason, I just knew he was too good to be true. His name was Femi. Tall, dark-skinned, clean, soft-spoken. The kind of man who could make you forget your name. And for a while, he made me feel like I was the only woman in his world.

Until I found out I wasn’t.

It was a random Saturday afternoon when my friend, Zainab, came over. We got talking when she mentioned that she had been seeing a guy for over four months now. I was so happy, and then I asked to see his picture. She pulled out her phone and showed me a photo of her man. My heart stopped. It was Femi. My Femi.

At first, I thought it was a mistake. But as she continued talking, describing his voice, his jokes, even the way he liked his rice, I knew it was my Femi. My blood ran hot. I was furious. Betrayed. Not just for myself, but for both of us.

“Zainab, this is my Femi”, I said.

Immediately, I saw the smile on her face change to a confused one.

Zainab blinked. “Wait… what?”

“We’ve been dating for 6 months now, and I am as confused as you are. This shouldn’t be happening,” I replied.

We sat in silence. Two women, one man, one big mess.

I expected a fight. That’s how it usually goes, right? But I surprised myself.

“Zee,” I said softly, “this isn’t your fault. Or mine. Femi played us both.”

Her face relaxed. She was confused. Angry. But not at me anymore.

“So what do we do now?” she asked.

I looked her straight in the eyes. “We ruin him.”

That night, after Zainab left, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I hated him. I did. But my body didn’t. I thought about the way he touched me. The way his lips traced my skin like he was trying to memorise me. The way he looked into my eyes when he was deep inside me, like I was his whole world.

Even though I knew it was all a lie, I still craved that feeling. I wanted one last time. Not for him. For me. And I wasn’t going to tell Zainab.

The next day, I wore the black lingerie he once said made me look like sin. Over it, I wore a simple gown.

I texted him, “Hey, babe! You home? I need to see you.”

Of course, he was eager.

His door opened before I knocked twice. He smiled like he hadn’t wrecked two hearts.

“Babe,” he said, pulling me in. “I’ve missed you.”

I didn’t speak. I kissed him hard, desperate, hungry. He responded like a man possessed. His hands roamed my body, pulling off my gown, moaning at the sight of lace. My body melted under his touch. I hated how much I still wanted him.

We didn’t make love. We had sex; intense, wild, raw. His tongue knew where to go. His fingers knew what to press. And when he finally slid into me, I gasped, legs wrapped around him like I didn’t want to let go.

And for a moment, I forgot why I was there.

Afterwards, he lay next to me, chest rising and falling. I turned to look at him.

“You’re wicked,” I whispered.

He laughed. “Why?”

But I didn’t answer. I just smiled. He had no idea what was coming.

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