They say every man has a weakness. Mine just happens to drive a red Mercedes, wear Chanel No. 5, and answer to a name I can't say out loud without tasting danger. It was a Friday night in Lagos - the kind of humid evening when the air feels thick with secrets. I was waiting outside The Orchid Lounge, pretending to check my phone, when she pulled up. Headlights slicing through the darkness, engine purring like it knew it owned the street. She rolled down the tinted window and smiled. The kind of smile that could ruin a man's prayer life. "Get in, Chenkov," she said. Not "Hi." Not "How was your day?" Just an order. Like I was hers already. I knew her husband. Not well enough to call a friend, but well enough to know he was the kind of man who could make another man disappear without asking too many questions. And yet... I opened the door and slid in. Inside, she smelled like luxury and trouble. Her manicured hand brushed my thigh as she shifted gears. My heart thudded. I wasn't sure if it was fear... or something far more reckless. "You didn't call me last night," she said, her voice smooth but edged with accusation. "I was... busy," I lied. She glanced at me, eyes glittering in the dashboard light. "Busy with who?" That's the thing about living off wealthy women - your biggest problem isn't finding them. It's surviving the drama they carry in their designer handbags. And yet, even as I knew I should get out of that car, walk away, maybe even leave Lagos entirely... I stayed. Because every Casanova knows one truth - sometimes, the most dangerous women are the hardest to resist. This is my story. My sins. My hustle. My confessions. Read them if you want. Judge me if you must. But remember this: in Lagos, love isn't free. And neither is survival.
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