The night was warm, Nairobi humming in the background like a distant lullaby. Somewhere far away, a siren cried into the darkness, and the distant rhythm of matatus echoed off the empty streets. But in Amara's bedroom, time had paused.
Her breathing was steady, chest rising and falling as moonlight pooled on her sheets. Eyes closed. Lips slightly parted. The world outside faded. The nightmares of betrayal and lies, the walls of deceit, the recordings, the fake friendships—they were all gone.
Only he remained.
Markus.
She was back in Prague, in that hotel suite on the Vltava. The river gleamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, and the air smelled like cedarwood and expensive cologne. The bed beneath her was soft, layered with silk sheets and goose-feather pillows. And he was above her.
His eyes.
Those eyes that once held galaxies just for her. Warm, commanding, worshipful.
He wasn't the cold, ruthless man pulling strings. He wasn't the liar, the puppet master, the manipulator. Not in this place.
Here, he was just Markus. Her Markus. The man who memorized the way she moaned his name, the one who whispered Czech endearments into her ear until she melted.
"You feel like poetry," he murmured, his voice rich and low, lips brushing against her neck.
Amara arched beneath him, trembling.
Every touch was fire. Every kiss, scripture. Her skin sang beneath his fingers, and her name sounded holy on his tongue.
"Markus..." she whispered.
He paused, just long enough to kiss her forehead like she was a sacred thing.
"Yes, my queen."
Her queen.
She had been everything then. Powerful, adored, desired. She remembered how he would undress her like unwrapping a gift he'd waited all year to open. The way he looked at her body like it was a work of art.
He was slow.
Intentional.
He touched her like he was reading braille on scripture. Mouth, hands, hips, rhythm. It wasn't sex. It was worship. Their bodies intertwined as if nothing else existed.
Not betrayal. Not pain. Not Zuri, or Faith, or sabotage.
Just them.
Their moans echoed in the imagined silence, breathless prayers in a cathedral of shadows.
"I want to die inside you," he groaned, forehead pressed against hers.
And she wanted that too.
For this dream never to end.
---
But something shifted.
His lips moved lower, tracing the curve of her collarbone. But they began to sting.
His hands tightened around her wrists, but not with love.
With control.
Her legs, once wrapped around him in bliss, now felt pinned.
His voice deepened.
"You can't run, Amara. Not from me."
She gasped, eyes opening in the dream.
It wasn't Markus now. Not the man she loved. His eyes were hollow. His face was smooth, too smooth. Like a mask.
He grinned.
"I own you."
She screamed.
---
Amara sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat.
The room was dark. The dream had vanished, but her heart thundered, skin still humming with phantom pleasure and terror.
It wasn't the first time.
Markus haunted her.
Not like a monster in the shadows.
Worse.
Like a memory that seduced.
---
Later that morning, Amara sat on the balcony, wrapped in her throw blanket, sipping black coffee. The city came alive around her, but she felt like a ghost herself.
Natalie arrived with croissants and bad news.
"He shut down your podcast domain," she said flatly. "Used some Russian bot farm to report it as misinformation. It was pulled within hours."
Amara didn't flinch.
"He's still in my head," she admitted. "Last night, I dreamed of him. Not the real him. The fantasy."
Natalie placed the croissants down and sat across from her.
"You loved him. Of course you miss the good parts. Even abusers give flowers."
Amara chuckled bitterly. "Mine gave diamonds. And orgasms that made me cry."
Natalie nodded solemnly. "And still, he's poison."
Amara looked up. "Then why does the poison feel like medicine in the dream?"
Silence.
Natalie finally said, "Because healing is messy. And you haven't forgiven yourself for believing him."
Tears filled Amara's eyes.
The shame. The longing. The betrayal. It was all tangled inside her, like vines choking her heart.
"I miss the man who never existed," she whispered.
Natalie reached across the table, took her hand.
"We all do. But mourning a ghost doesn't bring the living back. You're still here. You're still whole. And you're not done."
---
That night, Amara lay in bed again.
She feared sleep now.
But she had work to do.
She opened her laptop, pulled up a voice memo app, and began to record.
"This is for every woman who loved a man who wore a mask. For every queen who kissed a monster dressed as a king. For every heart that still aches for the hand that broke it..."
Her voice trembled but did not break.
"...this is my story. And I'm not hiding anymore."
She pressed stop.
And in the quiet, she smiled.
The dream had haunted her, but she was awake now.
Fully.
Finally.
And Markus? He could keep the fantasy.
She had a war to win.