I would advice you reread the previous chapter for better effect.

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Jema managed to reach her room without any further mishaps, her chest throbbing with a loud, persistent sensation as if she were about to explode.

What had she been thinking? Making out with Theodore Newman—her boss, the master of the Brick mansion, and the father of the baby she was employed to care for.

She chastised herself for allowing things to escalate to that point, her mind spiraling with unsettling thoughts. The realization that she had a tampon inserted heightened her anxiety. What if it hadn't been there? Would they have engaged in a passionate encounter? The idea sent dangerous shivers down her spine.

As she touched her tender nipples, still sensitive from their encounter, she regretted how abruptly she had ended things. Now there would be unbearable awkwardness between them. How could she face him again? What if he was angry with her? The memory of his impassive expression as she bid him goodnight left her feeling hollow and cold.

All the warmth within her dissipated, replaced by a chilling sense of dread, a tight throat, and overwhelming uncertainty.

Later that night, before retiring to bed, Jema visited the nursery to ensure baby Sam was comfortable and peacefully asleep. Standing by his crib, she watched him slumber, his innocent face unaware of the complexities life would eventually present to him as he grew older.

She pondered the future, imagining the kind of child Sam might become—whether he would be happy or withdrawn, especially without a mother figure in his life. Jema was determined not to let him become the latter. Having experienced the absence of parents herself, she understood the importance of parental presence from birth.

The thought of Theo being Sam's father filled her with concern. She knew that with Theo's distant demeanor, Sam might feel neglected and seek validation elsewhere. This lack of parental attention could have a detrimental effect on his self-confidence, potentially driving him to seek approval from the harsh world.

If only Jema could secure her place in this household, then she'd have no doubts about her ability to provide a stable and nurturing environment for baby Sam.

That night, Jema dreamt of Jacob. They laid naked in bed, kissing, mumbling endearing words into her ears, words he didn't keep to as death made sure of that. Only, those words weren't as endearing to her as her thoughts were somewhere else and with someone else.

Her frustrations knew no bounds when she woke the next morning full of anticipation only to hear from Martha that Theodore wouldn't be having his breakfast because he'd left in the wee hours of the morning for an impromptu meeting. She'd silently sulked all morning, even baby Sam's goofy smiles did little to help but when lunch and dinner passed without a sight of the brooding man, Jema felt absolutely helpless.

It didn't help that Madame Evana seemed suspicious of her all through breakfast. The older lady had outrightly glared at her, huffing and puffing in her chair like she had something to say. At a point when she parted her lips to voice her thoughts, Jema was certain a backlash from her was next but she'd shut them as soon as she started.
No doubt their relationship was icy, and Madame was an unbearable cunt but Jema realized that amidst that blunt criticism of hers, truth lay within, as much as she's tried to deny it.

The idea of a nuclear family with Theo and baby Sam was as ridiculous as a reality show, nothing real about it. At least today's event was a good example, he felt nothing but lust toward her, she was just another of his conquests and soon enough he'd rid of her. Besides there was no assurances, no promises made, therefore expectations should be out the window. She might as well focus on her job.
Speaking of her job, it was almost time for baby Sam's nightly bath but before she could reach the nursery she met Madame Evana stepping out of it.

"Is he crying?" Jema's face filled with concern. She knew the older lady only ever stepped in during emergencies.

"And why would there be? Would it make you more active with your duties if there was such occurrences?"

A terrible glare crossed Jema's face as she couldn't fathom the boldness with which those callous words were uttered. "What is this about?" She muttered, choosing to speak more kindly.

"I can't seem to understand why it took you__" she paused as her eyes squinted at Jema. Moving in closer, Madame's curious eyes dimmed as she sought whatever it was that seemed interesting to her on Jema's face.

"What?... do I have sleep marks on my face?" Her hands flew to her delicate cheeks in search of the misnomer.

"Don't_" Madame started but moved back to create enough space between them before a much worse ferocious glare came on her face. She immediately turned brit red as her mind churned and honed her suspicions into truth. "You wretched fox!!" She berated. "How dare you cross boundaries with the master?!!!"

Ripples of shock hit Jema, eliciting cold tingles as the hairs on her skin stood in unison. There was little to compare the murderous glare from Madame Evana with. She'd turned to a raging dog in a matter of seconds and Jema was unable to decipher where it all came from.

"T-that bruise on your lip," she pointed at Jema's purple lip. "W-wasn't it from last night? I'm certain you didn't have one during dinner. So it must've been after."

Realization flooded Jema's senses and she couldn't help but feel mortified. Last night's passionate encounter had resorted into a hickey on the lip. Those memories still left her breathless and red faced. "I had a bit of an encounter," she managed as an excuse.

But the older lady stood poised and authoritative as ever. A look of disgust at Jema as she spat out hurtful words in hopes it would haunt her dreams and make her feel less of herself. "I abhor the day I let you into this house Jema, your dear mother will be disappointed looking down at you. And as much as I'd love to deny it, I've learnt a great deal from a lowlife like you. But just so you know, that not all dishes are meant to be tasted and not all men should be underestimated." And with a tilt of the shoulders, she strode down the fleet of stairs allowing her words to eat at the intended.

*********

Who knew that keeping a low profile was much more difficult than lockdown. Even with the change of environment and identity, Tyrone still found it difficult to maintain invisibility. The short walk to his Tundra was the longest he'd covered in weeks. His joints cramped as he strode diligently to his car, making a mental note of things he needed to pick up at the store for Nadia.

She'd called suddenly, crying hysterically that she couldn't do it without him there in the delivery room. He'd let out a disbelieving grunt at how preposterous she sounded, for an expecting mother whose life depended on her efforts at pushing out the baby, she'd rather hold it in than put to bed without him. The nurses confirmed she was a few hours dilated so he needed to be there for her, to hold her while she tore through pain, but most importantly, he needed to hold their son in his hands and mark his territory.

His chest swarm with profound joy as he set the car on drive then proceeded to drive out of the parking lot. An unruly sound had him jolting to a stop, only to realize a moment later that his two front tyre were flat. "Fuck!!" He bent to examine the amount of damage when he felt a sharp pain behind his neck, sending him flat on his face. His attacker didn't stop with one, rather more heavier jabs of metal resounded again and again until Tyrone felt nothing.

In his line of work, such expensive and properly polished genuine leather shoes weren't common. Most of them mercenaries preferred easier trainers and boots to office shoes. Well, that explains why he was staring at a man's shoes, yet he couldn't get past his plain black pants as much as he craned his neck to. His struggle to find a face to the owner of the shoes brought an insidious sense of understanding to the situation he was in.

With feet and hands chained together and hung upside down, his head was few inches away from an iron pot with a heavy lid on it. Tyrone bulked up like a curve ball, ready to snatch the reigns of his shackles in hopes to wriggle free from bondage but it only made his weight lower the hanger, nearing his head toward the iron pot.

Laughter filled the dark room as he struggled helplessly. His fears only intensified when one of his captors took the lid off the pot to find he was few inches away from a sizzling pot of water. The steam ate at him, burning and churning out whatever was left of him.

"Stop! don't do this!!!" He cautioned with all his heart, feeling the hot steam burn deep at his skull. His eyes ached from the intensity but all he could see was his impending death in a hundred degrees pot of water. "What do you want with me? Just put me down let's talk!"

Now that got the owner of the costly shoe to move closer, he bent over to give Tyrone the view of his angry face. "Remember me Ty?" Theodore smirked, enjoying the rounds of fear that gripped him.

"You're wondering how much I know right?... I'll be honest, I know little but I'm not about to beg you for more." Theo adjusted the effort of the pulley as the chains rolled further downwards eliciting a terrified groan from his prisoner. He watched Tyrone scuttle around, trying to lift himself up and away from the scorching heat only to have him lowered down as his movements were only pulling down the chains.

"Stop!!! Please stop!! I'll give you what ever the hell you want alright?!!"

"Don't yell at me you skunk!" Was Theo's response. He had a daredevil look as he talked, meaning every bit of what he said. "I call the shots here, and I say when the questions will be asked. So don't push me or you'll end up boiling before your time."

Theodore walked back to his seat, gently, he sat and watched the torture go on. His men stood around, quiet and astounded by his uncanny sense. They seemed to know nothing of his next moves but were curious.
His gaze flashed to his wrist, taking note of the time. He took out a black cover journal and set his ball-pen to write.

"What is your real name?" His voice was loud and clear, even as Tyrone hung there in sweats and low cries he could still hear the question. "Ty-rone,"

"Tyrone," Theo flicked a brow up, noting how he missed that one. He wrote down on his journal but sighed. "What is your real name puta!! Is that what your mama gave you?" He hauled at him. With an eye signal he ordered the ropes to be lowered further.

"Please stop!! Stop!! I'm not gonna make it if you keep-k-keep p-pulling,"

"Sir, I think he's loosing consciousness," one of the men said. A look of apprehension on his face as he glanced back at a weak Tyrone.

"Get a bowl of cold water then, quick!"

Tyrone heaved a long drawl as the cold rippled through his body, dulling the blazing steam. But not long after the torture continued.

"Tyrone is my real name. Surname's Caster. I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't paid to. I'm a mercenary for Godsake, I get paid for missions. Please don't punish me but the people who wanted you dead!" He seethed deliriously. "Please... Just let me live."

"What are the names of your accomplices?"

"I don't have one... pl-please..." he whispered almost unconsciously. All along he'd managed to tilt his head a little bit up for better circulation but even that seemed tasking as time elapsed. He couldn't hold back any longer as blood rushed into his head, clouding whatever thought and consciousness he had. Finally, he let the heavy chains carry his weight as the persistent steam ate at him.

NB:
Just to reiterate and reinforce that the infamous genuine leather /Italian leather is indeed Nigerian made leather🇳🇬