She moved closer, twirling a few strands of my hair between her fingers, savoring them like a trophy. “You know, Tshabina, I never appreciate it…” she whispered. “When someone steals what’s mine.”
I peeled her hand away, glaring at her. I didn’t understand why—but I smiled anyway. A smile of pure contempt, stronger than hers.
I remembered the pain she’d inflicted on Zioh, the hatred on Zeraiah’s face, and the anger of Mas Zaeem.
No,he is never yours.
You are the one who hurt them.
My family.
Mine.
Her eyes narrowed at my smile. “Let’s see that, Cindy,” I shot back. “Is he really yours?” My voice came out sharp. “Or is it something broken inside your skull that makes you believe that?”
Her lips pressed together, her eyes blazing. She slammed her palms against the car, trapping me. Her face twisted as she lifted the brown file she’d been clutching all along.
My breath caught.
That file was hauntingly familiar. It was the same one that was sent to my phone from an unknown number the night I stayed at the hotel with Zioh.
So, it’d been Cindy.
She raised it higher, almost triumphant. “He’s always been mine. You’ll see—” she started, but suddenly stopped. Her expression stiffened as her eyes darted to something behind me. And then, without a word, she turned, rushing back to her car, and in seconds, the engine roared, and she was gone.
Moments later, a tall, broad-shouldered man hurried towards me. “Ma’am, are you alright?”
The moment Cindy was gone, the noise around me flooded back, along with the man’s voice before me. “Yes… I’m fine.”
I recognized him. He was the man I’d seen in the hall near Zioh that day—one of Mas Zaeem’s men.
« -- * -- »
After that draining encounter, I made it to the office.
The man who introduced himself as Dave drove me, insisting on taking me along in my own car. He was adamant about bringing me to the ER, but I politely refused. I didn’t have time for that, so we settled for a bag of ice from a nearby shop to press against my bruised forehead.
As Dave pulled into the parking lot, I spotted a black Mercedes idling in the VIP section, the engine still running. Zioh’s car.
Why was he still here?
As we parked, Zioh stepped out and walked towards my car. He lightly tapped the driver’s window, and Dave rolled it down. Dave dipped his head to Zioh, and a flicker of shock crossed Zioh’s face. His brows furrowed as he stared at Dave, then flicked his gaze toward me. Our eyes locked.
He went rigid.
His eyes scanned me—my face, my body—until they stopped at the pack of ice pressed to my forehead. His eyes narrowed, hardening. His hand clenched on my car window, making his knuckles whiten.
Dave moved, whispering something to him, and Zioh nodded without breaking his eyes with mine.
Dave stepped out of the driver’s seat as Zioh turned and walked to the passenger side, where I sat.
He tapped my window again, making me flinch and swallow hard. I opened the door and found myself face-to-face with him—his complexion was pale and flushed.
The pain in my forehead still made me wince, and I stumbled as my foot hit the ground. Zioh’s hand shot out, gripping my shoulder, steadying my back against the car door, and his touch was ice against my skin.
He stared at me, then dipped his head closer to scrutinize me. His breath came rough as he took the melting ice pack from my hand.
Was it really that bad?
