Flowers for my enemies, The wrong vow my perfect match 👌 ✨️

*CHAPTER 1: THE WRONG VOW* The church in Sandton was worth more than my whole life in Tembisa. I stood at the back in my grey King Holdings cleaning uniform, holding a mop that cost more than the R173 in my Capitec account. My sneakers were soaked because it was raining outside, and my chicken Bokkie was in a Shoprite bag in my cousin's taxi because Gogo always said never go to war without family. And I was at war. Three months ago, John King killed my grandmother. Not with a knife. With a pen. He forged her signature and took our 5-hectare farm in Tembisa for R50,000. A farm that fed five families for forty years. The day the bulldozers came, Gogo had a heart attack in the mealie field. All I had left was her ashes and a Chakalaka jar full of dry lilies. One lily for every enemy. John King had three already. In front of me, 200 rich people were waiting for a bride who was never coming. John King stood at the altar. I had only seen him on Forbes and on the news. Taller in real life. Black suit that could pay my rent for five years. Cold face. A man who never hears the word no. His mother, Mrs. King, was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief that probably cost more than my shack. The priest kept checking his Rolex. "Where is Amara?" someone whispered. Amara van Wyk. His fiancée. Cape Town model. Teeth whiter than Sunday school socks. She was supposed to walk down that aisle covered in flowers that cost R100,000. But her maid told the kitchen staff what really happened - she got a call from Dubai at 6am. A Sheikh offered her a private island and a diamond bigger than her future. She left her wedding dress on the bathroom floor and took an Uber to O.R. Tambo. The shareholders started murmuring. I knew why this wedding mattered. Everyone in Joburg knew. The old Afrikaans billionaire, Mr. Steyn, was going to give John King a R500 million deal, but only if John was a married man. "Single men don't know responsibility," he said. No wife, no deal. No deal, King Holdings stock would crash. The priest leaned to John. "Mr. King, perhaps we should postpone?" John's jaw tightened. I saw his fist clench. Just once. The man who stole land with paper was about to lose everything because a woman said no. I don't know what came over me. It was the anger. The pap and poverty. The sound of my Gogo's voice saying "Lerato, don't let them make you small." I laughed. Loud. The cleaner laughing in a billionaire's wedding. Two hundred heads turned. John King looked straight at me. His eyes were grey. Stormy. For the first time in my life, a billionaire actually saw me. "You think this is funny?" he said. His voice was low, but the whole church heard it. It wasn't shouting. It was worse. It was cold. I should have said "Sorry baas" and mopped the floor. Instead I said, "No. I think you need a wife. I'll marry you." Silence. Then gasps. Then his mother stood up so fast her hat fell. "Who is this person? Security! Remove this girl!" John didn't move. Then he did. He walked. Slow. Down the long aisle, past the white roses, past the 200 guests in suits. He stopped in front of me. He smelled like expensive cologne and anger. He was so close I could see a small scar on his chin. "What's your name?" he asked. "Lerato. I clean your toilets on the 12th floor. You don't know me, but you know my farm. The one you stole in Tembisa." His eyes flickered. He knew. He remembered. "You want to marry me?" he said, like he couldn't believe it. "I was joking," I whispered, because now I was scared. His eyes were too much. "I am not joking," he said. And he grabbed my hand - rough, big, warm - and dragged me down the aisle. My mop fell. Clatter. "Father, start again," he told the priest. "This is my bride." The priest's mouth opened like a fish. "Mr. King, this is highly irregular... this is your cleaning staff..." "This is Lerato Ndlovu," John said, louder. "My wife. Start." I tried to pull away. "Are you mad? I hate you! I have dry flowers for you in a jar! I want you to die!" "Good," he whispered in my ear, so only I could hear, his breath hot on my cheek. "Keep them. You'll need them. Six months. You be my wife for six months. You smile, you go to dinners, you help me close this deal. I give you R2 million and I give you your farm papers back. Or you walk out now and I make sure you never work in this city again. You and your chicken." R2 million. My farm. My Gogo's grave back. The organ started again, playing out of tune because the organist was confused. The priest, sweating through his robe, said, "Do you, John Michael King, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" John looked at me. His grey eyes didn't blink. "I do." "Do you, Lerato Ndlovu, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?" Two hundred people stared. My hands were sweaty. My uniform had a bleach stain on the chest. Bokkie clucked outside. I thought of Gogo lying in the field. I thought of dry lilies. "I... I do," I said. My voice was small but the microphone caught it. It was the wrong vow. The wrong man. The wrong dress - I wasn't even in a white dress. I was in a uniform. John slipped a ring on my finger. It wasn't a diamond. It was a wildflower ring the decorator had left on the table - cheap wire and baby's breath. But his fingers lingered on mine. Rough. "You may now kiss the bride," the priest said, looking like he wanted to run. John leaned in. I thought he would give me a fake peck for the cameras. He didn't. He kissed me like a man starving. Possessive. Angry. One hand on my waist, pulling me hard into that expensive suit, in front of everyone. I tasted mint and whiskey and revenge. His other hand tangled in my braids. I should have slapped him. Instead my knees gave and I grabbed his jacket to not fall. Someone clapped. Then everyone clapped, confused, but clapping because billionaires always get claps. His mother fainted for real. --- That night, I sat in his penthouse in Sandton. 40th floor. All glass. Johannesburg lights looked like stars I could never afford. I was still in my cleaning uniform, barefoot, holding my jar of dry flowers and Bokkie's Shoprite bag. My cheap wire ring. John came out of the bedroom in a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. He looked less like a billionaire and more like a man. A man with muscles and a tattoo on his ribs I didn't expect. A small cross. "There are rules," he said, cold again, like the kiss never happened. "Rule one: We don't touch. This is business. This is contract." He said that while his eyes dropped to my lips that he had kissed an hour ago. "Rule two: You don't tell anyone this is fake. You smile. You wear dresses I buy. You act like you love me at business dinners." "Rule three: You stay away from my office and my past. I stay away from yours. Your chicken stays in the laundry room." I stood up. I was tired of being small. "My rules," I said, voice shaking but loud. "One: You give me my farm papers back in 6 months. In writing. With a lawyer. Two: You never call me a cleaner again. My name is Lerato. Three: You don't tell me what to wear. And you don't touch me again unless I say so. And Bokkie sleeps with me." He smiled. For the first time, a real smile. Dangerous and beautiful. "We'll see, Lerato with dry flowers," he said. "Your room is on the left. My room is on the right. Don't come to my room. Ever." "Don't worry, I won't," I said. At 2 AM, I woke up thirsty. My room was bigger than my whole house in Tembisa. I went to the kitchen in his big white shirt I found in my closet - because I had nothing else to sleep in and I refused to sleep in my dirty uniform. John was in the kitchen, drinking water, shirtless. Back muscles. Shoulders wide. He turned and saw me in his shirt, my braids messy, my legs bare, his shirt barely covering my thighs. The glass in his hand cracked. Literally cracked. "Lerato," he said, voice hoarse, like he had been running. "I was thirsty," I whispered. "Rule one," he whispered, but he was walking towards me. One step. Two steps. "You said don't touch," I whispered back, but I didn't move. I couldn't. He stopped one inch from me. I could feel heat from his chest. I could see water dripping down his chest. He lifted his hand, almost touched my cheek, then made a fist and dropped it. "Go to sleep, Mrs. King," he said, low. Mrs. King. I ran back to my room, heart beating like a drum in Tembisa church. I opened my jar and added another dry lily. This one was for me. For being stupid enough to think I could marry my enemy and not feel anything. Outside, Johannesburg slept. Inside that penthouse, a fake marriage started. And somewhere in Dubai, Amara van Wyk posted an i********: story with a sheikh, not knowing the man she left had just married the wrong woman. The right woman. The perfect match. *TO BE CONTINUED**...........