CHAPTER 6: RUMOURS DON'T TRAVEL,THEY FLY
1200 Words
CHAPTER 6: RUMOURS TRAVEL FASTER
Rumours in Balii did not walk.
They ran. Yes! That fast.
By Monday morning, the story had mutated beyond recognition.
At the car wash near the express road, someone swore Sharon had already bought Billiewhite a mansion. At a saloon shop in New Town, another insisted she had promised to sponsor him abroad. Alot of news were flying here and there.
At the market, a fish seller declared confidently that the King himself was holding ten million dollars on her behalf.
By noon, the bet was no longer a whisper. Of course madam precision is popular.
It was entertainment.
Inside Harvest Flame, the atmosphere had shifted.
Waiters spoke softer when Billiewhite passed. Two kitchen assistants stopped mid-laughter when he entered the pantry. Even the dishwasher avoided eye contact.
Respect had quietly turned into curiosity.
Curiosity into mixed feelings.
Mixed feelings into gossip.
He ignored it.
But ignoring something did not erase it.
At 2:15 p.m., Sharon walked in.
Unannounced Again.
She wore a deep emerald dress over her signature glasses, this time structured but elegant. Makeup refined. Less aggressive. Intentional.
Heads turned.
Phones subtly angled.
She felt it.
And she hated that she liked it. The liking was embarrassing than attention did.
“Where is he?” she asked the hostess calmly.
“In the office.”
She walked straight there.
No knock.
This time, he was not standing.
He was seated behind the desk, posture straight, expression unreadable.
“You should knock,” he said quietly.
“And you should answer my calls,” she replied.
Silence.
The air between them felt thinner than before.
“I won’t apologize for ambition,” she continued. “But I will clarify something.”
He waited.
“The bet does not define my interest.”
He held her gaze.
“But it exists.”
“Yes.”
“And the King is holding the money?”
Her pause confirmed enough.
“So this is public?” he asked.
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“But it is.”
She stepped closer.
“You think I need to humiliate you to win?”
“I think,” he said carefully, “you don’t always see where pride crosses into damage.”
The words stung.
She folded her arms.
"You're over reacting"
"No". He shook his head, then replied calmly. “I’m protecting myself.”
That sentence did something she didn’t expect.
It made her feel small.
That evening, at the palace courtyard of the King, the air carried murmurs.
The King of Balii ,young, sharp-eyed, politically inclined. calculative , had not anticipated becoming custodian of a romantic wager.
But Sharon had insisted.
“It guarantees neutrality,” she had said weeks ago.
He had agreed reluctantly, assuming the matter would fade quietly.
It hadn’t.
Now, palace guards whispered.
One guard had a cousin who worked at Harvest Flame.
Information flowed.
Reputation trembled.
The King stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, hands behind his back.
He disliked spectacle.
And this was becoming one.
“Summon Madam Sharon,” he instructed calmly.
Sharon arrived at the palace the next morning.
Not flamboyant.
Not loud.
Controlled. Her head ticking.
The King did not offer her a seat immediately.
“You understand what this is becoming?” he asked.
“A private matter,” she replied smoothly.
“It stopped being private when my guards are discussing it during duty.”
Her jaw tightened.
“With respect, Your Majesty, this is harmless.”
“Is it?”
His gaze was steady.
“You are a powerful woman,” he continued. “Power must be careful when it plays with dignity.”
She straightened slightly.
“I am not forcing anyone.”
“But you are influencing with imbalance,” he replied. “Money is imbalance.”
Silence filled the chamber.
“For your sake,” he added, “win quietly or withdraw quietly. Do not turn this city into a theatre.”
She left the palace irritated.
Not because he was wrong.
But because he had spoken to her as an equal not an admirer, not an exception.
No one did that anymore.
And she was not used to that.
That night, she did something impulsive.
She drove herself to Billiewhite’s apartment.
No driver.
No convoy as she use to do in special days and special occasions.
Just her.
The building was modest. Three floors. Faded paint. Narrow staircase.
She hesitated before climbing. Adjusted her dress.
She almost turned back.
This was unfamiliar territory.
When he opened the door, surprise flickered across his face.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“I needed to speak to you without an audience.”
He stepped aside reluctantly.
The apartment was simple.
Clean.
Functional.
A small dining table. A couch. Framed culinary certificates on the wall.
No luxury.
No intimidation.
Just effort.
“You live like this?” she asked before she could stop herself.
“Yes,” he replied calmly. “Peacefully.”
The word again.
Peace.
She turned toward him.
“I am not your enemy.”
“I never said you were.”
“Then why are you pulling away?”
He exhaled slowly.
“Because I don’t know whether you see me… or you see a victory.”
The question cut deeper than she expected.
For a moment, just a moment, her armor slipped.
“I see someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m a transaction,” she said quietly.
He studied her face.
“And what do you see when you look at yourself?” he asked.
The question unsettled her.
She deflected.
“You’re afraid of growth.”
“No,” he replied. “I’m afraid of becoming a story told in beer parlours, markets and lounges.”
Silence again.
Heavy.
Real.
She took a step closer.
“I can end the bet,” she said suddenly.
He blinked.
“Can you?”
The truth was uncomfortable.
Ending the bet meant admitting defeat publicly.
It meant Kelly laughing.
It meant whispers multiplying.
It meant surrender.
Her pride tightened its grip.
“I don’t lose,” she said instead.
And there it was.
The real answer.
He nodded slowly.
“I know.”
She left five minutes later.
Without drama.
Without victory.
Back at the Savannah Hotel, she poured wine but didn’t drink it. This was strange.
She stared at her reflection in the glass wall.
The city below looked the same.
But something had shifted.
For the first time since the bet began.
Winning did not feel clean.
Across town, Billiewhite sat on his balcony again.
Phone in hand.
A message notification blinked.
From an unknown number.
“Stay careful. She doesn’t play small.”
He deleted it.
But sleep did not come easily.
In another part of the city, Kelly laughed loudly at a new rumour.
In the palace, the King watched the situation with quiet concern.
And somewhere beneath the glamour, beneath the strategy, beneath the pride he upholds.
Two people were beginning to realize that this was no longer just a game.
It was becoming personal.
And personal wars are the hardest to control. Alot was taking a different shape...
- Writer
