Broken Chain: A South African Revenge Romance.

*Prologue: The Kiss I Wasn't Meant to See* I walked in on my boyfriend kissing my cousin. In my house. In the sitting room I cleaned for him every day. He didn’t even stop when he saw me. He just pulled away slowly, Amelia’s red lipstick smeared on his mouth, and said, “Nhlanhla, this isn’t what it looks like.” It looked exactly like what it was. My plastic Pick n Pay bag hit the floor. Apples rolled under the couch I’d scrubbed that morning. The bread I bought with my last R20 landed next to his shoes. The shoes I polished every Sunday night. For three years I was Mandla’s helper. I cooked his pap. I washed his clothes. I listened to him talk about his “future” while he told his friends he was single. I believed him when he said we just needed time. That I was “more” than he could handle right now. I was too much. That’s what he meant. Amelia didn’t even look sorry. She adjusted her crop top, the one I told her looked pretty last week, and walked past me like I was furniture. Like I was part of the house she was now claiming. Mandla finally moved. He reached for his wallet. He pulled out cash and counted it right there, like he was paying for a taxi. Like he was settling a bill. R2,500. He pressed it into my palm. His hands were warm. Mine were ice. “I don’t need you anymore,” he said. Not _I’m sorry_. Not _I love you_. _I don’t need you._ I looked at the money. Two thousand five hundred rand for three years. For every meal. Every late night. Every time I said “it’s okay” when he came home at 2AM smelling like someone else’s perfume. I was 22. I didn’t have a matric certificate. I didn’t have parents who picked up the phone. I had an aunt who counted my slices of bread and a broken heart I couldn’t afford to fix. I put the money in my pocket. I didn’t cry. Not in front of him. I picked up my apples. I left the bread. I walked out of the house I built for a man who was embarrassed to call me his girlfriend. That was the day Nonhlanhla Sibiya, the helper, died. One year later, my phone rang at 9:17 PM on a Tuesday. I knew it was him before I answered. I’d deleted his number, but some things you don’t forget. Like the sound of someone who thinks you’re too much. “Nonhlanhla,” he said. His voice cracked. “I messed up.” Mandla never cried. Not when his father died. Not when he lost his job. He was crying now. He didn’t know I was the only person alive who knew his secret. Not yet. --- *Thank you for reading Broken Chain!* If you want to see what Mandla’s secret is, please *#vote#* and tap Chapter 1. Your support means everything ❤️ Fortunate