Chapter Six
1136 Words
The morning after the rooftop moment hung in the air like perfume—faint, but undeniably present.
Andrelle woke early, earlier than anyone else in the Jux estate, and found herself quietly wandering into the kitchen. The house was grand, too grand—marble floors, gleaming counters, and a coffee machine so intimidating she was afraid to touch it.
She settled for tea. Simple. Familiar.
But no amount of warm liquid could wash away the memory of Juma’s eyes last night. That vulnerable, silent ache. The way he looked at her like she mattered.
She shouldn’t be thinking about it. Any of it.
This was a role. A contract. A performance.
She had made peace with pretending.
Or at least… she thought she had.
“Andrelle?”
The voice jolted her slightly. Juma stepped in, barefoot, shirt untucked, looking like sleep hadn’t touched him.
“Oh—morning,” she said, holding her mug like a shield.
He gave a slight nod and moved to the coffee machine, punching a few buttons with practiced ease.
Silence settled between them—not awkward, but loaded.
“I didn’t sleep much,” he admitted, eyes still on the brewing cup.
“Me neither,” she said.
He looked at her then, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Rooftops tend to do that.”
Andrelle exhaled, trying not to let her guard slip. “Last night didn’t happen.”
He raised a brow.
“I mean—” she added quickly, “it was nice, but we agreed. Lines.”
“Right.” His smile faded, replaced by something unreadable. “Lines.”
Another beat of silence.
Then a knock at the door broke it. Sharp. Precise.
Before either could move, a butler appeared and gestured politely. “Mr. Jux, sir. Your father would like a word in the drawing room.”
Juma’s expression shifted—tightened. His jaw locked.
“Thanks, Robert. I’ll be right there.”
The butler vanished.
Andrelle stood, unsure whether she should leave too.
But Juma’s voice stopped her.
“Stay close today, yeah?”
She looked at him. “Is something wrong?”
He hesitated. “My father’s been quiet. Too quiet. That’s never good.”
She nodded. “Alright. I’ll be around.”
He gave her one last look before walking off—shoulders a little straighter, but eyes just as weary.
The rest of the morning was a whirlwind.
Andrelle had barely finished her tea when she was whisked away by one of Juma’s aunts, a glamorous woman named Yvette who insisted she needed to be "styled properly" for brunch.
“You’re already pretty, darling,” Yvette said, waving a hand like royalty. “But you need a touch of power glam. You’re going to be a Jux, after all.”
Andrelle didn’t correct her. Just sat through the makeup, the curls, the designer dress selection like a mannequin.
Pretending was exhausting.
By the time she stepped into the brunch hall, she felt like someone else. Someone polished. Someone poised.
But not… her.
Juma was already seated at the long glass table. He looked up as she entered—and for a split second, his face softened.
But it was brief. Because across from him sat his father.
Mr. Barasa Jux.
The man had presence—sharp eyes, crisp suit, a voice that could silence a room.
Andrelle had only seen him in photos and headlines until now. Seeing him in person was like staring at a storm. Controlled, but always ready to unleash.
“You must be the famous Andrelle,” Barasa said, standing slowly.
His handshake was firm. Measuring.
“Yes, sir. It’s nice to meet you,” she said, keeping her voice calm.
He studied her for a long beat, then nodded toward the seat beside Juma.
“So,” Barasa said as everyone settled. “How long have you two been engaged?”
Andrelle opened her mouth—only to feel Juma’s knee brush against hers under the table.
He answered for her.
“A little over three months.”
Barasa nodded. “Three months and no public announcement?”
“We wanted time,” Juma said evenly. “To be sure. To enjoy it quietly.”
“Hm.” Barasa sipped his coffee. “That’s not how the Jux family does things. We don’t hide.”
Juma met his gaze. “We also don’t rush.”
Tension rippled beneath the silverware and linen napkins. A subtle war fought in glances and tone.
Andrelle kept her hands folded. Her heart was drumming.
Then, out of nowhere, Barasa turned to her again.
“What do your parents do, Andrelle?”
She froze for a half second—then smiled, soft but composed.
“My mother’s a teacher. My father was a mechanic. He passed when I was nine.”
Barasa didn’t blink. “And your education?”
“Currently finishing my business degree. I drive part-time to pay for tuition.”
The table went still.
Then—Barasa chuckled. Once. Sharp.
“Well. At least you’re honest.”
Andrelle stiffened, but Juma reached for her hand under the table. Squeezed.
Not romantically. Just a quiet, I’ve got you.
Barasa leaned back. “You have nerve, Juma. Bringing home someone so... unscripted.”
“Maybe it’s time we changed the script,” Juma said calmly.
A few aunts shifted uncomfortably.
Barasa stood. “We’ll talk later. Privately.”
And with that, he left—his steps echoing across the floor.
Later that afternoon, Andrelle found Juma in the garden, tossing stones into the koi pond with surprising force.
“He’s not impressed,” Juma said without turning. “Shocking, I know.”
She sat beside him on the stone bench. “You handled it well.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “You did better.”
Andrelle shrugged. “He’s intimidating.”
“He’s a perfectionist,” Juma muttered. “And in his mind, nothing that doesn’t come from his mold is good enough.”
She hesitated, then said gently, “That’s not your burden to carry.”
He looked at her, really looked, and something in him cracked a little more.
“What if this—us—is just another lie I’ve told to avoid becoming what he wants?” he asked.
She didn’t answer immediately. Just picked up a stone, tossed it into the water.
“We’re both pretending, Juma. But somewhere along the line, we stopped doing it just for your father.”
His throat worked. “And if that’s true?”
She met his eyes. “Then we’ve got bigger problems than your brunch menu.”
They both laughed—quiet, tired laughter—but laughter nonetheless.
The facade was cracking. And through the cracks, something real was beginning to grow.
- Writer
