In Search of Rich Celebrity Husbands

Chapter 7: Back to the Drawing Board

The morning sun streamed through the dusty windows of the flat, casting golden lines across the hardwood floor. Johannesburg was unusually quiet for a Saturday, its usual buzz muted as if the city had paused to catch its breath. But for Lulu, no amount of sunlight could thaw the ache inside her chest.

The betrayal had gone viral overnight. Her name was trending for all the wrong reasons. Kappo, the man she had trusted, had publicly humiliated her, and now the internet was feeding on the drama. Her phone buzzed every few minutes with a never-ending stream of notifications, but she hadn’t mustered the courage to open them. Her world felt as though it was collapsing inward.

Candice and Zara were already there, a show of force and friendship. Candice paced the living room, her curly hair bouncing with every step. Zara curled up in the armchair, sipping coffee and scrolling through her phone.

The flat itself looked like the aftermath of an emotional hurricane—used tissues everywhere, empty takeout boxes, and half-drunk mugs of rooibos and black coffee. A faint scent of lavender from a candle that had long since burned out clung to the air.

Candice clapped her hands sharply. “Right. Enough. We need to regroup. Reset. Re-strategise.”

Zara looked up with a tired smile. “You sound like you’re about to launch a startup.”

“Maybe I am,” Candice replied, hands on hips. “We are the brand. Our hearts. Our reputations. Our peace. And if we’re going to survive in this mad world, we need to know how to play the game better than the players.”

Lulu, who had been sitting on the couch with a blanket over her shoulders, slowly raised her head. Her eyes were puffy, and her voice was hoarse. “What game?”

“The dating game,” Candice said. “You’ve heard all the terms floating around—love bombing, ghosting, red flags, green flags, hard launches, soft launches. If men are showing up with playbooks, we need to learn how to read them. No, better—we write our own.”

Zara perked up. “Yes! Like a battle manual for the modern woman.”

Lulu gave a weak chuckle. “Feels like I’ve kissed every frog in Gauteng. Maybe even licked a swamp full of them.”

Candice burst out laughing. “Then, it’s time we built a bloody boat and sailed out of the marsh. No more drowning in disappointment.”

They cleared the coffee table and pulled out notebooks, laptops, and even Lulu’s tablet. They scrolled through Pinterest boards titled Self-Love After Heartbreak and Red Flags 101. t****k therapists played in the background, their voices offering comforting advice over catchy music.

Lulu was saving videos titled ‘Why Love Bombing Isn’t Love’, ‘Five Signs He’s Not the One’, and ‘Stop Romanticising Bare Minimum Behaviour’. Her fingers tapped as she took notes. The more she read, the more empowered she felt.

They created a shared doc called “Dating Manifesto.” Rule One: Protect your peace at all costs. Rule Two: No response is a response. Rule Three: If he can post his gym selfies, he can post you.

Zara leaned back, lipstick in one hand, a half-eaten croissant in the other. “We should get degrees after this. Emotional intelligence honours.”

Candice nodded. “Forget psychology degrees. We’re building our syllabus. And I propose we make our heartbreak public service announcements. Starting with you, Lu.”

But then, as if the universe couldn’t resist injecting chaos, Lulu’s phone pinged.

Kappo: “Hey, Lulu. I messed up. Can we talk?”

Lulu froze. Her breath caught. Zara leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. Candice grabbed the phone.

“Oh, he’s mad. The audacity of this man.”

Zara snorted. “Tell me you’re not thinking of replying.”

Lulu stared at the message. Her jaw tightened. She set the phone down but couldn’t resist picking it up again.

Another ping.

Kappo said, “I was confused. Things got out of hand. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Lulu let out a bitter laugh. “Now he’s confused? After everything that happened?”

Zara stood up and said, “Listen to me carefully. If you even consider letting him back into your life, we’re going to intervene. I’ll bring snacks and a slide presentation.”

Candice crossed her arms and replied, “You gave him your heart and trust, and he turned you into a punchline. He doesn’t get to sweet-talk you with a text and act like it’s all forgotten.”

Lulu’s fingers hovered over her keyboard. Then she typed:

Lulu: “If you’re serious, apologise online. Tell them the truth. Publicly. Maybe then, just maybe, I’ll think about listening.”

The response was almost instant.

Kappo: “You know I can’t do that. My image—”

The phone flew across the room and landed on the sofa.

“Exactly,” Lulu muttered. “He still cares more about his bloody image than my dignity.”

Zara sat beside her. “Then don’t look back. Close that door and lock it.”

Candice placed a hand on her knee. “We’re with you. Always.”

Tears filled Lulu's eyes, but this time, they weren't just about heartbreak. They represented release and determination. She hugged her friends tightly.

That evening, they turned the flat into a healing sanctuary. Candles were lit. The playlist was a careful mix of sad songs. They wore fluffy robes and bright face masks and took turns reading aloud from their manifesto.

They updated their dating profiles—not for validation, but for control. For clarity. For fun. Zara rewrote Lulu’s bio: “Recovering from emotional fraud. Fluent in memes, boundaries, and bubble baths.”

They made mocktail recipes named after exes—The Kappo was too sweet at first, but left an aftertaste.

By midnight, they were tipsy from laughter and pineapple juice. Lulu stared at the ceiling, her heart no longer heavy but lighter, resilient. She wasn’t healed yet, but she had taken her first step.

Early in the morning, Lulu finally picked up her phone again. She opened a new document. The cursor blinked like a heartbeat, waiting patiently.

She began typing:

“This isn’t a comeback. It’s a rewrite.”

Then she titled the document: Girls Reset.

Because that’s exactly what they were doing—resetting, reclaiming, and rewriting the narrative.

This time, they wouldn’t just survive. They’d thrive.

And Lulu knew, as the birds outside began to chirp and the sky turned from black to deep indigo, she would never let herself drown in someone else’s storm again.

She had built her boat.

And she was learning to sail.