The Woman Who Asked Questions
986 Words
**Chapter 2: The Woman Who Asked Questions**
The ballroom of the Royal Crest Hotel glowed with soft gold light. Crystal chandeliers shimmered overhead, scattering reflections across polished marble floors. Waiters moved silently through the crowd with silver trays of champagne while the city’s most influential figures mingled beneath banners that read:
**Hope for Tomorrow Medical Initiative.**
Dr. Refa Khama stood near the far side of the room, watching the crowd rather than joining it.
She adjusted the sleeve of her navy dress, her sharp eyes moving from politician to business magnate to celebrity donor. These were the people whose signatures could build hospitals—or bury projects in endless paperwork.
She had learned that lesson the hard way.
Her rural clinic project had started as a dream during her final year of medical school. Too many patients from remote villages arrived at urban hospitals already dying from diseases that should have been treated months earlier. The clinic was supposed to change that.
But dreams required money.
And tonight, the man who claimed he could provide it would be here.
Refa lifted her glass of sparkling water but didn’t drink. Her mind replayed the conversation she’d had with Luthando earlier.
Smooth voice. Careful answers.
Too careful.
The room shifted slightly as a ripple moved through the crowd. Conversations softened. Heads turned.
Refa followed their gaze.
Luthando Mkhize had arrived.
He walked into the ballroom with the quiet confidence of someone who understood exactly how much power he held. His charcoal suit fit perfectly, the cut simple but unmistakably expensive. A few government officials moved toward him almost immediately, eager to greet him.
To the outside world, he was exactly what the newspapers described: an international philanthropist who funded education, infrastructure, and humanitarian projects across Africa.
But something about him felt… calculated.
Refa had spent enough time around politicians to recognize controlled charm.
Luthando greeted several people before his eyes found her across the room.
For a brief moment, the noise of the ballroom seemed to fade.
Then he began walking toward her.
Refa straightened slightly.
When he stopped in front of her, a faint smile curved across his face.
“Dr. Khama,” he said warmly. “I’m glad you came.”
His voice sounded exactly the same as it had on the phone—smooth and confident.
“Thank you for the invitation,” she replied.
His gaze studied her carefully, not in an uncomfortable way, but with quiet intensity.
“You look disappointed,” he said.
Refa raised an eyebrow.
“I just got here.”
“Still,” he said. “You expected something different.”
She allowed herself a small smile.
“Maybe I expected fewer politicians.”
Luthando chuckled softly.
“Unfortunately, charity events attract them the way honey attracts flies.”
A waiter passed with champagne. Luthando took two glasses and handed one to her.
Refa accepted it but didn’t drink.
“You mentioned funding for the rural clinic,” he said. “I read the proposal you sent.”
“You did?” she asked, surprised.
“Twice.”
That caught her off guard.
Most donors barely skimmed documents before asking their assistants for a summary.
“And?” she asked.
“And I think it’s exactly the kind of project that should exist,” he said.
His tone carried conviction.
“But,” she said.
His smile widened slightly.
“You’re cautious.”
“I’m realistic.”
He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.
“Realism is good. Blind trust is dangerous.”
Refa studied him carefully.
“That’s interesting advice coming from someone asking for trust.”
Luthando laughed quietly.
“Fair point.”
Across the room, a group of businessmen watched them with subtle curiosity.
Refa noticed.
“People seem very interested in you,” she said.
“That happens when someone controls a lot of money.”
“Is that the only reason?”
His eyes flickered with amusement.
“You ask direct questions, Doctor.”
“Occupational habit.”
He took a slow sip of champagne.
“I respect that,” he said. “Most people prefer polite conversation.”
“I prefer honest conversation.”
For the first time, something darker flashed in his eyes.
“Honesty,” he said softly, “can be very dangerous in certain circles.”
“Are you warning me?”
“Advising you.”
Refa folded her arms slightly.
“And what circle exactly am I stepping into?”
Luthando glanced around the ballroom.
The laughter.
The cameras.
The wealthy donors shaking hands.
Then he looked back at her.
“One where power doesn’t always look the way you expect.”
A voice suddenly interrupted.
“Luthando! There you are.”
A tall man in a tailored suit approached quickly. His smile was polite but tense.
“Excuse me,” Luthando said smoothly.
He turned to the man, shaking his hand.
Refa watched as they exchanged quiet words. The stranger leaned closer, speaking urgently.
Luthando’s expression barely changed, but something in his posture shifted.
Cold.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
After a moment, the man walked away.
Luthando turned back to her.
“My apologies.”
Refa tilted her head slightly.
“Business?”
“Something like that.”
She studied him carefully again.
“You seem like a man who lives in several worlds at once.”
“That’s accurate.”
“And which world is the real one?”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he smiled again.
“The one that gets results.”
Refa finally took a sip of champagne.
“Then I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”
Luthando’s gaze lingered on her.
“Oh, you will,” he said quietly.
Across the ballroom, a photographer’s camera flashed.
Neither of them noticed the man near the entrance watching them closely.
Or the message he had just sent.
**Target confirmed.*
- Writer
