Heart over Matter

The boardroom gleamed. Zanele adjusted Mandla’s tie with the same precision she once used to build his confidence. “Remember, they’re not just listening to what you say. They’re watching how you stand.” Mandla gave her that boyish grin—the one he’d used since his first moot court appearance, when she coached him through stage fright and stuttered case law. “I’ve got this, Zee. You trained me too well.” She smiled, stepping back to survey him. Crisp navy suit. Clear eyes. Her man. Her product. Her victory. “Don’t forget to pause after introducing the restructuring proposal,” she reminded him. “It gives weight. Silence is power.” He nodded and picked up the presentation remote with a surgeon’s grip. “You sure you don’t want to lead this one?” Zanele folded her arms. “I don’t need the room to know who made the room.” He laughed, and for a brief second, she saw the man she married—not the partner, not the brand—but the man who used to whisper dreams into her neck at 2 a.m. Then the door opened, and the air shifted. Kay. “Sorry, I just wanted to confirm if we’re printing thirty or thirty-five copies of the pitch pack.” Her voice was too bright for 8:00 a.m., her wig too sleek, heels too loud. Her eyes landed on Mandla, then flitted quickly to Zanele. “Didn’t realize you two were still... prepping.” Zanele turned slowly, her tone warm with acid. “Thirty-five. And double-check that everyone on the committee gets one—not just the ones who flirt with Mandla during breaks.” Kay’s smile tightened. “Of course.” Mandla chuckled nervously, already reaching for his laptop. “Let’s focus, ladies.” Zanele brushed invisible lint off his shoulder and lowered her voice, just for him. “Focus, love. There’s more than a deal on the table today. You close this, and they’ll never question your weight in this firm again.” Their eyes met. Pride. Trust. Intimacy. And somewhere behind it all, a shadow even she couldn’t yet name. --- The presentation was flawless. Mandla moved with practiced confidence, pausing exactly where Zanele told him to, letting silence stretch until it wrapped the room in anticipation. Every slide landed. Every question was answered with charm and data. The boardroom filled with nods of approval. When the room erupted in applause, Zanele clapped too, even as a small part of her whispered, He did it. You did it. Afterward, Mandla was swarmed by executives shaking his hand, patting his back, praising his vision. Kay slid in too close with a bottle of water and a radiant smile, whispering something into his ear that made him laugh. Zanele caught the moment. The ease. The familiarity. She looked away. Back in her office, she poured herself a glass of sparkling water and leaned against her desk. Her phone buzzed. An email from Kay. Subject: "Board Documents - Final Copies." She opened it, more out of habit than interest. Attached was a folder. She clicked. PDFs, spreadsheets, board agendas. And one mistakenly attached file named: "Transfer Agreement_KM&MJ_Draft2." She frowned. Clicked. Read. Her blood ran cold. The file detailed the pre-approval of asset movement between two shell companies. Her name appeared once—as the former owner of a block of shares that had been quietly reassigned. Mandla's name. And Kay Masinga. KM & MJ. Zanele didn’t breathe. She just scrolled. They were moving shares. Planning a transfer. Using dummy corporations. Bypassing board votes. Stealing from her. Stealing her. Her hands trembled, just slightly. Not from shock. From calculation. She picked up her phone, dialed Sipho from the compliance unit. "I need you to trace the last three months of internal transfers, especially anything Mandla touched. Quietly. No paper trail. No office talk." Sipho’s voice tightened. “Understood, Ma’am.” Zanele sat down, closing her eyes. A deep breath. Another. She wasn’t falling apart. She was formulating war. She copied the file to an encrypted flash drive she kept in her top drawer—a habit she'd never broken from her days in litigation. Then she forwarded the email to a private account she shared with no one, under a different alias, and deleted the original from her work inbox. The evidence was safe. So was the woman she'd have to become. --- That night, alone in her penthouse apartment overlooking Sandton, she stood barefoot in the kitchen, glass of red wine in hand, staring out over a city she’d once conquered. Her phone buzzed again. Unknown number. Message preview: > You’re not the only one he tried to burn. I have what you need. One condition: dinner. T. Zanele read it twice. T. There was only one man who signed his messages like that. Thami Dlamini. She hadn’t heard from him in five years. Not since she married Mandla. Zanele set the glass down and stared at her phone. The city glittered. Her empire trembled. But her spine was steel. Dinner it was. But not because he asked. Because she chose it.