Chapter 9: The cost of silence
782 Words
Monday began with the kind of stillness that usually precedes a storm.
Zanele was just stirring, her robe wrapped tightly around her, when her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
T.
She answered, voice groggy. “Thami?”
“Hey,” his voice was soft. Too soft. “I know it’s early. I just... wanted to check on you.”
She frowned. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
A pause.
“Have you seen the news?”
Her heart skipped.
“No,” she said slowly, sitting upright. “Why?”
“Maybe I should come over.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Zanele...”
“I’m fine, T. I’ve never been better,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
And then she hung up.
---
Five minutes later, she sat in the glow of her phone screen, her heartbeat a snare drum in her chest. Her thumb hovered, then tapped open her browser.
The headline stared back at her like a slap:
> "Johannesburg Legal Golden Boy Restructures Future: Insiders Whisper of New Empire Built for Secret Heir"
Her breath hitched.
The article wasn’t long—more gossip than verified reporting—but it was damning.
> “Sources close to the transition reveal that M.M. is now moving critical assets to an offshore structure in preparation for a generational handover. Insiders say the son, allegedly born from a long-standing affair with a woman in his inner circle, may inherit control of key holdings. The move comes after years of speculation about why the high-powered couple never had children of their own. ‘He wanted legacy,’ the source said. ‘She couldn’t give it to him.’”
No names. But enough fire to burn through implication.
The screen blurred.
Zanele dropped the phone on her lap. Her chest felt hollow. Her body still. But her mind was chaos.
She was shaking, though she hadn’t noticed. Not from fear—but from the sudden, brutal knowing.
She knew.
It had been Kay all along.
It wasn’t just business betrayal. It was personal. It was flesh. It was family.
And a child.
A child she didn’t know about. A child raised in her absence while she built the firm. While she sacrificed. While she waited for a man to grow beside her instead of behind her back.
The tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it.
Then another.
And another.
The pain wasn’t clean—it was jagged. Like swallowing glass. She stood up quickly, as if motion could save her, but the air was too thin.
The phone rang again. It was right there, vibrating on the couch. But it felt miles away, like a memory she couldn’t reach.
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she collapsed onto the floor.
She didn’t scream.
She laughed.
A short, broken laugh that turned into a sob that folded into silence.
Her throat was raw, but her heart was worse.
She remembered.
That night, two years ago, when Mandla asked if she was ready to start trying for a family. She had said not yet—not with their biggest government contract still in negotiation.
“I just want us to be stable,” she’d told him. “The timing has to be right.”
He hadn’t argued.
He had nodded. Kissed her forehead.
And never brought it up again.
He made his decision that night, she realized now.
He made it quietly.
And then he acted on it.
While she gave him loyalty, he gave his legacy to someone else.
Someone with nothing but curves and cruelty in her favour.
Zanele stood up, her chest heaving now—not from grief, but from rage.
She wiped her face with her sleeve, smeared mascara bleeding into the cotton.
If she saw Kay... she wouldn’t speak.
She wouldn’t scream.
She would kill her.
Not metaphorically.
Not legally.
In that moment, if she had Kay in front of her, she would tear her apart with bare hands and call it mercy.
Because betrayal was one thing.
But building a future with someone else’s blood while pretending to love her? While pretending they were the future?
That was unforgivable.
---
Her phone rang again.
This time, she answered.
“T,” she said, her voice low.
“I’m outside.”
“I didn’t ask you to come.”
“I know. But I wasn’t going to let you drown alone.”
Zanele closed her eyes.
Maybe she wouldn’t open the door.
Maybe she would sit in this rage a little longer.
But even she knew:
The war had just become personal in ways no contract could contain.
And she wouldn’t just win anymore.
She would destroy.
- Writer
