Lunch at 12: 30
Everything was exactly like she remembered: the black leather chairs, the glass desk unmarred by clutter, even the single floor plant in its geometric pot.
Everything meticulous, ordered, and spare. A perfect mirror of the man it belonged to.
For a moment, she simply watched him, taking in the familiar furrow between his brows. The playful way he bit his lips when concentrating.
"Hm-hm," she cleared her throat.
"About time," he turned, grinning.
"Meeting ran late." She slid her coat off in one motion.
He inhaled sharply, cutting through the quiet as his gaze traveled the length of her body, lingering at her neckline beofre tracing the curve of her waist, pausing where her dress hinted at her form.
When his eyes finally found hers, they were darker than they'd been a moment ago.
"Twelve-thirty sharp," he said, standing. "You're five minutes late."
"You going to punish me for it?" she replied, crossing to him.
"I might."
"Good."
She stepped close enough to feel his warmth, then traced a finger along his jaw. The muscle jumped beneath her touch. But he stayed still, waiting, always waiting for her to give him permission, to show him she wanted this as much as he did.
It was maddening sometimes.
Finally, his hands slid up her thighs, taking the hem of her dress with them. His movement faltered for the briefest second as a flicker of surprise crossed his face.
"You really did come here to fuck," he teased.
"Was there any doubt?"
"I guess not." His fingers brushed higher as his expression darkened.
She climbed onto his lap then, straddling him in the leather chair she'd made fun of the first time she saw this office. She'd called it "serious" and "stuffy." Not at all like the version of him she knew behind closed doors.
Liya rolled her hips forward experimentally, grinding against the hardness straining his slacks.
He took another sharp inhale. Her favorite sound.
Making Wethu Mafu lose his composure was better than any deal she'd ever closed.
He worked his belt open with one hand while the other stayed between her legs, his fingers circling her with a confidence that came from years of knowing her body.
"Please," she whispered. "Now."
She was panting against his mouth, their breath mingling.
"Condom," he managed, freeing himself from his slacks.
"Pill," she countered. "And we both got tested last week."
They'd done that together, in the strange ritual of people trying again after time apart. Sitting in adjacent chairs at the clinic with paperwork on their laps, both of them pretending that this was normal. That this was what people in their situation did.
His hands gripped her hips, positioning her, and she lifted slightly. She could practically feel him press against her entrance, when—
BZZZT! BZZZT!
A low buzz rattled across the table just as he slipped inside.
They both gasped, then froze.
"Ignore it," Wethu said, his jaw clenched.
But Liya's body had already tensed, the spell breaking. She knew what was coming before his assistant's voice filled the room on speaker, apologetic and tense.
"Your aunt's here. She's on her way up. I know you said no interruptions, but... she insisted."
The line went dead.
"Fuck," Liya breathed.
Time shattered as she slid off his lap, the sound of her heels hitting the floor making the transition brutally real as she came back to reality.
She smoothed her dress down with shaking hands. She was still slick between her thighs. Could feel the ghost of him inside her still.
Wethu stood, tucking himself back into his pants with more composure than she could manage. His erection was still visible through the fabric.
"I didn't know she was coming," he said, reaching for her arm.
"It's fine." Her voice came out tight.
"Babe—"
"Just—" She stepped back, creating space between them. "Fix yourself."
He adjusted his shirt and smoothed his pants. He still looked thoroughly debauched, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
The knock came before either of them was ready.
"Knock-knock!"
The door swung open and Aunt Gloria filled the doorway, wearing coral linen that somehow looked crisp despite Cape Town's November heat. Her eyes took in the scene and reached the obvious conclusion immediately: Wethu's flushed face, Liya's swollen lips, the general air of interrupted intimacy.
"Wethu, darling," she said, crossing to embrace her nephew. Her voice was warm, affectionate. "You look well. Working hard, I see."
"Makazi, (aunt in isiXhosa)," Wethu replied, sounding surprisingly calm. "To what do I owe the pleasure?
"I was in the area." Gloria's gaze slid to Liya, traveling from the strappy heels up to the wrap dress that suddenly felt too tight. "Oh. I didn't realize you had company."
The pause before 'company' felt pointed.
Liya straightened her spine.
She'd met this woman twice before: once at a family braai where Gloria had asked thinly veined questions about her "people," and again at Lucia's funeral, where Gloria had made a show of comforting Wethu while physically excluding Liya from the family circle.
"Hello, ma," Liya said, extending her hand. "Good to see you again."
Gloria's handshake was brief, almost dismissive. "Liya, isn't it? You do modeling, right?"
The way she said modeling made it sound like a euphemism for escort.
"Among other things," Liya replied evenly.
"Liya was just—" Wethu started.
"Leaving," Liya finished. She collected her bag and her coat, feeling both their eyes on her. "I'll let you two catch up."
"You don't have to—" Wethu began.
"I do, actually." She met his gaze, let him see the steel beneath her smile. "We'll talk later."
She moved toward the door, and Gloria shifted. Not obviously blocking her path, but positioning herself so Liya had to step around her.
"So lovely to run into you," Gloria said.
Liya nodded, continuing toward the door.
"That's quite a dress," Gloria continued. "Very bold choice for a Thursday afternoon."
Liya knew it was a dig, but something in her refused to let this woman have the last word.
She paused with her hand on the handle and turned to meet the older woman's gaze.
"Thank you. I thought so too."
She pulled the door closed behind her with a soft click.
The walk to the elevator felt endless, and by the time she reached it, her frustration had to go somewhere. She stabbed the button. Once. Twice. Three times.
The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside.
The dress that had felt like armor twenty minutes ago now felt like evidence. Gloria had looked at her and seen exactly what she was: a girl from Amalinda playing at belonging in spaces she’d never quite fit.
Her phone buzzed: Are you okay?
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
Not yet anyway.
— — —
Liya sat in her car in the parking garage with the engine off, her hands gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline.
She should drive away. She could be at her villa in Llandudno in twenty minutes, surrounded by her chosen family, people who saw her.
But she couldn't move yet.
The humiliation was too fresh.
Gloria had looked at her and seen a girl in a desperate dress, trying to keep a man's attention through sex because she had nothing else to offer. And maybe she was right. The three companies before twenty-five looked pretty pathetic from this angle, didn't they?
Her phone rang. Wethu, again.
She turned it face down on the passenger seat.
The worst part was, she still wanted him. Even now, after being interrupted and dismissed like an afterthought, her body hadn't registered the disgrace.
She bit her lip.
Her phone lit up again. Not Wethu this time.
Valerie: Where are you? Meeting's in an hour.
Reality reasserted itself. She had work. Responsibilities. A life that existed independently of Wethu Mafu.
She started the car and checked her makeup in the rearview mirror. Atleast her maekup was still intact. She fixed her lipstick where he'd kissed it away and straightened her dress again.
Then she drove out of the garage into the bright Cape Town afternoon.
