Lynn stood outside the rooftop bar, arms crossed, eyes scanning the Cape Town skyline. The sun had long dipped below the horizon, but the heat of betrayal still burned under her skin.
He was late.
Ten minutes. Then twenty.
She should've left. But she didn't.
A familiar voice drifted behind her — deep, smooth, dangerous.
> "Still love showing up early, Lynn. Some things never change."
She turned slowly.
There he was.
Lwandile Dlamini.
The last time she saw him, he was bleeding on her marble floor — shot, cornered, and whispering secrets he shouldn't have known. And then he vanished.
Tonight, he was clean-cut, dressed in black, confidence rolling off him like smoke. But his eyes… they were the same.
Dangerous. Haunted.
"I should've let you die that night," Lynn said flatly.
He chuckled. "You almost did."
A tense silence filled the space between them — not quite anger, not quite lust. Something in-between. Something volatile.
> "Why are you here?" she demanded. "Why now?"
"I know what Thabiso and Naledi did," Lwandile replied. "And I know what they're planning next."
Lynn's eyes narrowed. "You think I care about their next move?"
"No," he said, stepping closer. "I think you care about revenge. And I know how to make it hurt."
For a second, she felt her heart twist — not because of him, but because he still knew exactly how to play her.
She hated that.
Loved it too.
> "This isn't a game," she warned.
Lwandile leaned in, his voice low. "Then let's make it war."
And just like that, Lynn knew two things:
1. She still didn't trust him.
2. She was going to work with him anyway.
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