Lynn paced the suite like a storm in heels. The wedding chaos was behind them, but the truth had just started pouring in.
Her father.
Of all people, he was the one pulling strings in the background. Why?
Across the room, Lwandile leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed, watching her.
> "You know," he said, "you're terrifying when you're quiet."
"I'm thinking," she replied. "Try it sometime."
He grinned. "Feisty. I missed that."
She shot him a look, but her lips twitched before she could stop herself. "I doubt you miss anything that doesn't bleed."
Lwandile stepped closer, slowly, like approaching a lioness with her claws out.
> "Actually, I miss quite a few things," he said, voice low. "Like that face you make when you're pretending not to be impressed."
She turned toward him, arms folded. "And what face is that?"
He smirked, stepping into her space.
> "The one you're making right now."
Their eyes locked. The silence was thick—not tense this time, but charged.
His hand lifted—gentle, unthreatening—as he tucked a loose braid behind her ear.
> "You don't trust me," he said softly.
"I don't need to trust you," Lynn whispered. "I just need to use you."
He chuckled. "I know. But it's funny… I'd still die for you."
That stopped her.
> "Don't say things like that," she said, barely above a whisper.
"Why not?"
"Because I might believe you."
Lwandile leaned in, his lips barely brushing hers.
Just enough to make her heart pause.
But she didn't move away.
> "This doesn't change anything," she breathed.
"No," he said. "But it changes everything."
Then he kissed her.
And for one brief, burning moment…
Lynn let herself feel something other than revenge.