As Nthando reached for the heavy glass door to lead me back inside, he didn't grab my hand. He didn't have to. He simply placed his palm on the small of my back—a light, proprietary touch that felt like a brand through the thin bronze silk.
The transition was instantaneous. One moment, we were in the silver silence of the Harare night; the next, we were submerged in a sea of gold light and the heavy, rattling bass of a new track.
The room felt different now. As we moved toward the center of the open-plan lounge, the "sea of people" didn't just part; it recoiled. The laughter at the bar dipped, and the "designer baddies" on the velvet sofas paused their hushed conversations, their eyes tracking the hand on my back with a mixture of shock and envy.
I caught sight of the handsome stranger I'd danced with earlier. He was leaning against the marble island, a fresh drink in his hand, looking like he was ready to make another move. But as his gaze traveled from my face to the man standing beside me, his confidence visibly evaporated. He took a sudden, very interested gulp of his drink and turned back to the bartender. He knew the rules of this house: you don't hunt what the King has already claimed.
"You've gone quiet, Paida," Nthando murmured, his breath warm against my ear as we reached the edge of the sunken lounge.
"I'm just noticing the weather," I replied, keeping my head high even as my heart hammered. "The temperature in here just dropped about ten degrees the moment you walked in."
"And for someone who hates too much attention people keep giving me weird glances"
Nthando let out a low, dark chuckle. "That's not the temperature dropping. That's just people remembering to mind their business."
He led me toward the white leather sofas where Simba was still sitting, nursing his amber drink. Simba looked up, a slow, triumphant grin spreading across his face as he took in the sight of us. He didn't say I told you so, but it was written in the way he raised his glass in a silent toast.
"I see the 'armor' survived the balcony," Simba teased, sliding over to make room for us.
"It survived the balcony," Nthando said, finally removing his hand from my back as we sat, though he remained close enough that our shoulders brushed. "But the night is young, and I think Paida is starting to realize that the shadows in this house aren't as cold as they look."
I looked from Simba's knowing smirk to Nthando's unreadable gold-flecked eyes. I was sitting in the heart of the VIP section, in one of the the most famous house in Borrowdale, beside a man who treated the world like his personal chessboard.
I took a sip of the sparkling wine Tariro had left on the table, the bubbles biting at my tongue. I had come here as an assistant in a bronze dress, looking for a way to take up space. Now, I wasn't just taking up space. I was the center of the gravity.
"So, Mr. Ntando," I said, leaning back into the leather and meeting his gaze. "Now that you've caught the 'rare thing' in the room… what exactly do you plan to do with it?"
Nthando's expression shifted, the smirk fading into something more intense, more focused. He didn't answer immediately. He just watched the way the purple neon light played across the silk of my dress, his silence more loud than the music thumping through the floorboards.