Catherine was over the moon when Alexander announced they were getting married. It was fast—far too fast for anyone sensible—but she couldn't deny how much it meant. Back in South Africa, the men she'd met had felt sour and half-hearted, all talk with nothing solid behind it.
Catherine, on the other hand, was solid. She ran a worldwide electronics powerhouse and owned an online computer university. She was a big girl with big-girl money—yet the higher you climbed, the lonelier it got, especially when you were as selective as she was. Catherine had always been selective. And she had always wanted Alexander.
In college, he'd rejected her. She'd carried that rejection like a quiet bruise for years, promising herself she'd try again when she returned home. But the universe surprised her this time.
Alexander Shikongo asked her to marry him.
He'd even promised the wedding would be glamorous—
"I will make your life a living hell in this house until you decline Alex's offer."
The words hit Catherine like a whispered blade.
Monica leaned in close to her ear, then pulled back with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. In the same breath, she congratulated Catherine as though she'd said nothing at all. Catherine swallowed hard, snapping back to the room and the noise of breakfast plates. She knew the girl disliked her, but to what extent?
Breakfast ended, and the household moved into its usual routine. The twins—already dressed in their school uniforms—headed out for the day.
"Did Alex finally agree to let you take the G-Wagon?" Betty guessed, eyeing the keys in Monica's hand.
"Yes."I asked him this morning," Monica replied, casually pleased with herself. Then she lifted her chin toward her brother. "Come on. Let's go, Daniels."
They crossed the house and stepped into the garage.
Outside, Alexander stood beside the Bentley, his mood already sour. He looked like a man who'd been congratulated all morning and hadn't enjoyed a second of it.
"Where the hell is Ruben?" he snapped, scanning the driveway.
He'd convinced himself today would be a fresh start. He was going to marry his best friend—his childhood friend. Kuku Veronica had blessed him that very morning, beaming with happiness. So why did he feel bitter the moment he thought about the wedding?
Behind him, the G-Wagon came alive.
BEEP. BEEP.
The twins slipped into the vehicle and started the engine like it belonged to them. Alexander's eyes narrowed. The G-Wagon was his newest arrival—he hadn't even driven it yet. So why were Monica and Daniel taking it out?
He moved before he fully decided to. One moment he was by the Bentley; the next he was at the driver's side window of the G-Wagon, knocking hard enough to rattle the glass.
Monica rolled the window down a few inches—just enough to make him audible, not enough to make her vulnerable. She could see the anger on his face clearly.
"GET OUT!" Alexander roared.
"What?" Monica stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
"I said, get out." His voice dropped, heavier and sharper. He reached for the handle and pulled the door—but it didn't open.
Locked.
Monica's smile widened, calm and deliberate. "You should be happy you're getting married to the love of your life and leave me alone," she said, her voice sweet as poison. "You agreed we could take the G-Wagon today."
Then she reversed.
The car eased back, and Monica drove off without another glance, ignoring Alexander's fury as if it were background noise. She'd already clocked what was wrong with him. She just didn't care.
Catherine stepped out of the house a moment later, and Ruben rushed behind her, looking flustered and late.
As the G-Wagon disappeared down the road, Monica's voice floated back through the open window like a final jab: "Oh, look—it's your wife."
And with that, she was gone.
Alexander stood there in disbelief, jaw tight, annoyance boiling into something uglier. He snatched the Bentley keys from Ruben's hand so fast Ruben barely had time to blink.
Ruben didn't even try to explain why he'd taken so long inside.
He simply got into the passenger seat quickly—because Alexander would absolutely leave him behind without guilt or hesitation.
The Bentley tore out of the driveway.
Catherine lifted her hand, smiling as she waved goodbye. She even blew Alexander a kiss—happy, proud, and unbothered.
Alexander felt goosebumps crawl up his arms at the sight. Not the good kind.
"Don't forget," Ruben began carefully, speaking as slowly as possible, one hand braced against the ceiling handle, "we have to pass by the market to confirm yesterday's incident."
Alexander didn't answer. He just drove faster.
Vicky arrived at Sarge's Eatery and found Tonia already there, washing food basins and stacking plates. The kitchen smelled of dish soap and yesterday's work—familiar, hardworking, and honest.
"Morning, sweetie," Vicky greeted, rinsing her hands in the kitchen basin as she stepped in.
Tonia looked up with a tired smile, then went back to scrubbing.
"Do we have any orders today?" Vicky asked.
"Not really," Tonia said, then straightened with a slow exhale, clearly stiff from bending for too long. "Just a free party for a kid at the orphanage." She reached for a piece of paper and slid it across the counter. "That's the stock list. We're out of koeksister flour, pancake ingredients, and a few other things."
As she lowered herself into a chair, Vicky noticed the way Tonia shifted—careful, uncomfortable.
"Maybe we should hire someone to cover you," Vicky started, concern threading into her voice. "You look—"
"No." Tonia cut her off gently but firmly. "We can't afford a new hire. I'll manage." She rested a hand over her stomach, almost protective without meaning to be. "I'm only a month gone."
Vicky crouched beside her, not fully convinced. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," Tonia insisted, though her fatigue betrayed her. "Now go on. The supermarket should be open already."
Vicky nodded, grabbed her bags, and left.
Later, Vicky walked back with plastic packets and shopping bags cutting into her fingers. She approached the speed hump on the road, already planning how she'd carry everything without dropping anything.
She stepped forward to cross.
A car came flying—too fast for that stretch of road—and stopped an inch from her knees.
The shock snapped through her body. Her groceries flew from her hands, scattering across the tar: flour dusting the road in a pale storm, packets rolling, and items bouncing away like they wanted to escape.
Vicky's heartbeat slammed against her ribs as she looked up at the driver.
He looked annoyed.
"These middle-class people…" Alexander muttered under his breath, irritated as if she'd intentionally inconvenienced him. He leaned his head slightly out of the window. "Hey! Move out!"
Vicky stared, stunned. For a second, she rubbed her ears—half convinced her senses had malfunctioned.
Alexander honked repeatedly when she didn't move fast enough. The sound felt aggressive, impatient, and entitled.
She remained frozen—until a flare of anger lit in her chest.
When he tried to creep forward, Vicky stepped right in front of the car, squared her shoulders, and dared him to drive through her.
"I don't have time for this," Alexander snapped.
He got out of the car, suit immaculate, leather shoes polished to a mirror shine. His shoes pressed into the spilled flour, leaving crisp prints behind. His expression tightened with disgust as he tiptoed around the mess, careful not to ruin his outfit.
Vicky lifted her chin. "Did you buy your license?" she asked—surprisingly calm.
Alexander frowned. He hadn't expected that.
Up close, she was beautiful in a way that felt almost out of place in the chaos. Short curled hair. Brown-dark eyes—so striking they looked almost unreal. Sweatpants and sandals, like she'd dressed for comfort and didn't care who approved. An odd fashion choice.
Why was he even noticing these details right now?
"Are you deaf?" Vicky asked again, snapping him out of his sudden, unwanted observations.
Alexander's voice deepened, turning sharp and commanding. "The road is meant for cars. You clearly saw a car approaching, and you still crossed. Do you want to die?"
Most people flinched when he spoke like that. Most people stepped back. But not her.
Vicky stared at him blankly. "Sir. This is a speed hump. It's there to tell you to slow down—"
"And so?" Alexander cut her off, irritation in every syllable. "I have work. I can't waste time with this."
He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out his wallet, and threw a thick stack of cash at her like an insult disguised as compensation. It struck her and dropped to the ground.
By then, a few onlookers had gathered—pulled in by the noise, the flour, and the spectacle. Some recognized Alexander immediately. Their faces shifted with pity as they looked at Vicky.
Vicky, however, only saw a huge man who looked like just another spoiled brat—someone who believed money could erase accountability.
Alexander gestured toward the cash like he'd solved the problem. "There. That's five grand," he spat. "I guess you've never even seen that kind of money."
Even he seemed surprised by his own cruelty, as if her presence had dragged something ugly out of him.
Vicky didn't bend to pick it up.
Instead, she stepped forward.
SLAP!
The sound cracked across the street.
Alexander's head snapped to the side. Pain flared hot across his cheek, immediate and sharp. For a moment, everything froze—the air, the crowd, even the traffic.
Then everyone gasped.