The rain had stopped hours ago, but it still echoed in Sandra's bones.
She lay awake on her bed, the same one she'd known since campus, the same one she shared with Immy when bills were tight. But tonight, nothing felt familiar.
James hadn't touched her lips. He hadn't said anything scandalous.
But the way his fingers had traced her cheek—the silence that followed—it had done more damage than a thousand kisses ever could.
She stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open.
She could still feel the towel she had handed him. Damp. Heavy. She could still hear the way he said "Goodnight, Sandra" like he was swallowing something he didn't know how to spit out.
Immy turned beside her and sighed in her sleep, unaware of the emotional war being fought inches away.
Sandra closed her eyes and prayed to forget him.
But her heart was louder than any prayer she could manage.
---
Immy's phone buzzed.
She reached over, groggy-eyed, and squinted at the screen.
Text from: Unknown Number
> "Meet me tonight. Pearl Lounge. 9PM sharp. Wear something red."
Immy grinned.
She didn't recognize the number, but the confidence behind the message? That stirred something in her chest.
She quickly typed back:
> "Who is this?"
The reply came a moment later.
> "The one who noticed what others missed."
Immy bit her lip.
It had been a long time since someone flirted without using emojis and cheap lines.
She liked that.
---
Kampala's nightlife was alive with soft music, expensive drinks, and women who knew how to hold power in a glance. The Pearl Lounge was hidden behind a gated compound in Naguru, candle-lit and velvet-draped.
Immy arrived alone.
Red dress. Silver clutch. Curls bouncing over her shoulders.
She scanned the room, unsure who she was meeting.
Then she saw him.
A tall man in a black jacket. He was leaning against the bar, casual but sharp. Eyes alert. Smile lazy.
He waved once.
Immy walked over, her heels clicking softly.
"You don't look like a stranger," she said.
He chuckled. "Is that good or bad?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you're buying the first drink."
Victor lifted two fingers. "Two whiskeys."
Immy smiled.
Smooth.
Very smooth.
---
They didn't talk about work. Not at first.
Victor didn't mention J&M. He didn't mention his title. He didn't even give his last name.
He called himself "Vico."
Immy laughed at that.
"Vico like cooking oil?" she teased.
He shrugged. "Depends how hot the kitchen gets."
She liked his confidence.
And his eyes—dark, unreadable—reminded her of trouble.
The kind you shouldn't like.
The kind that kissed you anyway.
"So what do you do, Vico?" she asked.
"I manage things."
"Like what?"
"Money. Secrets. Women who think they know everything."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Careful," she said. "I might be one of them."
He grinned. "That's why I invited you."
---
Back at home, Sandra was packing her laptop when she noticed Immy's perfume.
She hadn't said where she was going.
Just left a note: "Don't wait up. I need fun."
Sandra sighed.
She didn't blame her.
The past few weeks had been heavy.
But something about the note felt... off.
Still, she let it go.
She had a report to finish.
And a CEO who hadn't spoken to her since that night.
---
Meanwhile, in a small wine bar near Acacia Mall, Shinta scrolled through her private notes.
She had managed to dig up Sandra's university records.
UCU. Mukono.
Top 10% of her class.
Active in church groups.
One disciplinary note — for slapping a boy who tried to touch her during a fresher's orientation.
Shinta smirked.
"Fiery," she whispered.
She flagged the file.
Then opened another.
A photo.
Sandra's mother.
A record from Mulago Hospital.
Then another file.
Junior.
Chronic respiratory issues.
Expensive treatments.
Unstable employment record.
Everything was there.
Just not the one thing she wanted:
Weakness.
She needed something Sandra couldn't explain away.
And she would find it.
---
At Pearl Lounge, Immy and Victor were dancing now.
The music was slow. Her hand rested on his shoulder. His breath was warm near her ear.
"You're dangerous," she said softly.
"I'm just curious."
"About?"
"You."
She laughed. "I'm nobody."
"No," he said, pulling her a little closer. "You're Sandra's cousin."
She blinked.
Stepped back.
"How do you know Sandra?"
Victor's smile never faded. "Kampala is small."
"You work with her?"
"Sort of."
"Who are you really?"
Victor looked into her eyes.
"I'm someone who knows things."
"And what do you want from me?"
He leaned in, lips near her ear.
"To see how far you'd go for someone you love."
She swallowed.
"Is this a game?"
"Everything is."
---
Back home, Sandra finally received a message.
From James.
> "Office. 7AM. No delays."
No 'hi.'
No 'how are you?'
Just a command.
But her heart still skipped.
She hated that.
She hated how much power he held over her mood.
Over her mind.
---
The next morning, Sandra arrived at J&M even earlier.
She passed by the reception, rode the elevator in silence, and reached the executive floor just before sunrise.
James was already there.
He was seated.
Coffee untouched.
He didn't look up.
"Sit."
She did.
"I read your revised audit notes."
Sandra nodded.
"You noticed a second payment loop."
"Yes."
He looked at her now.
"I've given it to legal. Quietly."
She hesitated. "Will that affect Victor?"
James didn't blink.
"Yes."
Her hands tightened on the table.
"Is that why he's—"
"I know what he's doing."
She looked at him, startled.
"I've known for a while."
Sandra sat back.
"Then why haven't you stopped him?"
James leaned forward.
"Because I wanted to see if you would."
She didn't speak.
Then quietly, she asked, "And what happens to me now?"
"You keep working. But trust no one. Not even your cousin."
That startled her.
"Immy?"
James said nothing.
Just stared out the window again.
---
Meanwhile, Immy was staring at her phone.
Victor had sent another message.
> "Meet me again tonight. Same place. But this time, no questions."
She hesitated.
Something felt wrong.
But something also felt... tempting.
She replied.
> "Fine."
Then locked her phone.
And told herself she wasn't falling.
Even though she already had.
---
Sandra received an anonymous call at 8PM that night.
Male voice.
Distorted.
"Come to the rooftop parking lot. J&M. Alone."
She almost deleted it.
But curiosity won.
She arrived 20 minutes later.
The rooftop was empty.
Except—
A red envelope taped to the windshield of her mum's old car.
She opened it.
Inside: A photo.
Of her.
From three years ago.
Walking out of a lawyer's office.
Next to her?
A man.
Her father.
The one who was supposed to be dead.
She froze.
Below it, a note:
> "Secrets don't stay buried. Not when others start digging."
She looked around.
No one was there.
But someone was watching.
And they knew.