Chapter 12: Relationship status: its complicated

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
FLAMMING LILLY ESTATE HOSPITAL

George sat on the bench, his head leaning against the wall. The horrifying events of the day replayed in his mind.

His heart trembled at the memory of Sinikiwe’s almost lifeless body. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Even though everything had worked out, he couldn’t stop himself from reprimanding his decisions. One second late, and it would have been a disaster. So many ways he could’ve handled it, but he took the confrontational path.

I hope you’re proud of yourself, he thought.

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his thighs and palmed his face.

Please God, let her be alright.

“George.”

Bupe, now dry and changed, walked over and sat beside him.

“So,” he began, “who is she?”

George, who had been tapping his foot restlessly, stopped and looked at him.

Who is she?

The question bounced around his head.

A friend? An enemy? An employee? An old acquaintance? A former worker? Or simply the woman whose guts he hated? None felt right.

His relationship with Sinikiwe was complicated.

To outsiders, he was a ruthless, cold CEO, all about profits. But around her, he lost all sense of reason. Sinikiwe robbed him of his senses and made him act irrationally.

They say a beautiful woman is a man’s nemesis. It was true.

He was just a teenager-wet behind the ears-when he took over Njolomba Holdings from his mother. He’d won multimillion-dollar contracts, battled ruthless sharks, and navigated the murky waters of business with a cool head. But once Sinikiwe walked into his world, he became no better than a reckless, infatuated teen.

“Abel’s ex,” he finally said, his tone clipped. He grimaced as if he’d swallowed a bug.

“Really? You could’ve fooled me. For a moment, I thought she was your runaway bride.”

“Abel’s ex,” George repeated.

“Doesn’t seem like his type,” Bupe said, studying him.

George ignored the jab and stared at the emergency room. The longer they waited, the more nervous he grew. Only a few minutes had passed, but it felt like forever.

“It’s complicated.”

Bupe chuckled. “Always is.”

George shot him an irritated look. “Don’t you have things to do in the office?”

“Nope. Delegated all my work to juniors-you should try that sometime.”

“More talkative than usual today.”

“And I’ve never seen you lose your cool like that. Not even with billion-dollar contracts. You sure she’s just Abel’s ex?”

“When did you start gossiping?”

“She’s pretty though. Worth all the trouble.” Bupe stifled a chuckle and pulled something from his pocket. “By the way, Mrs. Mulenga said the phone’s been ringing nonstop. She didn’t dare answer.”

George took the battered phone. A large spiderweb crack made the screen hard to read.

Fifty-five missed calls. Over ninety-nine messages.

Nineteen from Sweetheart.

Twelve from Darling.

Fourteen from Honey.

Each name saved with a corny heart emoji. The rest were from Saboi.

Just then, the phone rang.

Sweetheart.

George stared at the screen, irritation rising.

“Ain’t you gonna answer that?” Bupe raised a brow. “Who do you think Sweetheart is? A love rival?”

“There’s nothing going on between Nikkie and me.”

“Nikkie, huh?”

The emergency room doors opened, and the doctor who had been on the chopper came out.

George jumped up. “Evans, how’s Nikkie?”

“We’ve got her stable for now, but it’s more complicated than a near-drowning,” he said seriously.

Heart pounding, George locked eyes with him. “What do you mean? Is…is she okay?”

“She’s on high-flow oxygen. The initial X-ray didn’t show severe water aspiration. The main concern now is the injury to her side.”

“The cut?”

“A deep laceration, probably from a sharp rock. She lost a lot of blood at the scene and during the flight. We’ve started IV fluids and are cross-matching blood for transfusion.”

“A transfusion? Will she need surgery?” His voice shook.

“Yes. We need to get her into the OR immediately – clean the wound, stop any internal bleeding, and repair the damage. We suspect the cut may have nicked something deeper.”

“Oh God. She’ll be okay, right?”

“We’re doing everything we can. The trauma team is ready. The next few hours are critical, mainly due to blood loss. We need to stabilize her circulation before we can relax about the possible long-term effects of oxygen deprivation.”

“Can I see her? Just for a second?”

“Briefly, yes. She’s in Trauma Bay 3 – very tired from shock and blood loss. She’s drifting in and out but we’re keeping her awake as much as possible to monitor her mental state. A nurse will guide you. After that, she goes straight to the OR.”

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

ONYX LOUNGE

Loud, ear-deafening music blared out of the speakers. The bar patrons laughed all rowdy, trying to shout over the noise.

It was the kind of dive Constance would never step foot in-it reeked of poverty. But here she was, slumped over her table, surrounded by a dozen empty bottles.

She’d picked a corner seat hoping for some privacy, but no such luck. The guys kept harassing her, wanting to chat her up.

They could smell she was loaded from a mile away, and that Jaguar-the latest model-parked outside? Dead giveaway. Drew all kinds of curious eyes.

But she ignored them all, staring at her husband’s WhatsApp status.

There he was on a yacht, lips locked with some girl who looked barely out of her teens. The girl was straddling his lap, clearly loving every second.

No surprise there. It was the life she’d signed up for. Before, she’d ignored it all, even when it hurt, because at the end of the day, he respected their marriage. Wouldn’t cross that line. So she’d worn the title of Mrs. Abel Mwango with pride.

Until today, when the illusion shattered.

Despite the hurt and humiliation chewing her up, she couldn’t walk away. Her pride wouldn’t let her. Her past deeds wouldn’t let her.

“Fuck it all to hell,” she muttered, raising her hand to call the barman.

“Boss lady.” The old barman shuffled over with an ingratiating smile.

Constance sat up a bit, running a hand through her messy hair.

“Give me your strongest beer,” she slurred.

He eyed the dozen empty wine bottles. She’d downed them all and still seemed steady.

“Strongest? Black Label-you can’t go wrong with that.”

“Sure, whatever.”

”Right on it. How many?”

“The whole crate.”

His eyebrow shot up, concern flashing, but it passed quick. If clients wanted to drink themselves to death, that was on them.

He turned to go.

“Wait.”

He spun back, frowning. Changing her mind? He hated that.

“Boss lady?”

“Make it two crates.”

His smile widened.“Two crates coming right up, boss lady.”

Her phone buzzed. She grabbed it hasty, a smile flickering-then nothing.

Telecom company message. She chuckled, bitter and self-mocking, tossing it aside.

Constance, you really are a fool. What were you expecting?

She ought to be used to Abel’s indifference by now, but her heart still ached. Almost ten at night, twelve hours since she’d caught him and her best friend in that tryst, and not a single check-in.

Tears welled up.

How much more pathetic can you get?

The barman hauled over the crates.

“Boss lady, here’s your Black Label, chilled perfect.”

She paid, reached for a bottle-then a surprised voice cut through.

“Mrs. Mwango?”

A tall, light-skinned guy in gym clothes walked up, black backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Oh, Chibamba.”

“You okay?”

Constance chuckled. “Never been better.”

Chibamba took in the mess of bottles and frowned.

“Take a seat, join me. Let’s drink to life.”

“You drank all this? Alone? Maybe you should call it a night.”

His worry amused her, but it just made her pity herself more.

“How’d you end up here?” Chibamba pulled out the chair opposite and sat.

She shoved the crate his way, flashed a smile uglier than crying.

“What happened? Wanna talk?”

Constance smiled, shook her head. Gulped down the bottle.

Talk? Hell yeah, she wanted to.

She wanted to more than talk. She wanted to yell. To curse. Shout her grievances and get some justice.

But that’d expose her darkest secret. The marriage she’d bragged about? Built on fraud.

One whisper, and her good life vanished. Jail time, even.

She was hurting bad. She wanted to hurt Abel and Gwen back. But she couldn’t. Had to swallow it all.

So here she was, drowning sorrows in booze.

She banged the empty bottle down. Hurt like her heart was ripping in two.

“Maybe I should drive you home?” Chibamba offered, seeing her grab another.

Constance chuckled.

Home? she snorted. The very place her husband treated like a hotel? Where she constantly tiptoed around her mother-in-law?

No, that wasn’t a home. It was a golden, gilded cage-glittery on the outside, but a house of horrors inside.