Chapters 16 : The man she hates is the man she owes

She chanted in the back of her mind, a desperate mantra to drown out the thundering of her own heart. But the way the sandalwood scent clung to her skin told a different story-one her body remembered even if her pride wanted to delete the files.

The touch was electric, a searing reminder that no amount of logic could override the chemical warfare currently happening in her veins.

If this was the anaesthesia, she wanted a refund-or a double dose-because the reality of him being this close was far more dangerous than any drug.

Seven years had passed, and yet, one smouldering look from those chocolate eyes and her resolve was melting like wax under a blowtorch.

The heat in her cheeks wasn’t just embarrassment; it was the fire of a memory she had buried under a mountain of resentment.

That one night.

The way he had looked at her then was exactly how he was looking at her now, as if she were the only person in the world who mattered, despite the trail of wreckage he’d left behind.

She forced her eyes to focus on his lopsided smile, trying to find the flaw, the cruelty, the history that should have made her skin crawl instead of tingle.

Yet there was none, only a burning desire that threatened to overwhelm her.

She took deep breaths to calm down. Sinikiwe, you are a 29-year-old woman and mother of three-not some lovesick teenager. There’s no room for romantic escapades in your world.

“What are you doing here? What do you want?” Sinikiwe rasped. She pinned him with a hateful glare, her voice devoid of even a flicker of warmth.

“You got hurt on my property,” he answered simply, his expression unreadable.

“Oh, so you are here to silence me?” she sneered.

He frowned at the accusation, the lines on his forehead deepening as he reached for the pitcher and poured a cup of water. “Here, have some water.”

She eyed the plastic cup warily, as if it contained acid instead of hydration.

“Go get the doctor,” he said over his shoulder, his voice cutting through the heavy silence of the room.

The elderly caregiver, who had spent the last few minutes trying to turn herself into invisible air while watching the sparks fly between them, nodded vigorously. Her eyes gleamed with the kind of fresh gossip that would keep her talking for a month as she hurried out the door.

He chuckled, a low, dry sound, and took a sip from cup himself. “See? Not poisoned.”

She scoffed, a jagged sound of annoyance, then reached out and snatched the cup from him. He watched her, a sigh of resignation escaping his lips.

“Am I that despicable in your eyes, Nikkie?”

Her breath hitched at the nickname.

To him, it was just a name.

To her, it was the title of the tragedy he had written for her.

The nickname was her undoing. In one night, that single word had sent her to heaven, only to drop her straight into the abyss of hell.

She felt the old heat rising, the memory of that night flashing behind her eyelids like a strobe light. The heaven of his touch, the whispered promises, and then the crushing weight of the years that followed.

It was a jagged, double-edged blade. Back then, when he whispered it against her skin, it felt like a sacred bond, a secret language only they spoke.

Now, hearing it come out of his mouth felt like a violation-a cruel reminder of the girl she used to be before he ha systematically destroyed her.

Sinikiwe gripped the edge of the hospital blanket, her knuckles white.

She couldn’t afford to be ‘Nikkie’ anymore.

Nikkie was naïve.

Nikkie was a victim.

“Don’t call me that,” she breathed, the words barely audible but heavy with the weight of seven years of resentment. “Sinikiwe. The name is Sinikiwe or Ms. Gwaba,” she said, her voice turning icy.

She opened her eyes, meeting his with cold indifference.

You lost right to call me that when you toyed with my feelings and betrayed me.

Ms. Gwaba was a mother with a spine of steel and a heart locked behind a fortress.

“Ms. Gwaba,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth twitching with slight amusement.

“You should leave. Whatever you think I owe you for the trespass, I will pay it back.”

George looked at her hopelessly, the distance between them feeling like a canyon. Thankfully, the door opened, and Dr. Evans walked in followed by his team of nurses.

“Sinikiwe, glad you are awake. How are you feeling?”

The next half hour was a blur of blood pressure cuffs, light-reflex tests, and being poked and prodded as she underwent her check-ups. George didn’t move; he stayed in the corner, a silent shadow watching the proceedings.

“When can I leave?” she asked the moment Evans stepped back.

“We will see how your wound responds to medication in the next few days. For now, you should get some rest.”

“Wait,” she called out as he turned to leave. “Do you know who brought me in? Who saved me?”

Dr. Evans shot a quick look toward George, who was standing nonchalantly in the corner, observing their every move with an observant, predatory stillness.

“He didn’t tell you?” Evans asked tentatively, looking up from the clipboard where he was jotting down notes.

“No. The nurse mentioned my husband did,” she chuckled, the sound brittle. “How could that be?”

She wasn’t married-that was a hard fact. She assumed her saviour had just used the title to expedite the treatment procedure or bypass hospital bureaucracy. Whatever the reason, she owed that stranger her life.

“Could you find them for me?” she asked hopefully, taking a sip of water. “They are my saviour. I owe them a life debt.”

Evans’ lips twitched in suppressed amusement, a look of ‘good luck with that’ passing over his face.

“He did,” Dr. Evans replied honestly, nodding his head toward the corner.

Sinikiwe turned to follow the direction of the nod. Her hands began to shake, the water sloshing in the cup before someone gently took it from her grasp.

Her heart thudded once-hard and violent.

She lifted her gaze, past the nurse’s hand and the doctor’s clipboard, and then-inevitably-to him.

George.

She looked back to the doctor, waiting for the punchline, for the ‘just kidding,’ but Evans wasn’t laughing.

Back to George.

No. No, no, no. How could it be him? Of all the people in the world to be indebted to, how could it be the man who had torn her life apart?

She shook her head, a sharp, frantic little motion, as if she could physically dislodge the truth from her brain.

But the room tilted in response. A wave of dizziness hit her, sudden and thick, dragging her under as surely as the darkness of the cave had.

“Doc, what meds am I on? I think the meds you gave me are not working well,” Sinikiwe managed to say, her voice sounding thin even to her own ears.

Dr. Evans, despite the professional confidence he had in his own abilities, couldn’t help but shoot a nervous glance at the man standing in the corner.

George was like a dark cloud looming in the room. Any mishap and none of them would know how they died.

“How so?” Evans asked, stepping closer to her bed. “Is there any discomfort? Any sharp pain?”

She shook her head, the movement making the room tilt. “I think my hearing is distorted.”

“Oh-”

“You said he saved me,” she said, her voice dripping with sudden bitterness. She shot a sideward, resentful look at George, who remained as still as a statue. She chuckled disdainfully, the sound dry and hollow. Leaning back into her reclined bed, she closed her eyes, the exhaustion finally winning. “How is that possible? He hates me…but I hate him more, though,” she mumbled.

As she began to slip back into unconsciousness, her last thought was a bitter prayer: Why couldn’t it have been anyone else?

Her last words were barely a breath, hard for anyone else to catch, but George heard them clearly. They hit him like a physical blow.

Evans rubbed his nose awkwardly. He shot his friend a curious look, his brows raised in query. He could smell some juicy gossip.

George, on the other hand, just sighed exasperatedly as he stared at her pale face.

Fine, maybe I have earned that, he thought, his jaw tightening as he watched her drift into a drug-induced sleep.

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧