Chapter 4
“And?”
“Proof,” Khabo said.
“Photos. Joint accounts. Something. Or we motion to have you removed for fraud.”
Michael leaned back.
“You want proof? You’ll get proof.”
He stood.
“Mrs Thorne, with me.”
The Lawyer’s Office
We drove in silence to his grandfather’s lawyer. Old man, thick glasses.
“Mr. Thorne. Mrs. Thorne.” He nodded.
“What can I do for you today?”
Michael dropped a folder on the desk. Marriage certificate. Bank statements. Photos from the gala that the PR team took.
“Make copies. Send to the board. Today.”
The lawyer hesitated.
“Sir... the will also states you must be ‘living as husband and wife.’ Under one roof. Genuine relationship.”
Michael's jaw ticked.
“We are.”
“Then the board will want to see that.”
Michael turned to me. For the first time today, he actually looked at me.
“You heard him. Starting from tonight, you move to the master wing.”
My stomach dropped.
“What? That wasn’t in the—”
“Did I ask you?” His voice cut. Cold. Final.
“No.”
“Then pack your things. Tonight.”
The Master Wing.
It was huge. Black sheets. Floor to ceiling windows. His smell everywhere. And one bed.
“Separate sides,” Michael said, dropping my bag on the floor.
“Do not touch my side. Do not talk to me unless the board is here. Do not forget this is fake.”
“Understood.” My voice was small.
He stopped at the door.
“And Palesa?”
“Yes?”
“If anyone asks, we’ve been in love for 6 months. We met at a charity event. You are going to start cooking for me. I hate mushrooms. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good.”
He left. The door clicked.
I sat on “my” side of the bed. 3 meters from him.
This was worse than the gala. This was worse than PA duty.
Because now we had to lie... 24/7.
Dinner: The Test
At 8PM his phone rang on speaker.
“Michael? It’s Khabo. Just checking in on the... newly weds.”
Michael looked at me. Pointed to the phone. Then to me. I understood.
“Hi Mr. Khabo,” I said, forcing a laugh.
Michael actually made pasta. He’s terrible at it but I love him anyway.”
Silence. Then Michael’s hand. It landed on my thigh under the table. Heavy. Possessive. He squeezed.
“We’re fine,” Michael said into the phone. Voice low.
“Busy. Don’t call during dinner again.”
He hung up.
His hand didn’t move.
“Good job,” he murmured.
“Very convincing.”
He stood and walked to his side of the bed.
“Lights out. 6AM meeting.”
In the dark, I could hear him breathing. And I could still feel his hand on my leg. This wasn’t in the contract. And he was colder than ever.
Night 1 in the master bedroom. 3 meters between us felt like 3 miles. I couldn’t sleep. The bed was too big. His breathing was too quiet. At 2AM I heard it. The floorboard creaked.
“Are you awake?” I whispered.
No answer.
Then his voice. Flat. Dead.
“Don’t talk to me in the dark, Palesa. It’s pathetic.”
I sat up.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Go to sleep. We have to perform for Khabo’s spy tomorrow.”
The Spy.
Her name was Aunt Nthabiseng Thorne. Michael’s father’s sister in her 60s. Pearl necklace. Eyes like a hawk. She showed up at 10AM with tea and questions.
“So! How did you two meet?”
“Charity gala,” Michael answered instantly.
“6 months ago. She spilled wine on me.”
I nodded.
“He was furious. Then he asked me to dinner to yell at me more.”
Aunt Nthabi smiled.
“And who cooks?”
“I do,” I said.
“Liar,” Michael cut in.
“I cook. She burns water.”
His hand found mine on the couch. Squeezed hard.
Smile. We’re a happy couple.
Well, only in public.
After she left, he dropped my hand like it was trash.
“Don’t ever contradict me again in public.”
“I wasn’t—”
