Olerato

CHAPTER 27

OLERATO – POV

Cape Town was supposed to feel like escape.

Sea air. Quiet nights. Laughter downstairs.

But our room felt like a cage.

The door closed behind us with a heavy finality, and the silence that followed was sharp—cutting. I stood near the window, staring at the city lights stretching toward the ocean, my arms wrapped around myself like that might keep everything together.

"I want to go home," I said quietly.

Khayelihle froze.

"What?" he asked, slowly turning toward me.

"I don't feel safe here anymore," I continued, my voice trembling despite my effort to keep it steady. "Something is wrong. Ever since Emihle spoke—ever since that night—I can feel it. It's her."

He scoffed. "You're letting fear talk."

"No," I snapped, spinning around. "I'm letting instinct talk. Lindiwe knows. I saw it in her eyes. That woman—" I swallowed hard. "She hates me."

"That's my wife you're talking about," he said sharply.

"And this is my life," I shot back. "And my body. And my baby."

The word hung between us.

Baby.

That was when everything shifted.

His jaw tightened. His eyes darkened, not with confusion—but anger. He walked past me and slammed his fist against the dressing counter. The sound echoed through the room, making me flinch.

"Stop saying it like that," he said through clenched teeth.

"Like what?" I asked, my heart pounding. "Like it's real?"

He turned to me fully now. "You don't get to decide everything on your own."

I laughed bitterly. "I don't even know if I want to be a mother, Khaya. I'm not ready. My whole life—my career—everything is happening too fast. I'm scared."

I reached for my stomach without thinking.

"That child—"

He was in front of me in seconds.

His hand clamped around my arm, tight enough to make me gasp. Not pain yet—just warning. Control.

"Watch what you say," he whispered, voice low and dangerous.

I stared at him, shocked. "You're hurting me."

"Abort my son," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "and you'll see what I'm capable of."

My breath left my body.

"I will not," he continued, eyes burning into mine, "be made a fool of. Don't push me into things I'll regret."

Tears filled my eyes, hot and unstoppable.

This wasn't the man who held me gently in hospital corridors.

This wasn't the man who whispered promises in quiet moments.

This was a prince cornered by power, legacy, and fear.

"Let go of me," I said, my voice shaking.

For a moment, I thought he wouldn't.

Then he released me abruptly, stepping back like he'd just realized what he'd done.

The room felt colder.

I hugged my arm, my body trembling, my mind racing.

"I want to leave Cape Town," I said softly. "Tonight, if I have to."

He didn't answer.

He just stared at me—at my stomach—like everything had already changed beyond repair.

And in that moment, I knew something terrifying.

The danger wasn't only coming from outside.

It was standing right in front of
SEGAMETSI – POV

I knew something was wrong the moment I saw the suitcases.

Not packed neatly.
Not planned.

Dragged.

The wheels scraped against the tiles as we pulled them toward the stairs, the sound loud in the quiet house. That scraping sound felt like a warning—like whatever had happened upstairs had already broken something that couldn't be fixed with sleep or jokes.

"Durban?" I asked, breathless, gripping the handle of one suitcase tighter than necessary. "We're going to Durban, right?"

Olerato didn't answer immediately.

She was pale. Too pale. Hoodie pulled tight around her body, arms crossed like she was holding herself together by force. Her eyes were empty in that way I hated—the way they got when she'd already decided something alone.

"Yes," she said finally. "Durban."

Something in her tone made my stomach twist.

I followed her down the stairs, my heart pounding. The house felt rushed now—footsteps, whispers, doors opening and closing too fast.

Then she stopped.

Turned to me.

Her voice was low. Flat. Like she was already somewhere far away.

"I will abort this baby."

The world tilted.

"What?" I whispered. "Rato—no. Don't say that like that."

She didn't cry. Didn't shout.

"I can't do this, Sega," she said quietly. "I'm not ready. And I won't be trapped. Not by fear. Not by blood. Not by anyone."

I opened my mouth to argue, to comfort, to say something that would ground her—but footsteps cut me off.

Omphile came down first.

Sunglasses on. Hoodie up. Moving stiffly. She didn't say a word, just grabbed her bag and nodded once, like she understood that silence was safer.

Castro followed, jaw clenched, eyes sharp, already in protector mode. He didn't ask questions. He never did when things felt dangerous.

Then Lihle.

Khayelihle.

He walked down slower than the rest, tension written all over him. He didn't touch Olerato. Didn't even look at her properly. Just grabbed his bag like this was a war retreat, not a holiday.

Melikhaya and Andile came next, whispering under their breath, both clearly confused but alert. Onthatile trailed behind them, eyes wide, clutching Emihle's hand tightly.

Emihle looked… distant.

Too calm.

Like she was listening to something none of us could hear.

No one spoke as we loaded into the cars.

Cape Town's beauty mocked us—clear sky, ocean breeze, everything peaceful while we were falling apart inside.

The drive to the airport felt unreal.

Cars passed us. Music played faintly on the radio. People lived their normal lives while we sat there, heavy with secrets, fear, and decisions that could change everything.

At the airport, reality hit hard.

The smell of coffee. The echo of rolling luggage. Announcements calling out destinations like nothing mattered more than boarding times.

Durban.

That word felt like a lifeline and a lie at the same time.

We moved as a group, tight, protective. Castro walked ahead. Andile and Melikhaya flanked us. Lihle stayed close—but distant. Too controlled.

Olerato walked beside me.

Her hand shook when she passed her passport to the attendant.

I leaned in close and whispered, "Whatever you're feeling right now… you don't have to decide everything today."

She didn't look at me.

"I just need distance," she said. "Before this destroys me."

I swallowed hard.

Behind us, Emihle suddenly stopped walking.

Her eyes narrowed, unfocused, like she was staring through the airport walls.

"They're not happy," she murmured.

I turned sharply. "Who?"

"The ancestors," she said softly. "Running won't stop what's coming."

A chill ran straight down my spine.

The boarding call echoed.

Durban.

We gathered our things and moved forward.

Leaving Cape Town behind.

But deep down, I knew one thing for sure—

Whatever we were running from
was already on the plane with us.