Reading Preferences

Double Jeopardy

Chapter 23

MILANI CELE


My hands tremble as I reread the message, the words blurring against the glow of my phone. "Meet me. Tonight." It was my move, but now it feels like a trap I am setting for myself. I know Nqaba—know the way his love for his son eclipses everything else, even the bond they once shared as husband and wife. That's what terrifies me. He won't hesitate. Not anymore. If I misstep, if I lose control for even a second, he'll kill me without blinking, and the fact that I am his wife won't save me.


My chest tightens, panic clawing at my ribs. I wanted leverage, power, but now I feel the walls closing in on me. The boy is my shield, my bargaining chip—but also my curse. Because the closer the meet draws, the more I realize Nqaba isn't coming to negotiate. He's coming to end this, one way or another. I pace the room, the phone clutched so tightly my knuckles ache. I thought demanding the meet would give me the upper hand, but now the idea feels reckless, dangerous. Nqaba isn't the man I once knew—he's a father stripped down to raw instinct, and that makes him lethal and I did that, I did withou realizing what I was creating. He won't hesitate, not even for me. Wife or not, I am nothing but the obstacle between him and his son. That realization gnaws at me, twisting my stomach into knots. I wanted leverage, but leverage cuts both ways. The boy is my shield, yes, but he's also the fuse to Nqaba's rage. If I miscalculates, if I falters even slightly, he'll burn through my defenses without a second thought.

My mind races, paranoia clawing at me. What if he's not alone? What if the Detective is with him, watching, waiting to strike? I imagine thier eyes on me, dissecting every move, every word. The thought makes my chest tighten. I am supposed to be in control, but the closer the meet draws, the more I feel the ground shifting beneath me. I whisper to myself, a mantra I don't even believe: "He needs me alive. He needs me alive." But the truth presses harder—Nqaba doesn't need me at all. He only needs his son. And that makes me expendable.


I stop pacing and force myself to think. Panic is a luxury I can't afford. If Nqaba comes tonight, he won't come to talk—he'll come to end me. He ended Mnqobi just like that. What's would stop him from ending me. And if the Detective is with him, I'll be outnumbered before the first word is spoken. My mind races through possibilities: a location where I can see him before he sees me, where escape routes are built into the walls. A place that feels like mine, even if it isn't. I scroll through my contacts, considering who I can trust, but the truth is brutal—I have no allies. Just the boy, and the fragile power he represents. My brother and his wife cannot know about this. Them knowing will force certain thing to be revealed and it's not time for that yet.


I draft a message, then delete it, draft again, delete again. Every word feels like a mistake. How do you bait a man who's already willing to kill you? How do you hold leverage when the only thing keeping you alive is the child you stole? My chest tightens, and I whisper to myself: "Control the stage. Control the stage." It's the only way. If I can't control Nqaba, I'll control the environment. I'll choose the place, set the terms, and make him believe I still hold the strings. But deep down, I knows the truth—tonight, I am not the hunter anymore. I am the prey, and the clock is ticking.


I sinks onto the edge of the bed, the phone heavy in my hand. Every option feels like a trap. If I choose a crowded place, Nqaba will cut through the noise to reach me. If I choose isolation, he'll have the freedom to kill me without hesitation. My mind loops, chasing itself in circles. I draft another message—**"Come alone."** Delete it. Types "Bring no one." Delete that too. Nothing feels safe. Nothing feels enough. I press my palms against my temples, whispering to myself, "Control the stage. Control the stage." But the words sound hollow now, stripped of power. I imagine Nqaba's eyes—cold, relentless, fixed on me—and the thought makes my stomach twist. He won't bargain. He won't plead. He'll come for his son, and if I falters, I'll be nothing more than a body in his way. The boy is my shield, but he's also the blade pressed against my throat. And I know—tonight, I am running out of moves. What is happening to me. This is not me. I don't panic. I control, I control everything. Everyone has to bow to me. Nqaba bows to me, he does everything I tell him. Lwandle is my son too. Why am I feeling like this. I can't afford to lose my cool now. "I control the stage." I murmur to myself.


I grip the phone tighter, my breath shallow, my mind a storm of half-formed plans. Every scenario I imagine ends the same way—Nqaba finding me, his rage boiling over, his son pulled from my arms like I was nothing more than a shadow. I tell myself I still have control, that the boy is my shield, but the thought rings hollow. Control feels like smoke slipping through my fingers. I draft another message, then erase it, my thumb hovering over the screen as if the words themselves might betray me. "Neutral ground," I whisper, then shake my head. Too exposed. "Somewhere hidden," I mutter, then shudder. Too dangerous. Every option is wrong, every choice a step closer to my own undoing. I won't let that happen. I pace again, whispering the mantra I no longer believe: "He needs me alive. He needs me alive." But deep down, I know the truth—Nqaba doesn't need me at all. And that realization gnaws at me, leaving me frozen in indecision, trapped in the very game I thought I was winning. I look at the small frame on the bed that is supposed to be my shield tonight but it is a noose around my neck. I placed a noose around his father's neck and now I can't seem to tighten it.


"Ok Milani, you are smart, you are in control. You've controlled this man for years, you know him." I murmur to myself but somehow the murmur feels like a weight on chest. My phone rings and it's my brother. God, what does he want now? **"Malusi, is everything ok?"** I ask keeping my steady. I can't have him know that there is something wrong. **"We need to meet soon. I have a new deal for us. We are going to put our mark in Africa with this one."** He sounds very excited about this. Only if he knew what plans I have for him. **"Ok. That sounds good. I'll call you later and let you know when I'm coming. I just need to sort out something first. I'll see you tonight. Is that ok with you? Will Emihle be there as well?"** I can only hope I sound convincing. I've done this for years, I have mastered the art of being convincing in situations like these. **"It's fine sis. I'll see you tonight then."** He hangs up after saying his goodbye.

Movement on the bed jolts me out of my thoughts. I almost forgot that I have another human here. I watch him as he wakes up. He is so much like his father. Everything about him is his father. Even the way he looks wakes up. I watch as he clenches his jaw and his body tenses at the sight of me. I get up to get the clothes that I got for him and toiletries. "There's the bathroom, go bath and I'll make you something to eat. Tonight I am taking you back to father." He says nothing, gets off the bed walking towards the bathroom, but stops, turning to look at me and the look he gives me somehow makes my stomach turn. "Make sure you enough food for me. If you think dad is going to give you what you want then you are wrong. I'm only eight years old and I can tell you now that you in the sh*t." He walks into the bathroom leaving me stunned at his comment. What the hell did I give birth to. This child was never going to be easy to manipulate. He is not wrong though. I am in the sh*t. For the first time in my life I am unsure of my moves. I am unsure of how this will turn out. I decide to make pasta instead of sandwiches. He always loved the I prepared the pasta.


I boil the water, watching the bubbles dance, my mind still reeling from the boy's unexpected defiance. I can feel it—a shift in the dynamic. The tables have turned, and I suddenly feel like a pawn in this game, not the queen I believed myself to be. My hands tremble as I stir the pot, the steam rising like a cloud of uncertainty around me. "You need to make this work," I tell myself, though the words feel like a plea rather than a command. I chop vegetables with quick precision, trying to focus. Each slice of the knife feels like a reminder of how precarious my situation is.

When did it come to this? The boy's gaze, filled with contempt rather than fear, weighs heavy on my thoughts. I should be the one instilling fear. I should be the one in control. I am in control. But with every passing moment, I realize how foolish I was to underestimate the bond between father and son. Nqaba's instincts run deep—a wildness in him that I once found alluring, now threatening to overtake me. "What if he's right?" I whisper to the empty kitchen, feeling my faith in my own plans dwindle.


The pasta relaxes in the boiling water, and I distract myself with its rhythmic bubbling. Each pulse mirrors the unsettling rhythm of my thoughts. Memories flood my mind—Nqaba's laughter, the way he held his son close. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the distractions. I need clarity. I need to devise a plan.

"Is this what I've become? Cooking while my life hangs in balance?" I mutter, frustration building as the boy's thin voice echoes in my mind. I pause, tension swirling in the air. He thinks he knows the ropes. "You have no idea how far I will go to protect what's mine," I promise silently, but doubt seeps in. Could he actually break me?

Just then, footsteps shuffle from the bedroom. The boy emerges, a little damp, dressed in the clothes I'd provided. He hesitates, sniffing the air, and I catch a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "It smells good," he admits, his tone undercutting the bravado he had before. I gamble, "You might actually like it."

He sits down, tension straining between us, a delicate balance hanging in the air. I serve the steaming pasta, covering the plate with a bright tomato sauce. His little hands grasp the fork, but there's a wary look in his eyes—like I'm a puzzle he can't quite decode yet. "What do you really want?" he asks suddenly, piercing through the thin veils of my facade.


I falter. The question cuts straight to the heart of the matter. A child's inquiry, simple but weighted. I open my mouth to respond, but the truth is, right now, I don't know. My grip on control slips further, and the realization leaves a bitter taste as I watch him eat, both of us sitting in a silence thick with challenge and unspoken words. I take a breath. I have to figure this out. I have to regain my footing before Nqaba I meet him. One wrong move, and this game could claim us both.I watch him chew thoughtfully, each bite reminding me of the stakes involved. Can a mother, even one wading in the murky waters of manipulation and survival, really connect with her child when every response is potentially an opening for Nqaba? It tugs at something deep in me—a maternal instinct I've been working hard to suffocate beneath layers of strategy and control. "What do I want?" I echo his question, the weight of it pressing down on me. It sounds absurd when I repeat it, like a riddle I can't solve.

"Power," I finally mutter, less for him and more for me. "I want to be free." His brow furrows as he considers my answer, and, for a moment, I glimpse a softness in his young face that hints at understanding. This boy is astute, maybe too astute for his age. Perhaps he is more like Nqaba than just a physical likeness; perhaps, there's a fierceness brewing in him, a cunning I should respect rather than dismiss.

He finishes his plate, glancing up at me through those striking eyes that seem to know the world's secrets—secrets I'm desperate to guard against. I lean back, letting silence reign, my mind racing ahead. If he can read me, I need to change the game. I need to be an indelible force in his life, not the shadow of his father. "We have to keep a secret," I say suddenly, my voice steady, a warmth curling around the words.

His eyebrows lift, interest piqued. "What secret?"


I lean in, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The kind of secret that makes us stronger. If anyone asks, we're just a mother and son, remembering the good times." I see the flicker of uncertainty: a child torn between loyalty and survival. "But in reality, we strategize together. You and I, we don't have to fear your father if we are smart about this."

Suspicion darkens his features, and I can almost hear the gears turning in his small brain. "You mean lie?"

"Yes," I reply, emboldened by the image of what we might become—a duo, not by blood but by necessity. "For survival, we might have to lie. It doesn't have to feel bad. It's about protecting the things that matter."

A long moment of silence stretches between us, and I can see his thoughts flitting like shadows. He's weighing my words, deciding whether I'm ally or enemy. "What if Dad finds out?" His voice is softer now, and I seize the opportunity.


"Then we'll be ready," I insist, adopting a tone that feels authoritative, galvanizing. "Together, we'll find a way to deal with him. We'll outsmart him. You have your father's fire; we can use that together." I lean closer, the idea blooming between us. "What if I teach you how to navigate all of this?"

He is a smart eight year old boy, why not keep him and groom to be what I him to be. He sits back, considering, a patch of uncertainty dancing across his face. "You'll actually teach me?"


"Of course. It's that or live in fear." I add, careful to emphasize strength in my voice. "Fear is a choice, Lwandle." My heart races at the thought that this could work. "I choose to fight. We can be fighters, you and I."

Slowly, the corners of his mouth curve into a smile, a shadow of hope dances in my chest. "You must think I am stupid mother. I thought by now you would know and understand that I am not your regular eight year old. If you think I am going to turn against my dad for you, then you must be really desperate. You are losing control and you are starting to embarrass yourself. You've never been a mother to me, and you'll be able to be one and this just proved it. You want use me against my dad. Really mother? Really? Thank you for the food." There goes the hope. This child just crushed my attempts of trying to turn him against Nqaba. I should have forged a better relationship with him, maybe this would have gone differently. I had hoped to use this bond as both my shield and my sword in the war that is about to unfold. I know I need to steer this ship carefully; we're in dangerous waters, and Nqaba is a storm I dread meeting head-on. Just then my buzzes and it Nqaba. He sent a location for us to meet. I was supposed to choose the location, not him. It's not supposed to be like this. I was supposed to have an upper hand. It was supposed to be a location of my choice, a location that could work to my advantage.

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