The jacket still smelled like him. Like rain and leather.
Sandra folded it neatly and placed it inside the top drawer of her wardrobe, but even with the drawer closed, she could still feel its warmth on her skin. The fabric had dried, but her thoughts hadn't.
She hadn't told Immy anything. Not about the moment under the iron shade. Not about the words. Not about how James had looked at her—like she mattered. And especially not how he had walked away, soaked and alone, without a second glance.
Why was he like that?
Kind one second. Ice the next.
It was barely past 7 a.m. when she left for work. The roads in Kanyanya were still wet, the potholes filled with brown puddles. A boda sped past as she waited at the taxi stage, arms crossed against the morning chill.
At J&M Holdings, whispers followed her like perfume.
She hadn't even logged in her attendance when someone in admin whispered loudly enough for her to hear.
"Eh, that intern again. First HR, then CEO's office, now the charity event?"
Another voice added, "Hmm. Maybe she's related to someone powerful."
Sandra ignored them. She had learned early in life that words couldn't hurt unless you believed them.
But still—it stung.
She walked faster through the corridor, avoiding eye contact, gripping her bag tightly. She reached her assigned desk in the finance section, booted up the company system, and tried to disappear into her work.
But the tension was already crawling under her skin.
Elsewhere in the building, Shinta sat across from Victor.
Her face was still calm, lips touched with muted red gloss, eyes cold as ever. But her fingers tapped slowly against her phone screen, a rhythm she only used when she was thinking.
"He asked me to pull Sandra's full background," she said flatly.
Victor sipped from his black mug. "Did you?"
"Yes. Nothing major. One deadbeat father, sick brother, average grades."
Victor chuckled. "Those are the best ones. They've already tasted pain, so they won't resist luxury."
Shinta didn't smile.
"But he keeps looking at her. It's not normal."
Victor leaned closer. "You think he's falling?"
"No. He doesn't fall." Shinta's eyes sharpened. "But he remembers. And that's worse."
Victor looked thoughtful. "You still want him, don't you?"
She stared straight ahead.
"He belongs to no one. But I know how to keep what doesn't want to be owned."
Sandra was halfway through sorting invoices when her phone vibrated.
A text.
From "Unknown."
Report to Floor 12, Conference Lounge B. Lunch hour. You're expected.
She blinked.
There was no sender name. No signature. Just the message.
Floor 12? She hadn't even known J&M had a Floor 12. The lift only showed 1 to 11.
Was this a prank?
She hesitated.
And yet… something inside her told her who it was.
Lunch came fast. Too fast.
Sandra entered the main elevator, heart pounding, and tapped the glass panel on the side.
An invisible screen lit up. She placed her finger gently—remembering the trick James had shown the kids during the charity event.
A quiet beep. Then a new floor appeared.
Floor 12.
The doors opened to silence.
Conference Lounge B wasn't like the rest of the offices. It looked more like a private lounge—soft chairs, a long glass table, city views, and… a table set for two.
James was already seated, reading a folder.
He looked up when she stepped in.
"You're late."
"It's exactly one o'clock," she said, blinking.
"Exactly is still late."
She sat opposite him, unsure if she should touch the water glass in front of her.
He looked at her, eyes unreadable.
"You didn't ask who sent the message."
"I knew."
"How?"
She swallowed. "Only one person here hides invitations in riddles."
He smiled. Slightly.
Just slightly.
They ate in silence. Until he broke it.
"Do you need help?"
The question dropped like a stone between them.
Sandra paused, spoon in hand. "Help with what?"
"Your brother. Hospital bills. I can clear them."
She put the spoon down. Slowly.
"Why?"
James looked at her for a long moment.
"Because I can."
Her throat tightened. Emotions stormed up her spine.
"I don't want your kindness."
James's eyes darkened. "This isn't kindness. It's efficiency. You're distracted. I remove distractions."
"He's not a distraction. He's my family."
A long silence.
He sighed. Looked away. "Take the offer or don't. But don't mistake me for someone who pities you."
She stood.
"Then don't pretend to care."
"I don't."
"Good."
She left.
But she could still feel his eyes on her back.
Back home, Sandra found her mother seated quietly by the window.
"You're late," Mama said, folding laundry slowly.
"There was work," Sandra replied, dropping her bag and kneeling to help.
Her brother, Junior, was asleep nearby, thin arms stretched out under a light bedsheet. His cough had gotten worse.
"Dr. Kiggundu called," Mama said softly. "The medicine… it costs more now."
Sandra looked at her with tired eyes.
"How much more?"
Mama hesitated.
"Two hundred and eighty."
Sandra bit her lip.
She only had one hundred and fifty left from her last allowance.
She remembered the lunch.
The offer.
And her pride cracked just a little.
The next morning, something strange happened.
Sandra arrived at her desk to find a small white envelope.
Inside—exactly two hundred and eighty thousand.
No note. No name. Just the cash.
Her hands shook.
Upstairs, James was not smiling. But he was watching.
Shinta placed a report in front of him. "The interns will be rotated next week."
He nodded.
"Leave Sandra in Finance."
Shinta's eyes narrowed. "That's against policy."
"Then change the policy."
Later that evening, Sandra stood alone by the photocopy room.
She was staring at a document too long.
Tired. Confused. Overwhelmed.
Victor appeared beside her.
"Late again?" he asked, smile smooth as oil.
She nodded, politely. "Just catching up."
"I see you've made a friend in high places."
Sandra tensed.
"I don't know what you mean."
"You should be careful, Miss Namatovu. This building is made of glass. Everyone sees everything."
She turned to him. "Maybe some things are none of their business."
Victor grinned.
"Everything's someone's business here. Especially Shinta's."
Then he walked away.
And for the first time since she started, Sandra felt truly unsafe.
That night, Immy burst into Sandra's room.
"Eh! I just saw you in a photo online with James Mugeni! At the event!"
Sandra groaned. "Immy, don't start."
"Start what? You're famous now. What's going on? He gave you his jacket?"
"It was raining—"
"Sandra." Immy sat on the bed. Her face changed.
"You know what men like him do, right? They play. They destroy."
"He's not like that."
"You don't know him."
Sandra looked away.
"Neither do I. But I want to."
The next afternoon, Shinta stood in the hallway with a small smirk.
She waved Sandra over.
"James needs you to deliver this file to his house."
Sandra blinked. "Now?"
"Now. It's urgent."
"Shouldn't his assistant do that?"
"He said you."
Sandra hesitated.
"What's the address?"
Shinta handed her a card.
Kololo. Near the ambassador's residence.
"He's expecting you," she said sweetly.
But something in her eyes felt like a trap.
Thirty minutes later, Sandra stood outside a black gate with shaking fingers.
The security guard checked her name, then opened the gate. She walked through the stone-paved driveway, heart hammering.
The house wasn't huge. But it was sharp, sleek. Like him.
A maid opened the door and led her in.
Then said quietly, "He's not home. But he left instructions."
She handed Sandra a change of clothes.
"You'll be staying for dinner."