The library of the Tembo estate felt like a vacuum. Outside, the crickets were screaming in the kikuyu grass, but inside, the air was still, heavy with the scent of old leather and the lingering smoke of Mwansa's evening cigar.
Leya stood by the window, her hand hovering near the heavy velvet curtains. "Zazu, we're out of time. If the security team does their perimeter sweep—"
"I know," Zazu hissed. He was crouched behind the massive mahogany desk, his fingers fumbling with a locked drawer. He wasn't a thief; he was a son looking for the truth his mother's eyes always managed to hide.
*Click.*
The drawer slid open. It wasn't full of gold or stacks of cash. It held a single, slim, blue-bound notebook. No crest, no official government seal. Just a diary.
"Leya, come here."
She knelt beside him. The proximity was a physical ache—the warmth of his shoulder against hers, the smell of his laundry detergent mixed with the faint, sharp scent of pencil lead. She looked at the page he was pointing to. The handwriting was unmistakable. It wasn't Mwansa's blocky script. It was Chileshe's elegant, needle-sharp cursive.
> *October 12, 2012. 02:00 AM. Central Police Holding.*
> *Lombe looks smaller in the jumpsuit, but her eyes are still fire. She knows the Consortium has been using her husband's accounts as a transit point. She offered me the kill-switch codes. In exchange, she demanded one thing: Leya goes to London. No questions, no criminal record, no contact. I told her the public needs a villain. She looked me in the eye and said, 'Then let it be me. Just make sure my daughter never has to breathe this air.'*
Leya felt the blood drain from her face. The London flat, the cold winters, the "hardship" stipend—it wasn't a punishment from the Tembos. It was a ransom paid by her mother.
"She chose it," Leya whispered, her London accent cracking. "She didn't lose. She traded herself for me."
"And my parents let everyone think they were the ones who 'captured' her," Zazu said, his voice thick with a sudden, sharp realization. "They didn't just save the economy, Leya. They bought their legacy with your mother's reputation."
He flipped the page. There was a list of figures—the "Restoration Fund."
"This money," Leya said, pointing to a series of offshore account numbers. "This is the money the public thinks my mother stole."
"It's still there," Zazu said. "It's sitting in a holding account in Mauritius. My dad hasn't touched it. It's like he's waiting for something. Or someone."
"The 'Debt'," Leya breathed. "He isn't holding it for the country. He's holding it until the heat dies down. Zazu, if people find out that the money was never 'lost,' but just... parked..."
"It would destroy them," Zazu finished.
Suddenly, the heavy mahogany doors groaned.
"Hide," Zazu breathed.
He shoved the notebook back into the drawer and stood up just as the handles turned. Leya dove under the desk, her knees hitting the plush carpet. She pressed herself against the back panel, her face inches from Zazu's legs. She could hear his heart hammering through the wood.
The doors swung open. Chileshe Tembo walked in.
Leya could see her mother's "rival" through the gap in the desk—the hem of a silk robe, the polished toes of her slippers. Chileshe didn't turn on the main light. She walked straight to the desk.
"You should be asleep, Zazu," Chileshe said. Her voice was soft, but it carried the weight of a woman who had never been surprised in her life.
"I couldn't sleep," Zazu lied. He didn't sound like a prince; he sounded like a boy who had just seen a ghost. "The dinner was loud."
Chileshe stopped at the desk. She placed her hand on the wood, right above where Leya's head was tucked. Leya closed her eyes, praying the sound of her own breathing wouldn't betray her.
"The past is a heavy thing to carry alone," Chileshe said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Your father thinks we did the right thing. He thinks the stability was worth the lie. But sometimes, when I look at the girl in the hallways at school, I wonder if Lombe would forgive us for how cold we had to make her world."
Zazu didn't answer. He couldn't.
"Go to bed, son," Chileshe said. She lingered for a heartbeat, her fingers tapping a rhythmic, nervous pattern on the desk. "And stop looking for keys you aren't ready to turn. Some doors are locked for a reason."
She walked out, the click of her slippers fading down the hall.
Leya crawled out from under the desk, her face pale, her braids messy.
"She knows," Leya whispered.
"She suspects," Zazu corrected. He looked at Leya—really looked at her—and reached out. He didn't touch her face, but he gripped the edge of her blazer, his knuckles white. "She's right about one thing. Your world is cold. But I'm not letting them keep you in the dark anymore."
Leya looked at the door, then back at the boy who was now her only ally in a house of secrets. "Are you sure you're ready to be a traitor?"
Zazu didn't smile. He just tightened his grip on her sleeve. "I think I've been a traitor since the day I kept that coin."
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