Herina descended the grand staircase of her house, her footsteps light
but deliberate. The murmured conversation of three men seated around the dining
table drifted upward, catching her attention. She recognized two of them
immediately.
Her father, Mr. Wacucu, the incumbent governor, sat at the head of the
table. His name had become a symbol of resilience and relatability during the
last election, evoking his humble upbringing by his grandmother. Seated to his
left was Mr. Seid, her father’s trusted personal assistant, a fixture in her
life since childhood.
The third man, however, was unfamiliar. Dressed in an official army
uniform, he radiated authority, his expression stoic as he leaned slightly
forward in their hushed discussion.
Curious, Herina slowed her pace, careful not to make a sound as she
tried to eavesdrop on their conversation. But the voices were too low, the
words indistinct. She inched closer, her curiosity growing.
Suddenly, a voice broke her concentration. “Herina,” someone called from
near the door.
Startled, she turned to see a familiar face—Mr. Seid’s son, his usual
self-assured smile in place.
“You look stunning today,” he said, his tone casual but with a hint of
charm.
Without sparing him a glance, Herina replied curtly, “I just woke up.”
By now, the three men at the table had ceased their conversation, their
eyes all fixed on her.
“Good morning,” her father greeted, his tone warm but tinged with subtle
authority.
Ignoring the pleasantry, Herina addressed him directly. “When is Mom
coming back?”
Her father’s demeanor shifted, a flicker of unease crossing his face.
Instead of answering, he deflected. “I haven’t forgotten how you snuck out of
the house a few nights ago and came back late. If you’re going to live under my
roof, we need some rules.”
Herina crossed her arms, her voice sharp. “Then I’ll move out.” Without
waiting for a response, she turned and marched into the room across the hall,
closing the door behind her.
Back at the table, the men resumed their conversation after a brief
silence.
“My apologies, gentlemen,” Mr. Wacucu said, a faint sigh escaping him.
“She needs to accompany you to visit the grieving family,” Seid
suggested. “It’s a perfect opportunity to connect with the younger voters.
She’s charismatic, and with the right training, she could be a real asset to
your campaign.”
Mr. Wacucu nodded; his expression resolute. “She’ll come around,” he
said confidently. Then, turning to the man in uniform, he added, “Commissioner,
don’t forget about the security arrangements.”
“Understood, sir,” the commissioner replied crisply.
The three men leaned back into their discussion, their voices once again
lowering to a confidential tone.
Back at Zola’s residence, Sani sat across from Zola, waiting for what
would come next. He could feel the weight of her gaze, sharp and expectant. He
tried explaining that he had followed through with the plan they had made—the
night her mother died—going out as they had agreed. He claimed that he had also
tried calling her but without any success.
Zola’s expression didn’t change. "What did you do after realizing
my phone wasn’t going through?" she asked, her voice steady but laced with
an undertone of something unreadable.
The memories of that night flashed through Sani’s mind—fragments of
laughter, the neon glow of the city, the lingering scent of perfume, and the
lingering guilt he had shoved deep down. Now, he was left in a dilemma. Should
he lie and tell her he had simply walked home, alone, retreating into the
silence of the night? Or should he be truthful? She deserved the truth. But she
was grieving, and he feared adding to her pain.
He parted his lips to speak, but before he could say anything, the low
rumble of approaching vehicles echoed through the neighborhood. The sound grew
louder, the engines roaring as they neared the house. Both Sani and Zola
instinctively turned towards the window. The air outside was thick with the hum
of anticipation.
They stepped out of the house just as several sleek vehicles pulled up.
The doors flung open and out stepped Mr. Wacucu, flanked by Seid and Herina.
The trio was followed closely by a swarm of reporters, their cameras flashing,
their voices a blur of questions and murmurs. A crowd had already begun to
gather, drawn by the commotion, whispering among themselves.
Mr. Wacucu, composed and authoritative, made his way toward the grieving
home. His face was carefully masked with concern, the kind that played well in
front of cameras. Seid, ever the composed strategist, trailed behind, his eyes
scanning the scene with quiet calculation.
Herina, however, looked utterly uninterested—until her gaze locked onto
Sani.
Sani felt his breath hitch. Time seemed to slow as her piercing eyes
bore into him. A knowing smirk ghosted her lips, subtle yet unmistakable.
Sani stood frozen, caught in the storm of the moment. Herina’s presence
alone was enough to shake him, but the look in her eyes told him something
more—something unspoken, something dangerous.
Zola, unaware of the silent exchange, turned to him. "Sani, do you
know her?" she asked softly, but his focus remained fixed on Herina.
Whatever this was, it was far from over.