Chapter 5 - Chapter Three — Naz

As soon as I agreed to do this fashion show, I regretted it. I even phoned Sabelo, trying to get out of it.

"Sure," he had said. "You can pull out. But you have to tell Ledi yourself. Oh, and tell Puleng you don't actually care as much about survivors of domestic abuse as we originally assumed."

"Motherfucker," I'd muttered, and hung up on his smart arse.

Needless to say, I'm here waiting to be powdered and brushed and groomed or some shit for charity, when something...someone soft and scented literally falls into my arms.

"What the hell?" I stumble a little but right myself before either of us ends up on our arse on the floor. I glance down to see who I've caught, and any words I might have said cling to the roof of my mouth. I manage to drag one word down, despite the shock. Her name.

"Chandré."

It's the first time I've seen her in twelve years. In person, at least. I may have lurked on her Instagram and tracked her progress since matric. On occasion.

A sooty fan of lashes surrounds doe-brown eyes. Her chin carries the same tiny dent as her brother's. She's always been a smaller, softer, prettier version of Cliff Cupido. Over the years the two of them have haunted me for completely different reasons.

"You two know each other?" Naledi asks, her alert eyes pinging between my face and Chandré's.

"A little," Chandré mumbles.