https://visionarywritings.com/book/7806

Kiddiana’s Bookshelf, Maseru (2026)

13/01/2026

Support a struggling artist by streaming and sharing this, okay? 😩❤️

https://ditto.fm/get_the_paper

26/11/2025

Random Insert Wednesday!!!

BEAUTIFULLY RUINED
CHAPTER 1

The forest is quiet.
Too quiet.

Just the hush of wind and the far-off sound of rescue workers shouting names. The air is dry, heavy with the faint tang of blood and smoke.

She’s staring down at the man crumpled beneath the bent wing of the wreckage. His shirt is soaked with blood. Limbs twisted in unnatural ways. Lips cracked. Face ghostly pale. His head tilts at an odd angle, a long gash slicing through his brow.

The wreckage looms around them, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

Her gaze lingers on his face.
Pauses at a faint scar near his jawline—one he didn’t have before.

Something in his stillness unsettles her.
But she says nothing.

Her breathing stays even.
Her hands remain steady.
But something beneath her skin shifts.

She leans in slowly.

Gloved fingers press against his throat, searching.
There—a faint pulse.
Weak, but there.

She shuts her eyes, a breath slipping past her lips.

He’s alive.

And that’s when the memories begin to pour in.

—Amara Wells—

I don’t remember much about my childhood. It was normal, I guess.

Two loving parents who worked hard but always told bedtime stories. An older brother who hovered like a second spine—protective, present. It was safe. Ordinary.

Until I was thirteen.

That’s when everything split in two.

The car crash took my parents in one breath.
Left me and my brother, Andre, to fend for ourselves.

He was eighteen—barely a man. He could’ve left—gone off to college like he planned—but he didn’t. He stayed. Worked two jobs. Enrolled in the local college. Took care of me the best he could.

That’s when he came into our lives.

Jason Reed.

The man lying broken and fading in front of me now.

Andre met him on campus. They were the same age, clicked—fast. Became best friends.

I still remember the first time he brought him home. This tall, magnetic guy with a lazy smile and movie-star eyes. Confident, but not cocky. The kind of handsome that made my stomach feel strange.

I had never seen someone like him in real life.
He had this calmness about him. This quiet charm that made you lean in without realizing it.

He was always around. Laughing with my brother. Teasing me like I was his little sister too. He filled the gaps in our broken life. Helped me with math. Picked me up from school sometimes. Even came to some of my netball games.

The bullies in my school knew not to mess with me, he made sure of that.

And when I talked—he really listened.

He was the one I told when I got my first period.
He bought the pads. Explained how to use them.
Didn’t flinch.

I trusted him.
He cared—made me feel safe.

To him, I was just a kid.
Andre’s little sister.

But to me?

He was everything.

While girls my age drooled over Chris Hemsworth and Michael B. Jordan, I had Jason Reed. The real-life man who smiled at me in our kitchen. Real. Touchable. And completely off limits.

I watched him all the time.
Waited for him to show up.
Hung on every word he said.
Memorized the shape of his hands, the way he laughed, the way his voice dropped when he was tired.

It was just a harmless little crush.

But the older I got, the more I wanted him to see me.
Not the little girl with braces and a ponytail—but me.
The girl who’d do anything for him.

By the time I was seventeen, I had grown into a young woman. Filled out with curves that weren’t there before. Started wearing makeup. Curling my hair. Wearing jeans that hugged my hips, tops that dipped just a little lower. Learned how to walk into a room like I belonged in it.

I was no longer just a little girl.

He noticed.

Subtle at first. But I caught it.

His eyes stayed a beat too long. His hand lingered when he brushed hair from my cheek. When he adjusted my seatbelt once, his knuckles grazed my chest just a little too deliberately.

If I wore something tight around the house, his eyes would darken—just for a second—before he looked away.

I knew what it meant.
I liked it.
So I started testing the limits.

Short skirts.
Cropped tops with delicate straps.
Walking past him in a towel after my shower, pretending I didn’t know he was in the hallway.

He always looked away.

But never quickly enough.

And when he thought I wasn’t looking—he watched me.
Not like a guardian.
Not anymore.

We started spending more time together. Maybe he let it happen. Maybe he didn’t realize how blurry the line was getting. But our conversations deepened. Matured. He stopped being playful and started being… something else.

His protectiveness changed.

It wasn’t brotherly anymore.

It was something more.
Something darker.
Possessive. Almost jealous.

And I loved it.

I’d think about him all the time.

At night, under my blankets, I’d think about his hands. His mouth. Imagining what kissing him would feel like. What he’d sound like if he ever said my name like he meant it.

And one night—he almost did.

Andre had a night shift. Jason came over to check on me, like he always did. We watched a movie. He had a beer in his hand. One leg up on the coffee table like everything was normal. More relaxed than usual. Less guarded.

His eyes kept drifting though.
To my legs.
My chest.
My mouth.

He was barely hiding it anymore.

I smiled to myself.
Leaned against him. Rested my head on his shoulder.

And then—his hand found my thigh.

Not high.
But not innocent either.
Just there. Warm. Firm.

I didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Just looked at him.

Our eyes locked.

And in that moment, I saw it.

The hunger.
The battle inside him.

He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to run…
Or finally give in.

“You should go to bed. It’s getting late,” he said, voice tight with restraint.

“I’m not tired,” I whispered—too quick.

“I am.”

He said it like a confession.
Like tired meant: I can’t keep pretending anymore.

Then he stood up and left.

I liked knowing I got to him.
That I could unravel him just by existing.

After that night, the air between us changed. He didn’t try to hide it anymore. His touches were intentional—on my thigh, the small of my back and sometimes he’d just brush his thumb on my cheek and not say anything. His eyes were dark. And that wall he’d built? It was cracking.

So I pushed harder.

One afternoon, he picked me up from school. Andre had a lecture. I made sure I was standing close to a boy from my class when Jason arrived. Laughed too loud. Leaned in too much. Hugged the boy goodbye in full view.

I saw it happen.

His jaw clenched.
Eyes darkened.

He didn’t speak the whole drive.
Hands gripping the steering wheel like he was outrunning something.

By the time we reached home, the tension was razor-sharp.

He followed me inside like always.
But something was different.
The air wasn’t safe anymore.
It was volatile.

He shut the door.
Looked at me.

And something in him broke.

He walked straight across the room, grabbed my waist—pinned me to the wall.

And kissed me.

Hard.
Hungrily.
Like he was marking me.

I kissed him back.

Like I’d been waiting forever.

I had.

And after that—
There was no going back.

13/08/2025

BEAUTIFULLY RUINED
PROLOGUE

It’s 4:17 a.m.

The room is dim. Foreign. Cheap curtains flutter in the stale morning breeze as the ceiling fan hums overhead, blades tired and slow.

Amara Wells opens her eyes to the sound of snoring.
She stares at the cracked ceiling above her, like she’s trying to remember where—or who—she is.

It takes her a moment.
It always does.

She turns her head slowly to the right.

There he is.
Older than she remembers.
Face pressed into the pillow. Naked. Hairy. Mouth open. Snoring through whatever he’s dreaming about.

He doesn’t stir.

Last night, he bought her two drinks at a bar near the station. His cologne was sharp. His fingers were eager.
She remembers nodding. Smiling. Going along with it. Letting him kiss her near the restroom door a few hours later. Letting him unzip her pants before they even made it to his bed.

But It didn’t feel the same.
It never does.

He didn’t feel right. Too fast. Too loud. All out of rhythm.
Came quickly, rolled off, fell asleep like she wasn’t even there.

She stayed awake, eyes on the ceiling, numb and dry.
Empty in that quiet way that has nothing to do with the body.

Now, she rises.

Carefully. Quietly. Like she doesn’t want to wake a ghost.

She pulls her shirt off the lamp, finds her jeans at the foot of the bed, her bra and panties curled nearby. She steps around beer bottles, his wallet, and a used condom drying on the floor—like proof of yet another unmemorable night and man.

She doesn’t look back.
Doesn’t even know where she is.
But she finds a cab outside and goes home.

Her own apartment is across town—clean, cold, and silent.
The doormat reads WELCOME but means little.
Two bedrooms. One untouched.
The other, main: a neatly made bed, a half-full bookshelf, a single framed picture on the night stand, a pair of work boots waiting by the door.

In the shower, she stands under scalding water until her skin feels sore.
Scrubs like she’s erasing something.
Watches the water swirl around her feet, chasing something invisible down the drain.

By 6:02 a.m., she’s dressed. Duty calls.

At work, she’s the picture of dedication.

An exceptional paramedic.
Calm under pressure.
Always first to a scene. Always last to speak.

She doesn’t chat. Doesn’t joke around in the back of the ambulance.
She takes vitals, administers morphine, tightens straps like her life depends on it.

She lives her life to save other lives.
Simple as that.

Her uniform is crisp.
Hair pulled tight in a bun.
Lips bare.
Eyes unreadable.

It’s just another day.

Until it isn’t.

The dispatch comes in at 14:29.
Private jet. Ten passengers. Lost control on descent.
Crash site: forested area, near the city airport.
Casualties unknown.

By 14:41, Amara is racing down the emergency lane in Medic Unit 7, lights flashing. Siren blurring. Her partner shouts into the radio, reviewing protocols.

She says nothing.

Her pulse doesn’t spike.
Her hands don’t tremble.
She’s done this before—too many times.

The crash site looks like a war zone.

No explosion—thank God—but the wreckage is everywhere.
Branches sheared. Metal twisted. Trees clawed black from the impact.

They move fast.
Other units pour in. Fire. Police. Search-and-rescue.
Media vans already parked at the edge. Onlookers crying. Praying.

There’s screaming. Blood everywhere. Shallow, wet breathing.
Bodies pulled from wreckage. Survivors lined on stretchers.
Triage in chaos—but it’s the kind Amara can navigate.

Until she moves deeper into the woods.
Alone for a moment.
Searching.

That’s when she sees him.

Face-down in a clearing.
Half-covered by the crumpled edge of a broken wing.

Dark slacks, soaked in blood.
White shirt open, shredded.
One arm twisted beneath him.
A Rolex clinging to his wrist.
Gold ring on his finger—a wedding band.

She rushes over, boots squelching in wet grass.

Drops to her knees.
Rolls him onto his back.

And freezes.

Her lungs stop working.
Her hands go numb.
The world narrows to a pinpoint.

Because she knows this face.
Knows this man.
Too well.

It’s been twelve years since she last saw him—
Twelve long, aching years—
But she’s still not ready.

Not for this.
Not for him.

28/07/2025

Which one? 🥺❤️✍️

30/06/2025

TWO SIDES OF A COIN
CHAPTER 10
THANDO MILTON

Keenan’s footsteps thunder down the stairs.

“I said no, Thando!” he shouts, grabbing his keys from the console.

She hurries after him, breathless and barefoot in her silk robe. “Keenan, just listen—”

“I did listen! I’ve been listening to you put your career first since the day we got married!” His voice is sharp, wounded.

Thando freezes at the bottom of the stairs, heart pounding. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” He turns to her, eyes blazing. “You want to audition for a role where you’re practically naked on screen in all sorts of explicit scenes. That’s not dramatic?”

“It’s just acting! It’s art. It’s not real,” she says, her voice cracking with frustration.

“You’re my wife, Thando. Do you understand that? My wife. And the whole damn country knows it. You think people won’t see that and look at me differently?”

“It’s not about you!” she snaps, and instantly regrets it. But the damage is already done.

Keenan stares at her like he doesn’t recognize the woman in front of him. “Exactly. That’s the problem.”

Silence stretches between them, thick and painful. Thando exhales shakily, folding her arms across her chest like armour.

“This role is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” she says more gently. “It could change everything for me.”

“And what about us?” he asks, voice quieter now, raw. “What’s left of us, Thando? You miss anniversaries. You skip dinners. You’re always gone or glued to your phone. You don’t even want kids. And now this?”

He looks at her—not angry, not even disappointed—just tired.

“I’ve sacrificed so much to support your dream. I’ve waited. I’ve been patient. But this...” He shakes his head. “This is where I draw the line.”

Thando’s throat tightens. “Are you making me choose?”

“I’m asking you to choose. Because I can’t keep doing this. I feel like I’m losing myself trying to love you the way you want to be loved, while killing the man I used to be.”

She steps closer, eyes glossy. “Keenan... I love you. You know that.”

“Then show me, Thando. Show me I still matter. Show me this marriage still matters. Choose me for once.”

"I did choose you, baby. I am here. I am your wife."

"Are you?"

The pain in his voice slices through her. And in this moment, she wants to drop everything—her career, her ambition, all of it—and just be his wife. She wants to tell him everything: the confusion, the fear, the pressure. She wants to cry in his arms and ask if maybe they made a mistake, if maybe they rushed too fast, too young, chasing something they didn’t understand.

She certainly feels like she did sometimes.

But she doesn’t.

Because the moment she opens her mouth, her phone vibrates.

They both glance down. The familiar buzz pulses from her robe pocket.

It rings again.

She doesn’t want to look—but she does, reaching to silence it.

Thingo.

The name jolts her. Her hand trembles as she stares at the screen, stunned.
The private investigator she hired gave her Thingo’s number a while ago. She saved it but never had the courage to reach out.

Until last night.

She has been waiting for this call. She knows Thingo might change her mind if she doesn't pick up now.

Keenan watches her, silent. Waiting. Hoping.

She meets his eyes. “I have to take this.”

“Of course you do,” he mutters, turning away.

“Keenan—”

But he’s already walking.

Thando presses Answer.

“Hello?” she says, voice unsteady.

“Hi, sorry to call you like this,” a deep male voice says. “Are you related to the owner of this number?”

“Yes. She’s my sister,” Thando answers, stomach twisting.

The man exhales, relieved. “My name is Dumisani. I’m a detective. I found your card in her pants along with her phone. She’s been shot. It happened last night at the club where she works. She’s in critical condition. I’m trying to reach family.”

The room spins. “What?”

“I’m so sorry,” Dumisani says. “We rushed her to Hillbrow General. She’s stable... but I think you should come.”

Thando’s legs nearly buckle.

“Okay—okay. I’m coming.”

She hangs up and rushes upstairs, fingers fumbling as she tears open her closet. Tears spill from her eyes. Her mind reels.

Not now. Not Thingo. Not after last night.

They were just starting. She had just opened the door to something real, something long overdue.

And now this.

She throws on jeans and a blouse, grabs her bag, keys, anything she can find. As she flies down the stairs, Keenan’s car speeds away down the road.

And in that moment, Thando knows—something inside him has closed.

She wipes her tears, steeling herself.

She steps out into the early morning chill, the weight of two fractured relationships sitting heavy on her chest.

One may already have ended.

The other is hanging by a thread.

_____

CHAPTER 11 is live on Visionary writings : https://visionarywritings.com/book/8023/chapter/144669

20/06/2025

TWO SIDES OF A COIN
CHAPTER 9
THINGO CELE

Thingo takes a deep breath, eyes locked on the bouncer.
It’s him.
She knows now—without a shadow of a doubt—that he did something to the girl from last night. Fifi.

Her feet move before her mind catches up. She rushes back to the dressing room, digging through her bag with frantic hands until she finds her phone.
Her fingers tremble as she fires off a message to Dumisani:

Thingo: I have something. Come to the club, right now. Act like a client—and don’t leave your gun behind!

She tosses the phone back into her bag and starts changing.
Off come the casual clothes.
On goes the armour: glittering lingerie, blood-red lipstick, a weave laid to perfection.
In the mirror, her reflection stares back—sharp brows, sultry curves, and something simmering beneath the surface: rage.

This case hits too close to home.
She knows what it’s like to be lost.
Unseen.
Helpless.
And now that she has the chance to be the person she once needed...
She’s taking it.
No matter the cost.

By the time she steps onstage, she’s fully in Rainbow mode—flirty smile, seductive sway, eyes like a predator hunting in the dark.
Not for men.
Not for money.
Tonight, she performs like it’s the last time.
Because it just might be.

She spots him easily.
Dumisani blends into the crowd, drink in hand, posture casual—but his eyes are sharp.
Ready.

He sees her.
And she sees him.
Phase one: complete.

When her set ends, she steps offstage, crumpled notes shoved into her lingerie, heart pounding against her ribs.
She cuts straight toward VIP, heels slicing through the air like blades.

Dumisani lounges on a velvet couch, looking loose, but his eyes are tight—watching everything.
The way she moves.
The danger closing in.

Their eyes lock.
She straddles him, seamless and sensual.

"Hey, daddy," she purrs in Rainbow’s voice.

A smile curls at his lips.
“Wasn’t I supposed to call you over?”

She smirks but doesn’t answer.
Leans in, lips brushing his ear.

"Got the warrant?" she whispers.

His hands find her waist. His whisper grazes her neck.
"Not yet. What do you have?"

"The girl's confirmed missing. Her friends tried to report it—cops said wait 48 hours."

He frowns. Pulls out his wallet, sliding into the role.
"And you think if we wait, we lose her?"

"I know it, especially with her friends snooping around." she says, voice deadly serious.

He slips a R200 note into her cleavage. His eyes are unreadable.
"There’s protocol for these things, Rainbow."

"F**k protocol."
Her voice cuts through the noise like a blade.
"She’s here, Dumisani. I can feel it. We need to move. Now."

She slinks behind him, pressing into his back, hands sliding down his chest.
"We need to at least try. Please."

He exhales, low and conflicted.
"What do you have in mind?"

"Two minutes from now, you head to the bathroom. I’ll meet you back there. We’re checking the storage room. Fast."

He goes still. Then nods once.

"Be careful," he says, voice softer than she expects.

She pauses—caught off guard by the concern flashing in his eyes.
Then she turns away.

"Two minutes."

She struts toward the hallway where the bouncer from last night stands, stone-faced.
He watches her approach.
She smiles—sweet and glittering, fake as plastic.

Just as she’s about to pass him, she stumbles, crashing into his chest.

"Ohhh, I’m so sorry!"
Her voice drips honey and sin.
Her breasts press into him, distracting, disarming.
"These heels are a nightmare. I think I twisted my ankle."

His face stays blank, but his arms catch her.

Her hand slips low.
Fast. Smooth. Invisible.

She pulls back, flashing an apologetic smile, and limps toward the bathrooms.

Once inside, she heads straight for the cracked mirror and opens her hand.
Jackpot.
A bunch of keys glints in her palm—lifted clean.

In the stall she marked earlier as "Out of Service," she strips down quickly, layering her outfit over the lingerie and lacing up sneakers.
Ready to move.

She steps out.
Dumisani’s already approaching.
She jerks her chin.
He follows.

They move fast, past Mayo’s empty office, toward the back storeroom.
No time to think.

At the door, she fumbles through the keys.
Dumisani draws his gun, safety off, breath slow, stance tight.
A wall between her and a possible threat.

Click.
The lock turns.
The door creaks open.

They freeze.

Inside—
A girl in a pink dress lies crumpled in the corner, hands and mouth bound.
Sobbing silently.

Fifi.

Dumisani lifts his phone immediately.
"This is Detective Dlamini. I need backup at Club Royale. Victim located. Code red. I repeat—code red."

Thingo bolts into the room, untying the gag first.

"It’s okay, it’s okay, Fifi," she soothes, voice trembling.
"We’ve got you. You’re safe now."

Fifi nods frantically, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Thingo works fast, hands shaking but steady enough.

Behind her, Dumisani keeps his gun trained on the hallway.
"We need to move. Now."

Thingo hauls Fifi upright.
The girl is weak, drugged—but alive.
They hurry toward the exit.

But just as they reach the hallway—

"S**t."

Two bouncers round the corner.
Guns drawn.

Shots explode.

Dumisani fires back, covering the girls.
"Go! Go!"

Thingo fumbles with the keys, hands slick with sweat, trying to unlock the rear exit.
Bullets rip into the walls around them.
Screams erupt from the club.

Finally—
The door swings open.
They sprint into the night.

Sirens blare in a distance.
Squad cars screech into the parking lot.
Officers pour out, forming a perimeter.

Dumisani shields them as he sprints toward his car.
Bullets ping off the metal as they dive inside.

He slams the pedal down.
Tires squeal.

"Is everyone okay?!" he shouts over the roar.

From the backseat, Fifi screams, "She’s bleeding! Oh my God—she’s been shot!"

Thingo leans back, hand pressed to her stomach.
Warmth soaks through her hoodie.
Blood.

Dumisani glances at her in the rear view mirror.
Their eyes lock.

"No," he whispers.

"Apply pressure!" he barks at Fifi. "Stay with me, Rainbow! Stay awake!"

He guns the engine, running every light.
Fifi sobs, trying to stop the bleeding.
Thingo slips in and out of consciousness, the world blurring.

They screech into the hospital bay.
Dumisani jumps out, yanking the door open, scooping Thingo into his arms.

"Help! Somebody help!" he bellows.

Doctors and nurses rush toward them.
Thingo disappears behind swinging doors.

Dumisani and Fifi are left standing at the threshold, frozen.

This wasn’t the plan.
She was supposed to walk out smirking, untouchable.

She risked her life—for justice.
For him.
For a girl she didn't even know.

Now all he can do is pray.

That she lives.
That she forgives him.
That this isn’t how her story ends.
______

CHAPTER 10 is live on Visionary writings : https://visionarywritings.com/book/8023/chapter/144668

11/06/2025

TWO SIDES OF A COIN
CHAPTER 8
THINGO CELE

"And you're sure it's hers?" Dumisani asks, sealing the silver earring in an evidence bag.

Thingo exhales. "I'm not sure. I just found it near where the girl disappeared, so I thought... maybe it's something."

He nods slowly. "You did good. But we need something solid. Right now, she's not even officially missing. No report, nothing. You said you saw the bouncer locking the storeroom?"

"Yeah," Thingo confirms. "Same guy who led her away."

Dumisani's eyes harden. "Then we need to see what's in that storeroom ASAP. I'll push for a warrant. If she's still there, we might be running out of time."

"How long will that take?" she presses, anxiety rising. "It's already been hours."

"I know. But we can't just kick down the door without a warrant. I'll stress the urgency, okay?"

Thingo leans back in the passenger seat, arms folded tight across her chest. "I'm scared," she admits quietly. "I almost got caught last night. But more than that... I'm scared for her."

Dumisani looks at her, his gaze softening. "I know this is scary. But I'm glad you care as much as I do. We'll crack this case. We'll stop them before another girl vanishes."

Thingo doesn’t answer. She just stares out the window, her heart heavy.
Last night was too close.
But walking away isn’t an option—not anymore.

—

The club pulses with music and light, but Thingo can’t tune any of it out. Her thoughts won’t stop racing.
What if the girl is still here?
What if they already moved her?

In the dressing room, she sinks onto the couch, too distracted to change into her outfit.

"Rainbow!" Nolo bursts in. "You're on soon, what are you doing just sitting there?"

Thingo jolts up. "Sorry, I—I’m getting ready."

Nolo pauses in the doorway. "And someone’s out front asking for you. Says she’s your sister. Hurry!"

Thingo freezes.
Thando?

Her pulse skips. She hasn't seen her since their mother’s funeral.

She remembers her unexpected encounter with Keenan a few days ago.

What could she want now?

She walks out of the dressing room, scanning the crowd.
And there she is—Thando—sitting alone at a corner table, glass of water in hand, looking completely out of place in her designer outfit and polished elegance.

Still so perfect, Thingo thinks bitterly.
Still the one who has it all.
But now she knows better.
Keenan’s words still echo in her mind.
And strangely, that gives her some kind of comfort.

She approaches slowly.
Thando stands up, smiling, and opens her arms for a hug.
Thingo stiffens under the embrace, too shocked to reciprocate. It feels foreign—almost fake.

"I’m sorry for just showing up," Thando says, stepping back. "I got your address from the PI I hired to find you."

Thingo inhales, her guard rising. "What do you want, Thando?"

There's a pause. Then Thando looks at her, eyes glassy.
"I've been thinking... I want us to have a relationship. We're sisters, Thingo. Blood. I know we weren't raised to acknowledge that, but we're here now. Mom is gone. She failed us—but maybe we can do better. I want to be a part of your life. You are my sister."

Thingo stares at her, throat tight.
For a moment, she feels the child she used to be—the one who wished for this.

But Thando never treated her like family before.
Not cruel, but distant. Polished. Proud.
Too good to belong to the same story.

What changed?

Thingo opens her mouth to respond—but something catches her eye.
Two girls by the bar. Familiar faces.
They’re holding up a photo, speaking anxiously to the bartender.
Not here to party.

It’s them. Part of the girl’s group from last night.
And they’re probably looking for her. Their friend.

Her breath catches.

"Thando..." she starts. "This... isn’t the right time. I have to go get ready for my set."

Thando nods, disappointment flickering in her eyes.
"Of course. I understand." She pulls a sleek card from her bag and offers it.
"Please call me when you're free. It would mean a lot to me."

Thingo takes it without a word. Just looks at her.

"I really hope you'll give me that call," Thando says softly. She places a hand gently on Thingo’s arm, then walks away.

As soon as she disappears through the door, the two girls approach.

"Hey," one of them says, voice shaking. "Do you work here?"

Thingo nods slowly, heart already bracing.

The girl holds up the photo.
"This is our friend Fifi. She was here last night with us. We thought she went home, but... she never made it. This was the last place we saw her."

"Please," the other girl adds, eyes rimmed red. "If you saw anything... please help us."

Thingo stares at the photo.
It’s her. The girl from last night. The one who never came out.

She looks at the girls. "Did you report her missing?"

"They said we have to wait 48 hours."

Thingo exhales sharply.
Behind them, movement catches her eye. She turns.

The bouncer.
The one from last night. Watching her.

Their eyes lock.

His expression is unreadable—but something about his stare screams warning—again.

She swallows hard, her throat dry.

"I'm sorry," she says to the girls, voice low. "I haven't seen her."

"You sure? She wore a pink crown. Silver earrings..."

Thingo blinks.
Silver earrings.

So it was her earring she found.

But she just shakes her head again.
The girls take back the photo, disappointed, and walk away wiping tears.

Thingo watches them go, heart aching.

Then she turns her head slowly.

The bouncer is still watching her.

And this time, his stare makes her blood run cold.

______

CHAPTER 9 is live on Visionary writings : https://visionarywritings.com/book/8023/chapter/144667

01/06/2025

TWO SIDES OF A COIN
CHAPTER 7
THINGO CELE

The music pounds through the floor like a heartbeat. Thingo moves with it—fluid, sensual, effortless as ever. Her body gleams under the neon lights, commanding the room as she dances across the stage.

The club is packed tonight. Every table full, the air thick with perfume, sweat, and the tang of liquor. Eyes follow her—some hungry, some detached—but she knows which ones matter. She scans the crowd, sharp and practiced, noting where the real money sits.

The VIP lounge hums with activity. Influential men in expensive watches and eager expressions recline on velvet couches, sipping whisky, tossing around laughter like they own the world.

But it’s not the VIPs that catch her attention tonight.

Near the bar, a loud group of young women cluster around a booth, clearly celebrating someone’s birthday. They’re wild and giggly, already several drinks deep, taking selfies, knocking back shots. One girl, wearing a pink crown, sways to her feet and stumbles alone toward the bathrooms at the back.

Normally, Thingo wouldn’t have looked twice. But Dumisani’s voice echoes in her mind:

"They don’t sn**ch girls in chaos. They wait for the moments no one’s looking. Bathroom corridors. Back exits. Eyes open, Rainbow."

Her gaze sharpens.

She keeps dancing, but her focus shifts. Her body moves on autopilot—years of muscle memory—but her eyes follow the girl.

She watches as two bouncers, stationed on opposite ends of the club, exchange a subtle signal. A nod. Barely a flicker. But she sees it. The one near the exit gestures discreetly to the bouncer by the bathrooms.

Moments later, that same bouncer—the tall one with the bald head and cold, unreadable eyes—slips away and intercepts the girl. He speaks to her, places a steadying hand on her waist as she leans into him, barely able to stand. Carefully, he guides her away—toward the back hallway.

Maybe he’s helping her to the bathroom.

Maybe he’s not.

Her friends don’t notice. Not even a glance.

Thingo forces herself to stay in character. She finishes her routine, strutting down the steps with practiced grace, her smile never faltering. But inside, her pulse thunders.

The girl hasn’t come back.

She’s just about to slip away toward the corridor when Nolo intercepts her.

“You’re needed in the VIP lounge, Rainbow. Client request.”

Of course. She can’t refuse.

She swallows her frustration and pivots toward the lounge, every step practiced, every smile rehearsed. Her mind races as she moves—her body working, but her heart elsewhere.

By the time she finishes in VIP, her worry has curdled into something heavier.

She slips out the moment she can, heels clicking faster as she bypasses the restroom. The stalls are empty. No pink crown. No drunk girl fixing her makeup.

Something’s wrong.

She pushes deeper into the hallway, past the bathrooms and into the staff-only area—Mayo’s office, the storage rooms, the rear exit for deliveries.

As she nears Mayo’s door, movement catches her eye. At the far end of the corridor, the bald bouncer steps out of the storeroom—and locks it.

Click.

Her breath catches.

He notices her. Their eyes meet—just for a second—but it’s enough. A cold warning slides down her spine.

She needs to think fast.

Thingo pivots, knocking quickly on Mayo’s office door.

“Come in,” his deep voice calls.

She steps inside.

Mayo lounges behind his desk, a glass of whisky in one hand, scrolling through something on his computer. He looks up—and smiles. A slow, dangerous smile that makes her stomach twist.

“Rainbow,” he purrs. “Finally taking me up on my offer?”

She matches his smile, swaying toward the desk. “Not tonight,” she says playfully, letting her body speak louder than her words.

Mayo always watches with a predator’s patience, lips tight over his teeth. The deep scars crisscrossing his face and the black leather eyepatch only make him more unsettling.

He is the club manager. The law around here.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “You know I can take care of you, baby. Just once. I promise—you won’t regret it.”

“I was hoping to ask for a few extra shifts this weekend,” she says, voice soft, leaning closer, cleavage framed perfectly. “It’s going to be busy. Having me on stage longer… good for business, right?”

His eyes darken.

He stands, circling the desk, looming behind her.

She fights the urge to recoil.

His hands land on her hips, fingers heavy, possessive. “Will you return the favour?” he breathes against her skin.

Her insides twist. But she keeps smiling.

He presses closer, pinning her lightly against the desk, nose brushing her neck. His hands roam—bold, greedy.

She closes her eyes. Stays in control.

Just as she’s about to invent an excuse to pull away, something glints behind him—on the couch.

A silver earring.

Her heart thuds painfully.

That could be it. Proof.

Her mind shifts gears instantly. Her smile softens; her eyes smoulder.

“What do you want?” she whispers, sliding a leg between his.

He grins wolfishly and sinks onto the couch, dragging her onto his lap. She grinds against him slowly, letting his hands wander.

Over his shoulder, she reaches carefully, sn**ching the earring with two fingers, locking it tight in her palm.

Mayo’s distracted, kissing her breasts through the thin fabric, breathing hard.

Just as he starts tugging her thong aside, she springs up.

“Extra shifts,” she says quickly. “This weekend, right?”

“Rainbow,” he growls, reaching for her.

She flashes him a playful smile. “It’s good for business, Mayo. See you later.”

Before he can protest, she turns and struts out, hips swaying, the picture of control. But the moment she’s out of sight, she picks up speed, nearly running down the corridor.

She bursts into the dressing room, fumbling with her locker code. Throws it open. Grabs her phone.

She texts Dumisani:
I think I’ve got something.

She stares at the earring in her palm.

It’s beautiful. Feminine. Expensive-looking.

Her throat tightens. Her heart pounds harder.

If it belongs to that girl…

Then where is she?
_______

CHAPTER 8 is live on Visionary writings : https://visionarywritings.com/book/8023/chapter/144666

Kiddiana’s Bookshelf

13/01/2026

26/11/2025

13/08/2025

28/07/2025

30/06/2025

20/06/2025

11/06/2025

01/06/2025

Address

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share

Category