James Mugeni did not believe in softness. Not anymore.
He sat behind his desk in the top-floor corner office of J&M Holdings, eyes fixed on a digital clock that never ticked loud, but never stopped.
8:59 AM.
Another Monday. Another hundred decisions.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then stilled. His eyes didn't move from the glass wall overlooking Kampala's skyline. From up here in Kololo, the city below looked so peaceful. Lies always looked beautiful from far away.
He leaned back, watching the clouds shift over the hills.
But instead of board reports or pending contracts, his mind returned to her.
The girl in the elevator. Sandra Namatovu.
That quiet voice. The way she said "thank you."
James had heard many things from many people. Praise. Flattery. Desperation. Even fake affection.
But Sandra's voice was different. Clean. Undressed. No agenda behind it. Just truth.
He didn't know why it unsettled him. But it did.
Maybe it was her posture. Maybe her eyes.
Or maybe it was because—for a split second—he had felt something.
And James Mugeni did not feel.
Not since the accident.
Not since the betrayal.
He stood up and walked to the shelf near his desk.
There, next to a black folder marked "Private: V.N.," sat a small framed photo. Faded at the edges.
A girl. Smiling in the rain.
He hadn't looked at that photo in five years.
He hadn't thought of her in five years.
But now, because of Sandra, he couldn't stop.
He didn't even remember the girl's name.
But he remembered how she gave him her umbrella in Mbale, long ago, when he was soaked and angry at the world. She didn't ask for his name. She just smiled, handed him the umbrella, and said, "The rain will pass, I promise."
It never did.
Until now.
Back at her desk, Sandra was trying to forget the meeting.
She had returned from the CEO's office with legs still shaking. Everyone in HR kept looking at her like she was hiding a secret.
Maybe she was.
Her heart hadn't stopped racing. Not since James Mugeni looked at her like he already knew her.
She stared at the small card he had handed her.
Saturday – 3PM – Muyenga Community Centre
A charity event? Why her?
Immy had sent a string of voice notes already, asking, teasing, even warning. But Sandra hadn't replied.
Not because she didn't want to.
But because she didn't know what to say.
Was she scared?
Excited?
Stupid?
All three.
Meanwhile, James was watching more than just city views.
"Get me Victor," he told Shinta, who stood in the doorway with her usual stiff smile.
She made the call immediately.
Victor, his childhood friend and now operations director at J&M, walked in after five minutes, holding a tablet and fake confidence.
"You wanted to see me?"
James didn't answer at first. Just pushed the file across the table.
"Why did this contract go through without my signature?"
Victor blinked. "I thought—Shinta said—"
"I'm not asking what Shinta said. I'm asking what you did."
Victor shifted uncomfortably. "Look, it was a minor logistics tender—nothing critical—"
"But still under your direct control."
Silence.
James looked at him. Long and cold.
"Next time you sign on my behalf, make sure I'm dead first."
Victor tried to laugh. James didn't.
He waved him off with one word: "Go."
Victor left quickly, fake charm slipping.
Shinta remained behind. She always did.
She watched James for a moment.
"She's just an intern, James."
He didn't look up.
"So?"
"You've never asked about an intern before."
Still typing.
"Maybe I'm just curious."
Shinta's lips tightened. "Curiosity is dangerous for men like you."
He finally looked at her. "Then you should be safe."
That silenced her.
She left. Quiet. But not happy.
Saturday arrived. Kampala was moody. Clouds. Humidity. Threat of rain.
Sandra stood outside the Muyenga Community Centre in a modest navy-blue dress, holding her notebook and checking her phone every two minutes. She hadn't seen James yet.
Kids were already gathering. Some staff bustled around. Local news crew nearby.
She tried to steady her breathing.
This is just work. You're not special. You're just helping.
He'll barely talk to you.
But when he arrived, he walked straight to her.
Black car. Black suit. No entourage.
Just him.
"You're early," he said, standing close but not touching.
"Yes, sir."
"Call me James today."
Sandra blinked. "Okay… James."
Something inside her cracked at the sound of his name. It felt personal. Too personal.
The event moved smoothly, but Sandra felt nothing was normal.
James didn't smile. Didn't make speeches. He simply walked through the centre like a silent guardian, nodding, watching.
But he never moved far from her.
He'd occasionally say, "That's too much sugar for that one," or "Tell them to adjust the mic stand," and always through her.
And once—when a woman tried to flirt with him—he said plainly, "I'm busy." Then walked back to Sandra.
Immy would have fainted.
Sandra just kept writing notes and hiding her nerves.
Then came the rain.
Heavy. Sudden. Unforgiving.
Guests scattered. Cars were blocked by the crowd.
James and Sandra found themselves under a tin shade behind the centre. Alone.
Dripping.
Silent.
Sandra hugged her arms. Her blouse was soaked.
James removed his jacket and handed it to her.
She hesitated.
"Take it. You'll catch cold."
"What about you?"
He shrugged. "I stopped feeling cold long ago."
They both laughed lightly. Surprised.
The laughter died quickly. And quiet settled again.
Then, softly:
"Why me?" Sandra asked.
"Why choose me to help you today?"
James looked at her, but not at her face. At her hands. Small. Trembling slightly.
"Because you don't want anything from me."
"You don't know that."
"I know enough."
She stared at him.
"Do you ever smile?"
He turned to the rain.
"I forgot how."
Just when the air between them became something warm…
James's phone buzzed.
He checked the screen.
His face changed.
Cold. Sharp. Stone again.
"Yes?" he answered.
A pause.
Then, tightly: "Who approved that?"
Another pause.
"Victor? Without clearance?"
His jaw clenched.
"Shinta knew?"
Silence.
Then: "I'll handle it myself."
He ended the call.
Looked at Sandra with eyes suddenly unreadable.
"Go home."
"What happened?"
"Go home, Sandra."
She opened her mouth to speak again, but he was already walking into the rain.
Alone.
Without his jacket.
Without an umbrella.
Without looking back.
That night, Sandra sat on her bed, holding the jacket to her chest.
She told Immy nothing.
Only that she didn't understand this man.
But she wanted to.
That same night, James sat in his dark office. Alone.
The city lights blinked behind him.
He opened a locked drawer.
Pulled out the old watch. His father's.
He stared at it.
8:19. Still broken. Still stuck.
He reached for his phone.
Paused.
Then called a number.
"Get me every financial move Victor has made this quarter."
Pause.
"And start watching Shinta."