ZIKORA'S POV – The Mansion Party
I arrived at Bernard's mansion. A literal movie set—straight out of some British royal flick. The kind of mansion that makes the entire estate look basic.
I rolled in with my Aston Martin Vulcan. Yeah, I can drive. Not perfectly, but still. I had Neil with me—my chaperone, my unwanted reminder that I wasn't as independent as I pretended.
Without Ann, though, it felt empty. Moody. No one to criticize my outfit, no one to fill the silence. Just me and my thoughts.
I stepped out, and all eyes landed on me. Obviously.
Why wouldn't they?
I'm Arthur Wills' daughter. Lola Wills' daughter. And above all… I'm Zizi Kora.
My outfit screamed expensive, though I wasn't bragging. Simple yet fabulous wet-gloss makeup, damp-straightened afro hair, and a white mini tassel bodycon that whispered sexy. Tiffany Victoria's jewelry dripped from every limb—$60,000 worth. Jimmy Choo Saeda heels. A transparent clutch purse. If I revealed the total cost of my look, someone might faint.
I didn't need the "Best Dressed" $1000 prize. But winning was just too fun to resist.
So yes, I was late. But it was worth it. Gorgeous girls don't arrive early—we arrive unforgettable. My beauty was already working overtime: fans, admirers, haters—every jaw dropped. Cameras flashed.
Not again. Journalists swarmed.
"Zizi, true you and Ann aren't friends anymore?"
"Rumor says you and Bernard aren't cool, confirm?"
"How much is tonight's outfit?"
I was ready to answer—"Not bragging, but my dress, jewelry, and this diamond watch from—"
"Zizi, come on! You've missed a lot," Bernard cut in, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me inside.
The music stopped abruptly. Silence. Then whispers. Then everyone being extra nice—like I'd descended from Olympus. Selfie requests came at me rapid-fire, and I let them all have their free shots.
But where in the world were Fred and Ann?
Bernard slid his hand to my waist as soft music restarted. "We wouldn't want to waste the music, would we?" His eyes burned into mine.
I forced a smile. "You look pretty! I'd kill for you… I love you," he blurted.
"Thanks. You don't look too bad yourself," I replied politely.
"Let's get drinks," he offered, still blushing like a high schooler.
"I don't drink. Alcohol," I lied smoothly.
"You're lying," he laughed, dragging me toward the bar.
At the counter, he shoved a glass at me.
"I said, I don't drink," I protested.
"You must tonight. Don't front."
Annoyed, I hissed, raised the glass, and just before it touched my lips—Fred appeared. His frown could freeze fire.
"Don't drink it. It's spiked."
My hand froze. "What do you mean spiked?"
"You heard me," Fred said, flat and irritated.
"Evidence?" Bernard sneered.
"None. But not like it's any of my business," Fred muttered, walking away.
I turned, fury boiling. "You spiked my drink?"
Bernard stammered. "I—I'm sorry."
"Don't you dare say you're sorry. You're disgusting. Forget it!" I roared, storming off into the crowd.
Fans swarmed again, shoving gifts and portraits into my arms. Amapiano thumped through the speakers, dragging me momentarily back into the mood.
Then Zainab appeared, grabbing my wrist. "Zizi! You forgot me already?" Her breath reeked of alcohol.
"How?" I blinked.
"Forget it. Girl, you look sexy as hell. Who is your stylist?" she slurred.
I chuckled. "Thanks."
She shifted uncomfortably. "Where's the loo?"
"Ugh. Don't embarrass us. Come on."
We climbed the stairs together, chatting about nothing. First toilet? Occupied—by a couple doing the deed. Ew. Apologies and a quick exit.
Second toilet? Blessedly free. Zainab rushed inside, leaving me waiting like some personal assistant. Me—Zizi Kora—waiting outside a bathroom? Embarrassing. What would people think?
I drifted toward the rail. A strange sound caught my attention.
And then I saw him.
Bernard. Staggering, drunk, chanting my name.
"Zizi baby! What you even doing here?"
His steps were uneven. His eyes glazed. His grin manic.
And I realized something.
A drunk Bernard was not just embarrassing. He was dangerous.