CHAPTER 2:THE NIGHT I STOPPED BEING PURE

On July 28th, my 25th birthday, I decided to kill the image.

For six months I had lived in a condo that was not mine, on Beach Road, Sea Point. White sheets that were never slept in. White shirts in a closet because white is pure. Nude heels because nude is classy. Pearls because pearls are Beige family. Fifty thousand rand on the 1st called allowance. I was Dawn Beige's perfect future wife image and I was tired of being an image that no one touches.

I told Amanda, my best friend from East London, on video call. She was in her kitchen, kids shouting.

"I'm going to Billionaire Club tonight. Alone. I want one night where a man wants me, not my degree," I said.

Amanda dropped her spoon. "Linda Long, you have a fiancé who gives you a Lamborghini. You have a Beach Road condo."

"I have a fiancé who has never seen me naked, Amanda. Not once. Not mouth, not hands, not in the dark. Six months he kisses my forehead like I am his little sister. I am 25 today. I am still virgin. I am starved."

She went quiet.

"Linda..."

"I found his iPad open last week," I said fast. "London. A man. Blonde. Muscular. Message: 'Miss you, D. When are you coming back? I kept your shirt.' I closed it. I did not cry. I understood. He needs me because his mother Nandy Jordan owns his shares and will strip him if he comes out. He needs Oxford First Class, pretty enough for photos, poor enough to be grateful, virgin enough to never ask why he does not touch her."

"Jesus," Amanda whispered.

"So tonight I am not pure. I am not white. I am Linda."

I hung up and opened closet. White, white, white, nude, white. At the back, Amanda's gift from last Christmas I never wore because Dawn said red is for girls who try too hard. Zara, R499, tight, backless, the tag still on. I cut tag. I put it on. It fit like it was made for sin. My thighs, my waist, my back bare. I put red lipstick, not nude. Hair down, not up in Beige bun. No pearls. I looked in mirror and for first time in six months I saw Linda Long, not future Mrs Beige.

Billionaire Club. Rooftop. 9PM. Cape Town lights below, Lion's Head black behind, wind coming hard from mountain. Storm coming. Dom Pérignon at R4000 a bottle. Women in white dresses, all Beige-wannabes, all looking at door for Dawn who never comes.

I ordered free birthday glass. Bartender smiled. "Red is dangerous tonight, Miss."

"I want to be dangerous."

He was at the bar. Alone.

Luke Bryan Cranston.

I did not know his name then. I did not know he was Nandy Jordan's first son. I did not know he was Dawn's half-brother. I just saw grey eyes cold like Atlantic in winter, white shirt sleeves rolled to elbows, veins on forearms hard, black heavy watch, jaw tight like he was angry at sea and sea owed him money. He looked 32, whisky neat.

He looked at me and I felt seen. Really seen.

"You are not supposed to be here," he said. Voice low, hoarse.

"Why? Because I am wearing Zara in Billionaire Club?"

"Because you are wearing red in a room full of women wearing white to catch Beige."

I laughed. My hands sweaty on glass.

"I am 25 today. And I am still a virgin because my fiancé thinks I am pure. So I came to be impure for one night."

He went still. Grey eyes dropped to my mouth, to my chest where red was too tight.

"Your fiancé is an idiot," he said.

"Tell me something I don't know."

He stood. Taller than Dawn. Broader. Sea and money and whisky.

"What is your name?"

"Linda."

"Linda," he tasted it. "What do you want for your birthday, Linda?"

"To be touched," I whispered. "I want one night where a man wants me, not my image."

His jaw tightened. His hand went to my waist, burning through red dress.

"You don't know what you are asking, Miss Long."

"I know exactly."

He took my hand, left his whisky and bill, and walked me out. He owned the building. I found out later.

Outside, storm. Wind from Lion's Head hitting red dress, pushing it to my body.

"My car," he said. Black Maybach.

"Your office," I said. "I don't want hotel. I want where billionaires make money."

"14th floor."

Richness Waves. Glass everywhere. No lights. Only city lights and storm clouds over Atlantic. He swiped CEO card and locked door. Click loud.

"Last chance to run, Miss Long."

"I don't want to run. I want to stop being pure."

He kissed me. Not soft like Dawn's forehead kiss. Hard. Real. Mouth, teeth, hands in my hair, pushing me against glass wall that looked over whole Atlantic, whole Cape Town below. I gasped.

"Tell me you are sure," he said against my mouth, hand already under red dress, on my thigh.

"I am sure. I want you."

He ripped red dress. Zara R499 ripped from neckline down like paper. Sound loud. I should have been angry. I was wet.

He saw white cotton panties, virgin panties, and groaned low.

"You are—"

"Virgin," I whispered. "Was. After tonight I am not."

He picked me up. Glass desk, cold on my bare back, his hands hot on my thighs. He kissed my neck, down.

"If I hurt you, tell me to stop."

He did not hurt. He made me feel. For first time in 25 years, a man wanted my body, not my image. He looked at me naked and said, "Perfect."

One night. One storm. One time I did not wait.

I bled. Small spot on his glass desk, red on clear glass. He saw it and went still.

"You were virgin," he said, voice wrecked.

"Was," I said, crying because it hurt and because it finally happened.

He wrapped his big white shirt around me. It smelled like him.

"Stay till morning. I will hire you. 120k. You don't need to be anyone's image."

I stayed till 4 AM. He ordered pasta, I ate in his white shirt, too big, sleeves to elbows. He drove me home himself at 4 AM to Beach Road condo and kissed my forehead at car door, but not like Dawn — like a man who wanted more.

Next morning 8 AM, I ironed that white shirt at 5 AM because it was only shirt I had clean and went to interview at Richness Waves, 14th floor.

John Sterling, COO, smiled. "The boss will like you. You look like you belong here."

Boss was Luke Bryan Cranston. CEO. New white shirt, sleeves rolled. Grey eyes cold again. Like night never happened.

"Miss Long," he said, cold. "You are hired. Marketing Manager. 14th floor. Sea office. You start now."

He handed me keycard that said MARKETING MANAGER and did not touch my hand.

I thought secret would stay secret.

*Six weeks later, September 11th, Sunday family breakfast, Lion's Head Mansion, Nandy Jordan in pearls said, "Linda, meet my first son Luke. He just came back from London."*

And Luke looked at me across bacon and said, "Miss Long. We have met."

And Dawn, my fiancé, smiled and said, "You know my fiancée?"

And my stomach turned hard because I was already six weeks late and the test in my clutch said two pink lines.

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