Coco's pov
I used to think that my life would always smell like cinnamon and vanilla. My dad's cereal empire made sure of that. There was always something baking in our test kitchen, always some new flavour being tried out and those are the days I miss the most.
We lived in Bishopscourt, Cape Town's quiet fortress of glass walls, long driveways, and neighbours who flew private. I had a walk-in closet bigger than most people's lounges, and more Instagram followers than sense. That was my normal life.
Until it wasn't…
When my dad died, everything fell like a house of cards in the wind. Rose, my evil stepmother, sold the company within a year. She drained the trust fund dad left me, telling me I was too young to handle "serious money." Mind you, my dad trusted me with money and he knew how responsible I was with my money.
The lie stung even more because she smiled while saying it, like she was doing me a favour. One day, I was Coco Myeni, heiress and digital darling. The next, I was Coco Myeni, unpaid help, sleeping in a room that used to belong to the housekeeper, though I thank God that it was a decent room. She would have sold our mansion but unfortunately for her, my dad made sure I always had a home.
Rose kept her wine glasses polished and her nails sharper than her tongue, though not by much. Her daughter, Mika, loved following her example. Between them, it was open season on me. If I wasn't scrubbing tiles, I was fetching, ironing, or dodging Rose's sharp tongue, slaps or choking.
"You walk around here like the world still owes you something," Rose said once, throwing a dishcloth at my face. "Newsflash, princess, no one cares. You're lucky I haven't thrown you out on the street."
On days when wine blurred her temper, she'd grip my arm too hard, nails digging into my skin. Once, she shoved me so hard into the pantry door that my shoulder dislocated and throbbed for days. Mika laughed, of course. "Careful, Ma," she smirked, "she might not be able to do her house chores or she might bruise. Not that anyone's looking."
I shrunk myself, they made me quit my dreams and I learned silence. Silence kept me alive in this house, and then, as if stripping me of everything wasn't enough, Rose came up with her "brilliant" plan.
"You're good at books," she said one evening, swilling her Sauvignon Blanc. "Kairo Carlisle's struggling at school. They need a tutor. I offered you."
I blinked at her. "You what?"
"You heard me." She tapped her glass against the counter. "They'll pay good money. Enough to cover Mika's semester fees. Don't look at me like that, this is your chance to be useful."
USEFUL. The word made my chest tighten. My dad never once called me that. To him, I was bright, capable, loved. To Rose, I was an investment she cashed in when it suited her.
I wanted to tell her no, to throw the wine in her face and remind her she was nothing without the fortune my father built, but instead, I swallowed the fire in my throat, because saying no meant war, and I was too tired to fight her tonight.
Later, when I told my bestie Asanda, she laughed so hard she nearly fell off her bed.
"You? Tutoring at the Carlisle's?" she wheezed, clutching her side. "Babe, that's like tossing a lamb into the lion's den."
"It's not funny babe, even her brother, that hot Kyle dude is a notorious womaniser, I hear." I muttered, curling into her duvet. Her room smelled of shea butter and incense, comfort wrapped in fabric. "I don't even know this Kairo girl. What if she's a brat?"
"What if she's not?" Asanda nudged me with her shoulder. "Coco, listen. You're not the villain here. Rose is, and maybe the universe is setting you up. New door, new path. You just don't see it yet."
I rolled my eyes, but a part of me wanted to believe her. I needed a life outside of those walls.
Still, I couldn't shake the weight in my chest, because tutoring Kairo Carlisle meant stepping into their world, the Carlisle's, with their billions, their glossy legacy, their power that stretched across every news headline and fibre optic cable. People like them didn't notice people like me anymore.
Except… I used to be them.
That was the cruellest part.
The morning I was due to meet the Carlisle's, Mika flung open my closet and tossed a pair of faded jeans at me. "Don't embarrass us. Wear that. We don't want them thinking you're trying too hard."
I bit my tongue and pulled the jeans on anyway. When you've been dethroned, even your wardrobe becomes a battlefield.
The Carlisle estate was everything my old house had been and more. Wrought-iron gates taller than trees, a driveway so long it felt like a runway, walls of glass gleaming in the Cape Town sun. I walked up the steps with my throat tight, clutching my satchel like a lifeline.
The door opened before I could knock twice. A girl with glossy hair, the kind you only get from a stylist, looked me up and down with a smirk. "You're the tutor?" Her voice dripped with disbelief.
"Kairo Carlisle, I presume?" I said, steadying my tone.
She folded her arms. "We'll see if you're worth the hype. I don't do well with mediocre and boring people."
Behind her, a shadow moved across the marble hallway. A tall figure, broad-shouldered, confident even in the casual way he held himself. For a heartbeat, our eyes met. Grey eyes, gorgeous, sharp and curious.
Kyle Carlisle Jr.
And just like that, the air shifted.
Suddenly, the clicking of heels on the marble floors got my heard out of the gutter, and a "high maintenance" looking blond girl in red lipstick came from behind him and kissed his cheek. I saw his face contort and I swear I saw him tense up. I turned one last time and he was still looking at me.
When I saw him, I almost forgot how to breathe.
Those storm-grey eyes caught mine like a storm catching the sea, wild, relentless, impossible to look away from. They didn't just meet my gaze, they held it, like they already knew me, like they had every right to strip me down to the core of who I was.
And God, his hair, glossy brown, curling in waves that begged to be touched. It was the kind of hair you'd expect from some marble statue in a forgotten temple, a beauty too unreal to belong to anyone standing in front of me. He looked like something sculpted, not born, a Greek god in a tailored suit.
That suit tried, and failed, to tame him. Broad shoulders stretching fabric, muscles carved so deep I could trace them with my eyes alone. Power wrapped around him like a second skin, and it terrified me how much I noticed.
And then, he smiled. One dimple denting his cheek, lips curving in a way that rewrote every definition of perfect. That smile didn't belong in this world, it belonged in glossy covers, in secret daydreams. He was made for cameras and for corner offices, for being admired and obeyed, not for making me feel like my knees might buckle.
Stop staring, Coco. Don't fall for that. Not him. Not this.
But my body betrayed me. My pulse thundered, warmth curled low in my belly, and I hated it, hated that I was so aware of him. Because men like Kyle Carlisle weren't accidents; they were detonations. They didn't step into your life, they blew it wide open.
I forced my gaze away, nails biting into my palms, whispering to myself that I was stronger than this. But deep down, I already knew the truth: I was in trouble.