Chapter 22
The Invasion
The twenty-second of December descended on New York City with a sky the color of galvanized steel and a wind that cut through the heaviest wool coats. Inside the penthouse on Park Avenue, however, the climate was controlled, serene, and smelling faintly of pine and expensive cedarwood.
But there was a glitch in the matrix.
Emi stood in the center of the living room, her hands on her hips, staring at the Christmas tree.
It was a massive Noble Fir, tastefully decorated with white lights and silver ornaments that matched Liam’s minimalist aesthetic.
But beneath the boughs, the minimalism ended.
There was a mountain of gifts. Dozens of boxes, wrapped in gold and navy paper, spilled out from the tree skirt, encroaching on the floor space usually reserved for walking.
"Liam," Emi called out, her voice echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room.
Liam emerged from the bedroom, buttoning a thick flannel shirt over his white tee. He looked calm—suspiciously calm.
"Yes, Finance Manager?"
"We are leaving in an hour," Emi pointed out, gesturing to the luggage sitting by the door. "You said we were going somewhere warm. You said pack light. So, explain the mountain."
She pointed to the gifts.
"Who are those for? Unless the sharks celebrate Christmas, that is an excessive amount of inventory for two people who won't even be here."
Liam walked over, sliding his hands into his pockets. He offered her that maddening, charming North Star smile.
"Logistics," he said smoothly. "We’ll open them when we get back. It’s better to have them ready. You know how supply chains are."
Emi narrowed her eyes. "You're acting weird. You've been acting weird all week. Checking your phone. Smiling at nothing. If I didn't know better, I’d say you were building a secret casino."
"No casino," Liam checked his watch. "Come on. The Ford Expedition is warming up. We don't want to miss our flight. Traffic to JFK is going to be a nightmare."
Emi sighed, grabbing her coat. She zipped it up, taking one last look at the mysterious pile of gifts. "Fine. But if we come back and the sharks have unwrapped my presents, I’m filing a grievance."
The drive to JFK was tense, but only on Emi’s side.
She hated being late, and the holiday traffic on the Van Wyck Expressway was a parking lot of red brake lights.
Liam, conversely, was the picture of Zen.
He drove with one hand, humming along to the jazz playlist, checking his GPS not for the route, but for the arrival time of a very specific flight from Johannesburg via Dubai.
"We're going to miss it," Emi stressed, tapping her foot. "Where are we even going? St. Barts? Miami?"
"Terminal 4," Liam said cryptically.
"That’s an airport terminal, Liam, not a destination."
"Trust the Architect," he said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "The foundation is solid."
When they finally pulled up to the curb at Terminal 4, the wind was whipping snow flurries across the pavement. Liam parked the Expedition in a temporary loading zone.
"Leave the bags," Liam said, turning off the engine.
"What?" Emi blinked. "Liam, we can't check in without bags."
"Just come with me. I need to check something on the departure board."
Emi groaned, but she followed him out into the biting cold. They walked through the sliding doors into the chaotic warmth of the terminal. It was a sea of humanity—families shouting, announcements blaring, the smell of burnt coffee and anxiety.
Liam took her hand, guiding her not toward the First Class check-in counters, but toward the seating area near the international arrivals connection, which confusingly spilled out near the departures level due to the terminal's layout.
He stopped near a large pillar. He checked his phone.
Tracey: We are here. Chantel is complaining about the cold. Anele thinks she saw Spider-Man.
Liam smiled. He turned to Emi.
"Emi," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders.
"What?" she asked, looking around nervously. "Liam, the check-in line is that way. Why are we standing here?"
"We aren't flying anywhere today," Liam said softly.
Emi froze. "What? But... the trip. The warm place."
"The warm place is here," Liam said. "I just needed to import the heat."
He gently turned her around.
Sitting on a metal bench about twenty feet away were three figures huddled together around a pile of suitcases.
There was a tall woman in a sensible winter coat that looked brand new, holding a coffee cup with two hands. Beside her was a teenager with headphones around her neck, looking at the ceiling with wide eyes. And sitting on the suitcase, swinging her legs, was a young girl in a pink puffer jacket.
Emi’s breath hitched. Her brain refused to process the visual data. It was a glitch. A hologram.
Then, the young girl in the pink jacket looked up. Her eyes went wide. She jumped off the suitcase and screamed.
"SISI!"
The sound cut through the noise of the terminal like a bell.
Emi’s knees buckled. Liam’s arm was instantly around her waist, holding her up.
"Anele?" Emi whispered, the word barely a breath.
The woman stood up. Tracey. She looked tired, jet-lagged, but when she saw Emi, her face crumpled into a smile of pure relief and love. Chantel stood up next, pulling her headphones off, a grin spreading across her face.
"Sisi!" Anele screamed again, sprinting across the polished floor.
Emi broke out of Liam’s grip. She ran. She met Anele halfway, dropping to her knees on the hard floor, not caring about her expensive stockings. Anele collided with her, wrapping her small arms around Emi’s neck, burying her face in Emi’s coat.
"You're real," Emi sobbed, squeezing her little sister. "You're real."
Then Tracey and Chantel were there. It was a tangle of arms, tears, and Zulu endearments.
"You look skinny," Tracey cried, hugging Emi so hard she squeaked. "Doesn't he feed you?"
"I feed her!" Liam called out from a few feet away, grinning.
Emi looked up from the huddle. She saw Liam standing there, his hands in his pockets, watching them with a look of profound satisfaction. He wasn't part of the hug; he was the structure that allowed the hug to happen.
"You..." Emi choked out, looking at him. "You did this?"
"Merry Christmas, Emi," Liam said. "First Class tickets. Visas. The works. Tracey was very helpful with the paperwork."
Emi stood up, pulling her sisters with her. She walked over to Liam. She didn't say anything. She just grabbed the lapels of his flannel shirt and kissed him—a fierce, salty, tear-stained kiss right in the middle of Terminal 4.
"Thank you," she sobbed against his mouth. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
"Okay, okay," Liam laughed, holding her tight. "Let's save the waterworks. I have three South African ladies who have never seen snow, and I think Anele needs a burger."
"I want pizza!" Anele announced loudly. "Ninja Turtle pizza!"
Liam laughed. "Pizza it is."
The drive back to the penthouse was the loudest journey the Ford Expedition had ever undertaken. The silence of Liam’s usual commute was shattered.
"Is that the Empire State Building?" Chantel shrieked, pressing her face against the glass. "It’s huge! It looks smaller in the movies."
"Why is it so cold?" Tracey complained, cranking the seat heater. "My bones are frozen. Liam, does your house have a heater? Or is it an igloo?"
"It has heat, Tracey," Liam assured her, glancing in the rearview mirror. "And sharks."
"Sharks?" Anele asked, her eyes popping. "Like... Baby Shark?"
"Bigger," Liam winked.
When they arrived at the building, the doorman’s eyes widened as the group spilled out—loud, chaotic, and vibrating with energy. They took the elevator up.
When the doors opened into the penthouse, the reaction was instantaneous silence.
The sisters stepped into the biosphere. They looked at the living walls. They looked at the floor-to-ceiling windows showing the snowy skyline. And then, they saw the tank.
Anele ran to the glass. "FISHIES!"
"They are sharks, Anele, be careful, they might bite through the glass!" Chantel warned, though she was already taking a selfie with the tank.
Tracey walked into the living room, spinning slowly. She looked at the furniture, the view, the sheer scale of it. She turned to Liam, who was carrying the bags.
"Okay," Tracey said, nodding slowly. "You are the King. I approve."
"High praise," Liam bowed.
"And those gifts?" Chantel pointed to the mountain under the tree. "Are those for us?"
"Maybe," Liam teased. "If you're on the nice list."
"I'm always nice!" Chantel lied, running toward the tree.
Emi stood by the door, watching them. Her sisters—her world—were inside Liam’s world. The two halves of her life had collided, and nothing had broken. Instead, the room felt fuller. It felt, finally, like a home.
The next morning, the culture clash began in earnest.
Liam woke up at 5:00 AM, adhering to his Shitsuke. He did his workout in the gym, quieter than usual, then went to the kitchen to meditate before the sun rose. He sat on his cushion near the window, closing his eyes, seeking the void, the silence, the order.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
CLANG.
Liam’s left eye twitched.
SIZZLE.
The smell hit him first. It wasn't the scent of brewing coffee. It was the pungent, spicy, unmistakable scent of frying oil, onions, and curry powder.
Liam opened one eye.
Chantel was in his kitchen. She was wearing one of his oversized t-shirts, dancing to Amapiano music blasting from her phone, which she had propped up against his expensive espresso machine. She was wielding a spatula like a weapon.
"Morning, brother-in-law!" Chantel shouted over the bass.
Liam unfolded his legs and stood up. His Zen was gone, replaced by a mixture of confusion and amusement.
"Good morning, Chantel," Liam said. "What... what is happening?"
"Making breakfast!" she announced. "Tracey said you guys eat bird food. Seeds and avocado. We need real food. I'm making vetkoek and mince. And some spicy sausages."