Melissa's penthouse had never felt this quiet.
It was the lull between storms,the media had been hushed, FireThreads was nearly runway-ready, and for once, no one was arguing over press releases, fabric textures, or logistics. Rama was in the studio, sketching new designs, humming to himself. The atmosphere was calm, almost serene.
Then the intercom rang.
"Boss Queen," said one of her bodyguards over the speaker. "You have… a visitor. Says she's family."
Melissa's brows pinched. "Who?"
"Max's mother."
Her eyes widened. "Let her in."
Mma Botho didn't walk in like royalty she glided, elegant in a navy blue two-piece and pearls, her silver hair swept into a soft chignon. But her eyes? They scanned everything like a hawk. Calculating. Sharp.
"Melissa," she said warmly, opening her arms. "Look at you. Glowing like a Tswana moon."
"Thank you," Melissa said, hugging her with surprising ease. The truth was, they had grown closer, ironically more so after Max and Melissa fell apart. Mma Botho had seen something in her that even Max didn't: grit, intelligence, and undeniable strength.
"I've come as a grandmother," the old woman said, placing a gentle hand on Melissa's belly. "Not as a Botho. My blood flows through that child too. I want to help."
Melissa, touched, gestured for her to sit. "You picked the perfect time. Things are almost done. We're just holding our breath until showtime."
Mma Botho smiled, then her eyes shifted in subtle yet sharp gaze to the hallway where Rama emerged, shirt slightly loose, holding a tablet, barefoot and casual.
"Who is… that?" she asked.
"Oh. That's Rama Hills. He's our head designer for FireThreads."
Mma Botho's eyes narrowed, flickering just for a moment.
"Hills? Not… Botho?" she asked softly.
Melissa hesitated. "He changed it. Doesn't talk much about it."
Mma Botho said nothing, but the air changed. The elegance never left her posture, but suspicion crept into her gaze.
"Well," she finally said, composing herself, "he's certainly… striking. But be careful, ngwanaka. Not all wounds that look healed are truly closed."
Melissa nodded, pretending not to notice the warning laced in the compliment.
After tea, the conversation turned maternal.
"I wanted to talk to you about hiring a maid," Mma Botho said gently. "And a nanny. Soon. These final weeks… they'll drain you more than you expect. You shouldn't be lifting anything heavier than a teacup."
Melissa sighed, leaning back. "I've been so caught up in business, I didn't even think that far."
"You need women around you. Ones you can trust. I have recommendations of people who have served us for years. Discreet. Loyal."
They spent the next hour flipping through options, bios, references, even interview videos. Mma Botho had come prepared, like a seasoned general in a different kind of war.
Eventually, they agreed on Miriam, a warm, quiet woman with nursing credentials and a history of serving high-profile families without a single scandal.
"I like her energy," Melissa said. "Feels like someone my baby could fall asleep next to."
"She is," Mma Botho said, pleased. "You've made the right choice."
There was a long pause, and then the old woman reached for Melissa's hand.
"You are doing beautifully, ngwanaka. I didn't always believe in your path, but I see you now. And whatever happens between you and my son, I will always stand by my grandchild. And if you'll have me… by you."
Melissa swallowed the lump in her throat. "Thank you, Mma."
They sat there in silence, the weight of wars paused for one moment of grace.
When Mma Botho left, she kissed Melissa's cheek and waved politely to Rama but her eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary.
There was something in that gaze.
History,memory or perhaps, prophecy.