The mansion buzzed with quiet elegance. Nokwanda stood in the hallway outside Zenande's room, her hands tightly clasped in front of her apron, her heart pounding a little faster than she liked. The interview with Zenande's mother had ended with a curt nod and an offer: she could start tomorrow. Yet here she was, standing outside a closed door, wanting to catch a glimpse of the woman whose presence seemed to haunt the halls like a bitter perfume.
She'd heard about Zenande Mthembu even before she'd stepped foot into the estate — the girl in the golden wheelchair, the heiress turned recluse, the angry daughter of the mighty Mthembu empire who hadn't spoken to the press in years. But what Nokwanda had seen when their eyes briefly met during her arrival wasn't anger. It was loneliness — raw, fierce, and caged.
With a shaky breath, she knocked gently on the door.
Silence.
Then, a cold, flat voice. "What do you want?"
"It's Nokwanda," she said softly. "From earlier. I… I just wanted to introduce myself properly."
A beat passed. Then the sound of the lock clicking open.
The door creaked, revealing Zenande, regal even in a silk robe and sitting in a wheelchair. Her eyes were sharp, narrowed with suspicion and something else — something unreadable.
"You got the job. Congratulations. Why are you here?" Zenande asked, her tone laced with disinterest.
Nokwanda hesitated. "I just thought it would be respectful to meet you, since I'll be working here."
Zenande scoffed. "Respectful? This isn't some township clinic. You work here. You do what you're told. That's it."
Nokwanda swallowed the sting. "Still, I'd rather serve someone I've spoken to, even briefly."
"Then speak," Zenande said sharply. "But be quick about it. I hate small talk."
There was a moment of silence between them, thick as the velvet drapes behind Zenande. Nokwanda smiled faintly. "You don't seem like someone who hates anything. You seem more like someone who's tired of pretending."
Zenande's brow arched. "And you seem like someone who's already too familiar."
Nokwanda shrugged. "Maybe. But I'm honest. You don't scare me."
That earned a faint flicker of amusement in Zenande's eyes — the first real expression since she opened the door. But just as quickly, it vanished.
"Get out," she said.
Nokwanda nodded. "Alright. But… thank you for opening the door."
As she walked away, Zenande watched her — watched the steady posture, the calmness, the way Nokwanda's words lingered like incense. Something in her chest ached, but she shoved it down.
Nokwanda's first day began before dawn. The mansion ran on a schedule of quiet, well-oiled routines. Cooks, gardeners, maids, and security all moved like ghosts, never seen but always felt. Mrs. Mthembu was a stern matriarch who made it clear that professionalism was paramount.
But every time Nokwanda passed the hallway that led to Zenande's room, her chest tightened. She could feel the woman behind those walls — and she knew Zenande could feel her too.
They didn't speak again for days. Zenande remained distant, unpredictable, and cold. She spent hours staring out the window or writing furiously in her leather journals. Her only companion was silence — and sometimes, wine.
Until one late evening, Nokwanda was in the library, dusting shelves, when she heard the familiar hum of wheels.
"You're in my space," Zenande said from the doorway.
Nokwanda turned. "Sorry, I didn't know—"
"You did. You just wanted to see if I'd come find you."
Nokwanda blinked. "Maybe."
Zenande wheeled closer. "You think you're clever. You're not. You're just another servant with dreams. I've seen your kind. They want something. They always want something."
"I want you to be seen," Nokwanda said quietly.
Zenande's breath caught — just a fraction.
"That's enough," she said sharply, then turned her wheelchair and rolled away.
Weeks passed, and Nokwanda found herself drawn deeper into the mansion's shadows — and into Zenande's world. Every exchange between them was a clash. Zenande would lash out, insult, push, and Nokwanda… stayed.
Because beneath the cruelty, she saw the grief. The fear. The broken hope.
One afternoon, during a storm, the power flickered out. The staff scattered to light candles, but Nokwanda found herself at Zenande's door again, unsure why.
"The lights are out," she said. "I thought you might need company."
"I don't," Zenande snapped.
Nokwanda nodded, and yet, didn't leave. Instead, she wheeled over a small tea trolley she'd prepared in the kitchen and said, "I brought jasmine. You smell like someone who would love it."
Zenande didn't answer. But she didn't close the door either.
As they sat in the dim candlelight, sipping tea, the silence wasn't heavy. It was peaceful.
And Zenande, for the first time, allowed her eyes to linger on Nokwanda — the curve of her cheek, the softness of her voice, the way she cared without needing permission.
It terrified her.
Because for the first time since her husband left her — for the first time since the car crushed her spine and her spirit — Zenande felt the flicker of something warm. Not pity. Not sympathy. Something deeper.
Desire.
She hated it.
And yet… she couldn't stop looking.