The morning sun painted the sky in hues of orange and gold, but inside the grand Mthembu estate, the air remained cold and tense. Nokwanda stood by the large bay window in the guest quarters she had been shown to, her heart heavy with questions and curiosity. She had met Zenande only briefly the day before—just long enough to be met with that fierce stare and cutting arrogance that would have sent any sane woman running. But not her. There was something behind those cold brown eyes. Something broken. Something painfully beautiful.
She remembered their first words—Zenande's dismissal, her gaze like a wall of ice, the way she looked at Nokwanda as though she were nothing more than a passing breeze. But that didn't deter her. In fact, it sparked something inside her. Pity, yes. But also a strange, maddening pull.
Mrs. Mthembu had been satisfied with the interview. Nokwanda had said all the right things and carried herself with the grace of someone raised with respect, even if her clothes were plain and her words humble. But Zenande—she would be the real challenge.
After breakfast was served and cleared by the other house staff, Nokwanda was summoned.
"Zenande wants water," Thandi, one of the older helpers whispered, eyes wide. "She never lets anyone in. You must have done something."
Nokwanda swallowed hard. Her stomach twisted—not with fear, but with something like anticipation. She took the jug of water and walked slowly to the towering double doors of Zenande's suite. She knocked once.
"Come in if you're brave enough," came the familiar sharp voice.
Nokwanda entered.
Zenande sat in her armchair by the window, her legs draped with a velvet blanket, her wheelchair beside her. She looked out at the garden, not sparing Nokwanda a glance.
"Leave it on the table," she said flatly.
Nokwanda placed the water down. "Would you like lemon in it, Miss Zenande?"
Zenande turned slowly. Her gaze met Nokwanda's with a force that could silence thunder.
"You're not a waitress. Don't try too hard."
Nokwanda's lips twitched into the hint of a smile. "Trying isn't weakness."
Zenande arched a brow. "But being too eager is desperation."
A silence settled between them. Heavy. Charged.
Then, to Nokwanda's surprise, Zenande motioned with a tilt of her head. "Sit."
She obeyed, perching herself on the edge of the cream armchair across from her. Her hands folded on her lap, calm despite the storm that was Zenande.
"Why are you here, Nokwanda? Don't say to work. You had other options."
Nokwanda met her gaze without flinching. "I needed something new. And something about this place felt unfinished."
Zenande's eyes narrowed. "You don't even know me."
"I know pain when I see it," Nokwanda said quietly.
Zenande's jaw clenched. Her face hardened. "Don't come here trying to fix me."
"I'm not. I'm just here."
Zenande looked away. Her lips parted, then closed again. She gripped the blanket tighter.
"Don't get comfortable," she finally said. "You won't last."
But Nokwanda smiled again. "I'm not here to be comfortable. I'm here to serve."
The following days passed like scenes in a slow play. Nokwanda settled into her routine—cleaning, preparing meals, running errands for Mrs. Mthembu, and slowly, quietly, navigating Zenande's moods. Sometimes Zenande would ignore her. Other times she'd snap, mock, or criticize her every move.
Yet Nokwanda saw the cracks.
She noticed how Zenande lingered a second longer each time she entered the room. How her eyes followed her, even when she pretended not to look. How her voice softened—slightly—on certain words.
One evening, while Nokwanda folded linen in the hallway, she overheard Zenande speaking to her mother.
"I don't need a shadow following me. Get someone else."
"She's not your shadow. She's a worker."
"She's watching me. Like she knows something I don't."
"You're imagining things."
"I don't like her… but I don't want her to leave."
Nokwanda's heart stopped for a moment. That admission—it wasn't love. But it was something.
That night, Nokwanda found Zenande alone on the back patio. A rare moment where the moonlight touched her skin, and she didn't wear anger like armor. Nokwanda approached slowly, a blanket folded over her arm.
"You'll get cold," she said softly.
Zenande didn't turn. "You like playing caretaker, don't you?"
"No. I just don't like seeing people suffer."
"You don't know suffering," Zenande snapped. "You haven't watched the world love you one moment, then leave you broken the next. You haven't been stared at like you're something to pity."
Nokwanda's voice was calm. "Maybe I haven't lived your life. But I know what it means to be invisible. To be used and forgotten. And I know what it means to feel too much and pretend it's nothing."
Zenande turned slowly, her eyes glinting. "What are you trying to say?"
"That you're not as unreadable as you think."
Zenande looked away, silent.
"I'll leave the blanket," Nokwanda said, placing it beside her. As she turned to go, Zenande spoke again.
"Why didn't you run away the first time I was cruel to you?"
Nokwanda stopped, turning back. "Because you were scared, not cruel."
Zenande didn't respond. But her grip on the armrest tightened, and her eyes shimmered with something too soft to name.
Later that night, Nokwanda lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Her heart was restless. The line between duty and feeling was already beginning to blur. She had come to this estate to serve, to earn a living—but Zenande's presence haunted her in ways she couldn't explain.
She didn't want to fix Zenande. She just… wanted to see her.
To be seen by her.
To matter.
Meanwhile, in her room, Zenande sat staring at the folded blanket Nokwanda had left. Her fingers brushed its edge slowly.
She hated how Nokwanda made her feel—seen, challenged, wanted, human.
She had been numb for so long, locked in bitterness and silence. Love was a joke. Men had betrayed her. The world had mocked her. She was a prisoner in a palace.
But Nokwanda...
She was different.
And Zenande didn't know if that terrified her more than the accident ever had.