The Mthembu estate lay blanketed under the rich hues of dusk, the horizon bleeding crimson and gold like a freshly healed wound. Nokwanda stood on the edge of the manicured garden, where the scent of lavender bushes mingled with the evening chill. In the distance, the grand house loomed—a fortress of silence, secrets, and the woman who had begun to haunt her thoughts.
Zenande.
It had been two days since Nokwanda had spoken to her briefly in the hallway after her interview. The exchange was short and fiery. Nokwanda had tried to offer a greeting; Zenande had barely looked at her and responded with the type of arrogance that could curdle milk. But still, something within Nokwanda stirred each time she thought of her.
That night, as she washed the dishes in the large kitchen, Nokwanda found herself replaying the moment again and again. The sharpness in Zenande's eyes. The posture that screamed pride even though she sat in a wheelchair. The way her voice trembled—not from weakness, but from the effort it took to remain unshaken.
"She's like a storm trapped in a cage," Nokwanda murmured under her breath, shaking her head.
"You said something?" asked MaLanga, the older housekeeper who had worked for the Mthembus for over a decade.
"Nothing, Ma. Just thinking out loud."
MaLanga narrowed her eyes, her hands drying a plate with slow care. "You'll need to be strong if you want to last here. The madam—Zenande—she's not an easy woman."
"I can handle myself," Nokwanda said, though she wasn't fully sure.
"Don't mistake pain for cruelty. Sometimes those who scream the loudest on the inside wear the coldest masks."
Nokwanda took that to heart.
Later that evening, Nokwanda stood outside Zenande's door with a tray of herbal tea. She wasn't required to bring it—Zenande usually had her things done by the nurse, who reported to her mother. But something compelled her.
She knocked once.
"Come in," came the sharp, annoyed voice.
She stepped in.
Zenande sat by the window, a thick throw draped over her legs. Her dark eyes narrowed at the sight of Nokwanda.
"What do you want?"
"I brought you tea. Ginger and honey."
Zenande scoffed. "I didn't ask for tea."
"I know," Nokwanda said, walking in with careful grace, placing the tray on the side table. "But I thought it might help. Cold evening."
Zenande tilted her head. "You're new. You think kindness will get you on my good side?"
"No," Nokwanda said calmly. "I think kindness is free."
Zenande stared at her for a long moment. Then, without breaking eye contact, she reached for the cup. Her hands, once elegant and commanding, trembled slightly. She hated that.
Nokwanda noticed but said nothing.
"You don't belong here," Zenande said, sipping. "This house eats soft hearts."
"Then it'll choke on mine," Nokwanda replied, a faint smile on her lips.
A flicker of something passed through Zenande's expression. Amusement? Surprise? She looked out the window instead.
"You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who would look away."
Nokwanda didn't.
Downstairs, Zenande's mother, MaMthembu, watched from the shadows of the stairwell. She didn't like interference. She didn't like surprises. But something about Nokwanda made her pause. Not because she was impressed—she didn't impress easily—but because she saw the storm on the horizon. And she had lived long enough to know storms always changed the shape of the land.
In the weeks that followed, Nokwanda's presence became a rhythm in the mansion. She worked with quiet excellence—never overstepping, never missing a beat. But she was always… there.
Zenande noticed.
She noticed the way Nokwanda arranged her books in her study. The way she dusted the windows even when no one watched. She noticed her scent—jasmine and sunlight—and the calm in her voice when she read quietly to herself in the garden.
Zenande told herself it was irritation that made her notice. That the fluttering in her chest was annoyance. That the dreams were meaningless.
But she knew better.
She was falling.
And that terrified her.
Because Zenande Mthembu did not believe in love. Not anymore.
The accident had shattered more than her bones—it had fractured her spirit. Her husband had abandoned her the moment she could no longer wear heels to charity galas. Her friends had become whispers and pitying looks. Love was for people who could still dance.
And yet… Nokwanda.
Zenande hated her for it. Hated how easily she made her laugh when no one else could. How she softened the rough edges without even trying.
One night, unable to sleep, Zenande wheeled herself down the hall, stopping outside Nokwanda's quarters. The door was slightly open.
Inside, Nokwanda sat on the floor, writing in a tattered journal. Her face was soft in the moonlight, her brows furrowed in thought.
Zenande stared for a long time, then turned away before Nokwanda noticed.
But she felt it.
The heat. The longing.
The ache of wanting someone you can't have.
Not because they're out of reach.
But because your heart is locked behind a wall you built yourself.