The mansion had a new rhythm now. Not loud or sudden — just the quiet, steady sound of Nokwanda's presence, woven into the silence Zenande had grown used to. Each morning, Nokwanda would open the curtains in the east wing and let the light in, her steps soft against the tiles. She spoke when needed, never lingering too long, never overstaying her welcome. But Zenande noticed. She noticed everything.
Zenande's room had become her fortress, a place where no one questioned her bitterness or her silence. Her mother, too proud to admit the pain of her daughter's condition, rarely visited unless it was to remind her of duty, legacy, or appointments with doctors who didn't understand her. But Nokwanda? She moved around with a strange sort of calm. Like she wasn't afraid of the silence, or Zenande's sharp tongue. And that, more than anything, unsettled her.
On that particular Tuesday morning, the sun fought through a stubborn mist that had cloaked the estate for days. Zenande sat by the window — a place she rarely went to — staring out at the gardens she used to walk through barefoot. Her hands rested on the arms of the wheelchair, unmoving, as the wind rustled the branches of the jacaranda tree just outside. She didn't hear Nokwanda come in. She never did.
"Morning, Miss Mthembu," Nokwanda said gently, holding a tray. "You didn't eat breakfast."
Zenande didn't look at her. "I didn't ask for it."
"I know," Nokwanda replied, placing the tray on the side table. "But the doctor said it's important you eat before you take your medication."
Zenande scoffed. "Let the doctor take it for me, then."
Nokwanda didn't smile. Didn't argue either. She simply poured the rooibos tea, careful not to spill a drop, and placed it near Zenande's reach.
"I made the oats with almond milk, not dairy. I remember you said you hate cow's milk."
That made Zenande glance at her — just a flick of her eyes, cold and cautious.
"You're very observant for someone who's just a servant."
Nokwanda's expression didn't change. "Maybe because I was raised to care. Whether I'm a servant or not doesn't change that."
Zenande's jaw tightened. There it was again — the kindness. The calm. The refusal to be intimidated. It both irritated and intrigued her.
"You talk too much," Zenande muttered, wheeling herself back from the window.
"I can be quiet too," Nokwanda replied. "But I figured someone in this house should speak like a human being."
Zenande froze mid-turn. That… that was bold. Very bold.
She turned fully now, facing Nokwanda for the first time that day. "Careful," she said, voice low. "You don't want to be the next servant walking out of this house in tears."
But Nokwanda didn't flinch. "I'm not here to cry. I'm here to work. And take care of you. Whether you like it or not."
Their eyes met — a long, defiant silence stretching between them.
Zenande hated how her heart kicked against her chest. This girl… this servant… she wasn't supposed to feel like this. She wasn't supposed to look at her and wonder what it would be like if things were different. If she were different.
"Leave," Zenande said suddenly, harshly.
Nokwanda nodded, picked up the tray, and left — but not before saying, "I'll be back in an hour. Lunch doesn't prepare itself."
Zenande sat back in her chair, fists clenched, breathing hard. What the hell was wrong with her?
Downstairs, Nokwanda stood in the kitchen, her hands shaking slightly as she rinsed the dishes. She hadn't meant to be so direct. But something about Zenande brought it out of her. Not anger, exactly — more like fire. The woman was infuriating. Arrogant, cold, and clearly used to breaking people like twigs.
But Nokwanda wasn't made of twigs.
She was a girl from Ntuzuma, raised by a grandmother who taught her that no one, no matter how rich or broken, deserved to be feared. She needed this job. Desperately. But something deeper than survival kept her here now.
It was Zenande's eyes.
Behind all that rage… was a woman trying not to drown.
Later that afternoon, Nokwanda returned with a warm bowl of vegetable stew. Zenande had fallen asleep in her chair, the afternoon sun casting golden patterns across her face. She looked… peaceful.
Nokwanda paused at the door, unsure. This was the first time she'd seen Zenande without her mask of anger. The woman was beautiful — not in the delicate way magazines liked to pretend, but in a strong, fierce way. Her cheekbones were high and proud, her lips slightly parted in sleep, her dark lashes brushing against her skin.
Nokwanda's chest tightened.
She took a step forward — the creak of the floorboard making Zenande stir.
The woman opened her eyes sharply, clearly annoyed at being seen in such a vulnerable state.
"You're back," she said.
"Lunch," Nokwanda replied simply, placing it on the side table.
Zenande looked at the bowl but made no move toward it.
"Do you want me to help?" Nokwanda asked.
"I'm not a child."
"I didn't say you were."
Zenande stared at her. "Why are you still here?"
Nokwanda blinked. "Because I work here."
"No," Zenande snapped. "Why are you here? In this house? You saw the ad. You knew it would be hell. So why didn't you walk away?"
There it was. The real question.
Nokwanda inhaled slowly, choosing her words. "Because I saw your eyes."
Zenande stiffened.
"I saw someone fighting to stay angry. Fighting to stay alone. And I guess… I don't believe in people staying broken if someone's willing to fight for them."
Silence again.
Then Zenande whispered, almost too soft to hear: "You don't know me."
"Not yet," Nokwanda replied. "But I'd like to."
For a moment — just a moment — the wall cracked. Zenande didn't say anything. She didn't throw the bowl. Didn't curse or tell Nokwanda to leave.
She just looked away… and took a small spoonful of the stew.
The library smelled of leather and quiet. Nokwanda stood just inside the door, fingers nervously twisting the hem of her apron. She wasn't sure why she was here — maybe it was because Madam Lulama had asked her to put away some books. Or maybe it was because, deep down, she wanted Zenande to see her.
Zenande was already there, hidden behind tall mahogany shelves, in her wheelchair with a book perched on her lap and her cold eyes scanning the pages. She looked like a forgotten painting: proud, wounded, unreachable.
Nokwanda cleared her throat, just enough to announce her presence without being obvious. Zenande didn't look up.
"Madam Lulama asked me to return these," Nokwanda said softly, holding up a stack of history books.
Zenande still didn't look up. "Leave them on the table."
There was that voice again — dry, dismissive, and threaded with invisible blades. Nokwanda nodded, but she didn't move. Something in her, something quiet and defiant, refused to retreat so easily.
She stepped closer. "You've read all these?"
This time, Zenande glanced up. Just a flick of the eyes, but it was enough.
"I don't waste time pretending," Zenande said, her tone clipped. "Reading is better than talking. Less disappointing."
Nokwanda smiled faintly. "Not if the person you're talking to is worth it."
Zenande stared at her for a long moment. The silence between them thickened. Nokwanda could feel it in her chest — not fear, not quite. But a tension. A pull. Like something had shifted slightly in the air.
"You think you're worth it?" Zenande asked. Her tone was mocking, but there was no malice — only curiosity, sharp and brittle.
"I didn't say that," Nokwanda replied. "But I'd like to be."
For a moment, Zenande said nothing. Her gaze drifted back to the book in her lap, though her fingers had stopped turning the pages.
"You're not like the others," she murmured. "Most of them don't talk to me unless they have to. You… volunteer."
"I don't see why being kind should be rare," Nokwanda said gently.
Zenande closed the book. "Kindness is usually a currency. People offer it when they want something."
"Maybe I'm broke," Nokwanda replied with a smirk.
Zenande's lips twitched — not a smile, not yet. But it was something. A flicker of amusement, quickly masked.
"You're too confident," Zenande said, her tone once again sharp. "Too familiar."
"I was raised to treat everyone like a person, not a title," Nokwanda said. "Even the ones who sit on thrones made of silence."
Zenande's eyes narrowed. "Are you calling me a queen?"
"No. A fortress."
Silence again. But this time, it wasn't cold. It was curious. Zenande's fingers tapped the cover of the book.
"You should go," she said finally. "Before I forget you're just a servant."
The words were cruel, but her voice cracked on the last syllable. Nokwanda didn't flinch. She only nodded and quietly turned to leave.
But as she reached the doorway, Zenande's voice stopped her.
"Nokwanda."
She turned.
Zenande didn't look at her. She just stared at the closed book in her lap.
"You remind me of someone I knew... before the accident. Before everything changed."
Nokwanda didn't reply. She just stood there, heart caught between sorrow and something dangerously like hope.
"Were they someone you loved?" she asked.
Zenande didn't answer. Instead, she opened the book again and stared down at the words without reading.
"Close the door behind you."
And Nokwanda did.
The next morning, Nokwanda woke to a gentle knock on her door.
"Ngubani?" she called sleepily.
"It's me, Thandi," came the soft voice from the hallway. "Breakfast duty."
Nokwanda blinked. She had barely slept. Her thoughts had tangled like a spiderweb through the night — the way Zenande looked at her, the tremble in her voice when she spoke of the past, the ghost of pain she tried so hard to hide. It haunted Nokwanda more than she was willing to admit.
As she dressed and made her way to the grand kitchen, she found herself rehearsing a hundred versions of what she could say to Zenande. But she knew none of them would land well. Zenande was all thorns and ice — you didn't melt someone like that in a day.
Still, Nokwanda couldn't pretend nothing was happening between them. There was a current in every glance, a tension in every word, and the strange way Zenande always seemed to listen — even when she pretended not to care.
By mid-morning, Nokwanda was assigned to dust the art gallery. Madam Lulama believed in preserving "what history remained of class," and the Mthembu family gallery was lined with expensive oil paintings, tribal heirlooms, and photographs of long-dead relatives who had owned half of Gauteng once.
Nokwanda moved quietly, her duster sweeping gently across polished frames, when the soft sound of wheels on marble made her pause.
Zenande.
She entered silently, her presence thick and composed. She wore a silk blouse and dark slacks, her hair neatly wrapped. Even in her chair, she exuded power — the kind of presence born of old money and wounded pride.
"You missed a corner," Zenande said, nodding toward a dusty Zulu shield mounted on the far wall.
Nokwanda smiled without looking at her. "Was just getting to it."
"You're thorough. Most people rush through this room. Pretend they don't see the ancestors watching."
Nokwanda turned toward her, holding the duster in both hands. "I see them. They remind me of my own."
Zenande rolled closer, eyes trailing the portraits. "Mine would be disappointed. They built an empire. I've only inherited the ruins."
"You're still here," Nokwanda said gently.
"Am I?" Zenande snapped. "Everyone sees a broken legacy. A girl in a wheelchair. A waste of potential."
Nokwanda stepped forward. "That's not what I see."
Zenande looked at her, startled — her expression cracking for just a second. "Then you're blind."
"I see a woman who's fighting," Nokwanda said. "Even if it's quiet. Even if she pretends not to care."
Zenande turned away. "I don't want your pity."
"It's not pity. It's respect."
Zenande's jaw clenched. Her hand tightened on the wheel. She hated being vulnerable. Nokwanda could tell. Every part of her body language screamed: Don't look too close. Don't see me.
But Nokwanda did see her. She saw the way Zenande's eyes lingered on the photographs of her parents. She saw the tremble in her hand when she reached for one of the carved statues. She saw the pain beneath the arrogance.
"You talk too much," Zenande murmured finally.
"And you don't talk enough," Nokwanda replied.
They stood in silence, two worlds apart, yet slowly drawing closer.
"I had someone once," Zenande said quietly. "Before the accident. He was going to marry me."
Nokwanda felt a small sting in her chest. She nodded, not interrupting.
"He left the moment I couldn't walk. Said I was too angry. Too broken. He wasn't wrong."
"You were grieving," Nokwanda said. "That's not the same as broken."
Zenande's eyes turned toward her, intense. "You talk like you've seen pain."
"I have," Nokwanda said simply.
"Then you know it doesn't go away. It just changes shape."
Nokwanda nodded again. "But it can still be carried. Especially if someone helps."
Zenande looked away quickly, but Nokwanda saw the emotion flicker across her face.
"You're dangerous," Zenande whispered.
"Why?"
"Because you make me feel."
The hallway echoed with silence long after Zenande's confession. You make me feel. The words had hung between them like sacred glass — fragile, revealing, and dangerous. Nokwanda didn't respond right away. She wasn't sure if she was even meant to.
Zenande wheeled herself toward the window, her back now to Nokwanda, hiding her eyes. Hiding everything.
"You should go," she said softly. "Before I say more than I already have."
Nokwanda didn't move. She stared at her, unsure if she was being dismissed — or protected.
"I didn't mean to make things complicated," Nokwanda said finally.
"You didn't make them complicated. They've always been complicated. You just… opened something."
Zenande's voice was barely audible, almost carried away by the wind outside. The wind that blew through the tall oak trees surrounding the estate. The same wind that, for years, Zenande had heard from the safety — and loneliness — of her room.
Nokwanda stepped closer. "I don't know much about your world, but I know how it feels to want to hide. To lock away your heart so no one can break it again."
Zenande turned slightly, her profile lined with both pride and vulnerability. "You think I locked my heart away?"
"I think," Nokwanda said, "you buried it. Deep. So deep that even you forgot how to reach it."
Zenande gave a dry chuckle, but it wasn't bitter this time. It was soft. A sigh wrapped in laughter. "You're arrogant for a servant."
"I'm not just a servant," Nokwanda replied boldly.
Zenande's eyes flicked toward her, challenging. "Then what are you?"
"I'm someone who sees you."
A long silence followed. Zenande looked away again, but her shoulders had relaxed. Something had shifted.
"Go," she repeated, this time without force. "Before I start asking you to stay."
Nokwanda left the gallery without another word. But her heart was loud with a storm she wasn't prepared for.
That night, Nokwanda sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the ceiling. Thandi had already gone to sleep, curled like a cat under her blanket. But Nokwanda couldn't rest. Every scene from the gallery replayed in her mind.
Zenande was unlike anyone she had ever met. Cold, proud, and sharp — but underneath that, there was warmth. Deep, buried warmth, like sunlight beneath ice.
And Nokwanda had felt something stir inside herself too. A strange flutter. A longing. A danger.
Because this was not part of the plan.
She had come to this mansion to escape her past, to make money, to rebuild her life. Not to fall for the daughter of her employer. Not to feel this magnetic pull every time Zenande rolled into a room. Not to crave the sound of her voice. Not to imagine what her lips might taste like.
Yoh, Nokwanda, she whispered to herself. Uyazihlupha. You're playing with fire.
But even knowing that, she couldn't look away.
The next morning, Madam Lulama surprised everyone with a breakfast invitation.
"All staff," she said through the intercom, "must report to the conservatory at eight. Dress appropriately."
Everyone scrambled. Nokwanda borrowed a headwrap from Thandi and straightened her blouse. By the time she arrived at the conservatory, she found the staff already lining the walls respectfully.
Madam Lulama stood near the fountain, adorned in her elegant Sunday gown, with pearls glinting at her throat. Beside her sat Zenande — flawless as always, arms folded across her lap, gaze unreadable.
"This family," Madam began, "was built on discipline, respect, and loyalty. I believe in rewarding hard work, and this month, I have seen excellence from several of you."
She began calling names — cooks, drivers, even the gardener.
Then she paused. "Nokwanda."
Nokwanda stepped forward cautiously.
"I have seen your dedication. You are quiet but observant. Hard-working but humble. Zenande has spoken highly of your initiative."
A ripple of murmurs ran through the room. Nokwanda's heart pounded.
"She said that?" she asked without thinking.
Zenande looked at her with a slight smirk, then looked away.
Madam continued, "From now on, you will be reassigned as Zenande's personal assistant. It means your responsibilities will shift. You'll handle her daily routine, attend to her room, assist during her rehabilitation, and accompany her to doctor visits when needed."
Thandi's eyes widened from the corner. One of the other maids gasped.
Nokwanda bowed her head. "Ngiyabonga, Madam."
"Don't thank me. Thank Zenande. She requested it herself."
Nokwanda looked up — and met Zenande's eyes.
For a second, neither of them blinked.
Later that day, Nokwanda was called to Zenande's wing. The air felt thicker. The stakes higher. When she knocked, the door opened instantly.
Zenande sat by the window, backlit by the sun, her features calm but unreadable.
"You're not mad?" she asked softly.
"About what?"
"That I requested you."
Nokwanda swallowed. "I'm just surprised."
Zenande turned to her fully. "You shouldn't be. You're the only one who doesn't treat me like I'm made of glass."
"I never thought you were," Nokwanda said.
Zenande motioned to the chair beside her. "Sit. We need to talk."
Nokwanda obeyed, heart pounding.
"I need someone I can trust," Zenande began. "Someone who won't lie to me or coddle me."
"You have that in me."
Zenande studied her. "I know. That's what scares me."
"Scares you?"
"I've never trusted anyone… who made my heart feel like it was waking up."
Silence.
Zenande looked down at her hands. "You shouldn't fall for someone like me, Nokwanda. I'm bitter. I'm broken. I'm not good."
"I'll decide that for myself," Nokwanda whispered.
Zenande looked up slowly.
And for the first time, neither of them pretended anymore.