The sky was still painted in hues of deep grey when Nokwanda walked into the hallway, the soft echo of her slippers brushing against the tiles. It was early — too early for anyone in the Mthembu mansion to be up — but Nokwanda had barely slept. The events of the night before were still tangled in her thoughts.
Zenande had looked at her.
Not with that usual coldness.
Not with that usual anger.
But with something soft… almost uncertain.
She couldn't describe it, not exactly. It wasn't kindness. No. It was… vulnerability. A crack in the wall Zenande had built around herself.
And it had shaken Nokwanda more than she cared to admit.
She walked quietly past the kitchen and into the garden, breathing in the misty morning air. This place was so different from the township she had grown up in. Here, the grass was trimmed, the roses well-fed, and the silence... too loud.
As she leaned on the balcony railing, she felt it again — that tension. That ache in her chest. What was she doing here? She was hired to clean, to assist. Not to feel. Not to get attached. Definitely not to want to see Zenande's eyes linger just a second longer.
But she did.
God, she did.
The back door opened behind her, and Nokwanda turned instinctively.
It was MaNdlovu — Zenande's mother.
Fully dressed, with a beige robe tied around her waist and her slippers making soft pat-pat sounds on the stone path. Her eyes were sharp as always, even in the dim light.
"You're up early," MaNdlovu said, stepping closer.
Nokwanda bowed her head slightly. "Yes, Ma. Just needed some air."
MaNdlovu studied her for a moment, then leaned against the railing beside her. "I heard Zenande called you back last night. To her room."
Nokwanda hesitated, her fingers gripping the railing. "Yes, Ma. She needed water."
"She could have used the bell to call the nurse. Why you?"
Silence.
"I don't know, Ma," Nokwanda answered, her voice low.
But she did know. Something had shifted. Something neither of them had words for yet.
MaNdlovu turned her face to the garden, her expression unreadable. "My daughter has been through things you will never understand. Losing her father. That car accident. Her husband's betrayal. Being a Mthembu sounds glamorous, but it's a cursed crown."
"I'm not trying to take her crown, Ma," Nokwanda replied gently.
The older woman finally looked at her. "No. But sometimes even servants start thinking they're more than what they were hired for."
Nokwanda swallowed her pride. She knew this was a warning.
Not spoken out of cruelty — but out of fear. Fear of losing Zenande to another heartbreak.
"I'm just here to help," she said, her voice soft, but strong.
MaNdlovu nodded once and walked away without another word.
Later that morning, Nokwanda walked into Zenande's room holding a tray with breakfast. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting golden light fall across the crisp white sheets. Zenande sat upright, hair wrapped in a silk scarf, her robe tied neatly. Her eyes were fixed on the window.
"You didn't knock," Zenande said, without turning.
"You told me yesterday not to knock anymore," Nokwanda said with a quiet smile, placing the tray down on the bedside table.
Zenande gave a slight nod, still not looking at her.
"I brought you oatmeal. Light honey. Just how you like it."
"How would you know how I like it?" Zenande turned sharply, eyes narrowing.
Nokwanda didn't flinch. "I pay attention."
Zenande scoffed. "You sound like a romantic stalker."
"No," Nokwanda said calmly. "I just care."
The words hung in the room like a balloon ready to burst.
Zenande looked away, jaw tight. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't care. You're a servant. Do your job. Don't pretend to be more."
Nokwanda nodded slowly. "Okay."
She turned to leave.
But before she reached the door, Zenande called out.
"Nokwanda."
"Yes, Miss Mthembu?"
Zenande's voice lowered. Softer. "You didn't ask me if I slept well."
Nokwanda turned, her eyes locking with Zenande's.
"Did you?"
Zenande looked down at her fingers. "Not really."
Nokwanda smiled gently. "Maybe tomorrow will be better."
And then she left.
The morning sun filtered through the long cream curtains of the Mthembu estate, casting golden streaks across the cold marble floor. Nokwanda stood by the window, her eyes fixed on the garden, where soft wind stirred the lavender bushes into a subtle dance. The estate was silent, but the silence no longer felt hostile. It felt… watchful.
Zenande hadn't come down for breakfast again. But Nokwanda wasn't surprised.
She had grown used to the rhythm of the house — and more than that, the rhythm of Zenande's moods. She could feel when Zenande was close to breaking, close to allowing something real to escape her rigid walls. And she could also feel when Zenande had chosen to hide again behind that mask of cruelty and sarcasm.
She didn't mind anymore.
She wasn't here for comfort.
She was here for Zenande.
"Miss Nokwanda," MaGumede called softly from the hallway, breaking Nokwanda's thoughts. "The Madam's mother says Miss Zenande will not be attending physio again today."
Nokwanda sighed gently. "It's the third time this week."
MaGumede gave a knowing nod. "You know how she is."
Yes. She did.
But today, Nokwanda wasn't willing to let it slide.
She turned, pulled the tray of warm oats and honey toward her, and started walking up the stairs — her heart louder than her footsteps.
Zenande's room was exactly the same.
Too neat. Too cold. Too closed.
She was in bed, her back turned toward the door, one leg stretched under the thick duvet and the other propped slightly on a pillow. The TV was on, muted.
Nokwanda stood in the doorway, silently debating whether she should speak or leave.
But her hands were already shaking from holding the tray too tightly.
"You're going to burn your fingers if you keep squeezing that tray like that."
Zenande's voice cut through the silence, smooth and sarcastic — but quieter than usual.
"You noticed," Nokwanda whispered, stepping into the room.
"I notice everything," Zenande said, still not turning around.
"I brought your breakfast."
"I'm not hungry."
"You never are."
Silence again.
Then, slowly, Zenande turned, revealing her bare face — no makeup, no lipstick, just her, raw and still stunning. Her eyes were tired, but they sparked with a strange emotion when they locked with Nokwanda's.
"You're getting comfortable, aren't you?" Zenande said sharply. "Coming into my room uninvited now?"
"You're not exactly the type to send out invites," Nokwanda replied calmly, placing the tray on the bedside table. "And if I waited for one, you'd probably starve."
A small, unexpected smile curved on Zenande's lips, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.
"What do you want, Nokwanda?"
"To see you."
"I'm right here."
"No. You're not."
That stopped Zenande. Her fingers clenched the edge of the blanket as if bracing herself. Nokwanda sat on the chair next to the bed, her tone softer now.
"Look, I know you're not used to anyone staying. But I'm not everyone. And I'm not leaving."
Zenande scoffed. "So what? You're here to save me?"
"No. I'm just here to remind you that you're still here."
Zenande blinked.
No one had said that to her before.
They spoke about her recovery, her routine, her attitude, her money, her attitude again. But no one had looked her in the eyes and said that she — not the rich daughter, not the bitter woman, not the widow in waiting — that she mattered.
"I hate the way you speak sometimes," Zenande muttered, rolling her eyes.
Nokwanda grinned. "And yet you keep listening."
They sat in silence for a moment, the tension between them like electricity dancing on skin. Not anger. Not quite desire. But something real. Something rising.
"I dreamt of you," Zenande whispered.
Nokwanda turned sharply.
"What?"
Zenande's cheeks flushed the faintest pink. "You were laughing… in my dream. Loud and free. It annoyed the hell out of me."
Nokwanda chuckled. "Of course it did."
Zenande stared at her now, face unreadable. "Why are you really here?"
"To take care of you."
"I don't need a nurse."
"You don't need a lot of things," Nokwanda replied gently. "But maybe… you deserve them."
That sentence broke something. A tiny piece.
Zenande looked away quickly, blinking faster than necessary.
"I don't want to talk anymore."
Nokwanda nodded and stood.
"Okay. But eat something, please."
She turned to leave, but before she reached the door, Zenande spoke again.
"You're wearing my favorite color."
Nokwanda paused, turning slowly. She looked down at her maroon blouse — it clung to her curves in a soft but modest way. It wasn't intentional. Not really.
"I didn't know."
"I didn't say it was intentional."
Their eyes locked again.
Something unspoken passed between them.
Fire. Recognition. Danger.
Nokwanda smiled softly. "I'll wear it more often then."
Downstairs, Mrs. Mthembu watched through the window, her fingers tapping the side of her wine glass.
"She's getting too close," she muttered.
MaGumede, who stood quietly nearby, said nothing.
"She's forgetting her place. And my daughter is too fragile to fall into... unnatural traps."
Still, MaGumede said nothing.
Mrs. Mthembu turned sharply toward her. "Keep an eye on them. Report to me directly."
MaGumede hesitated. "Yes, Madam."
But in her heart, something churned.
Because what she saw between Zenande and Nokwanda…
Didn't feel like a trap.
It felt like light breaking through after years of darkness.
Later that evening, the sky hung heavy with clouds. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance as a light drizzle whispered against the windows of the Mthembu estate.
Nokwanda stood at the piano in the lounge, brushing dust off the keys. She wasn't a skilled player — in fact, she didn't know much at all — but she liked to tap a few soft notes now and then. It brought her peace. It reminded her of home. Of her late grandmother's humming.
She pressed a soft key, then another, the melody hesitant, uncertain. Behind her, the door creaked.
Zenande sat in her wheelchair at the entrance, wrapped in a thick robe, her long legs resting neatly on the footrest. Her eyes were darker than usual, unreadable.
"You play like someone who's trying not to wake a sleeping ghost," she said quietly.
Nokwanda turned, startled. "You're out of your room."
Zenande rolled further in, her hands gripping the wheels with a strength Nokwanda hadn't seen before.
"I couldn't sleep," she said. "Your clumsy piano playing didn't help."
Nokwanda smiled. "Sorry. I'll stop."
"No," Zenande said quickly. "Don't."
She wheeled closer. Her presence filled the room in a way that made Nokwanda's breath catch. There was something about the way Zenande was looking at her — something raw and vulnerable hiding beneath layers of sarcasm and pride.
"I dreamt of you again," Zenande whispered.
Nokwanda's eyes widened slightly. "Did I laugh again?"
"No," Zenande murmured, her gaze dropping to Nokwanda's lips. "You kissed me."
The room went still. Even the rain outside seemed to pause.
Nokwanda stepped closer, the space between them closing like a slow heartbeat. "What happened after that?"
Zenande swallowed, her voice low. "I woke up. Angry. Confused. Wanting more."
Their eyes locked.
Then, without permission, without words — Zenande's hand reached out, fingers trembling as they touched the hem of Nokwanda's blouse. Lightly. Carefully. Like she was touching fire.
And Nokwanda moved closer.
Closer.
Until their breaths mingled.
Until Zenande tilted her face up.
And Nokwanda leaned in.
Their lips met — soft, questioning, and then deeper, more certain.
Zenande's hand cupped Nokwanda's cheek. For a moment, the world blurred. There was no estate, no expectations, no secrets. Just warmth. Just them.
But then—
"No," Zenande gasped, pulling back sharply.
Nokwanda froze. "Zenande?"
"I can't," Zenande said, her voice cracking. "I can't do this."
Her hands trembled as she turned the chair away, her back to Nokwanda now. Her breaths were uneven, her shoulders rigid.
"I thought I could," she whispered. "But I can't... I'm not supposed to feel this. It's not right. I've already lost everything, Nokwanda. If I fall now, there won't be anything left of me to give."
Nokwanda knelt beside her, gently placing a hand on her arm. "You haven't lost yourself. You've just been hiding her."
Zenande closed her eyes. "And what if who I am... breaks you?"
"I'm stronger than you think," Nokwanda said gently. "And you're softer than you want to admit."
Silence.
Thunder rolled in the distance again, deeper this time.
Zenande opened her eyes and looked at Nokwanda, her expression unreadable, but her eyes glistening with emotion she didn't know how to name.
"You should go," she said.
"I'll go," Nokwanda whispered. "But I'm not walking away."
Zenande didn't reply. She simply turned her wheelchair toward the window and stared into the storm.