The countdown had begun.
In exactly seven days, Zenande Mthembu — the woman whose name dominated headlines — would walk down the aisle. But it wouldn't be to meet a groom in a tailored suit. It would be to meet Nokwanda Cele, the woman who had once walked into her life dressed as a servant and unknowingly stolen her heart.
And the world couldn't look away.
Every magazine, blog, and news channel had something to say. Some celebrated the love story. Others called it a scandal. But Zenande didn't care. She sat at the head of the marble dining table in their smart home, her MacBook open, three phones buzzing at once, and a steaming cup of rooibos tea untouched beside her.
Across from her, Nokwanda sat cross-legged on a chair, scrolling through floral arrangements on her tablet. Her hair was in soft curls, her bare feet tucked under her, her lips pursed in concentration.
"Ngicabanga ukuthi sithathe umbala omhlophe nomgold," Nokwanda murmured.
– I'm thinking we should go with white and gold.
Zenande looked up from her laptop, one eyebrow arched. "White and gold?" She leaned back, the corner of her mouth curving. "No. White and gold… with a ceiling full of crystals and roses flown in from Amsterdam. If we're doing this, sthandwa sami — my love — we're doing it big."
Nokwanda's mouth fell open slightly. "You're insane."
Zenande smirked. "And you love me for it."
Two Worlds in One Wedding
The ceremony wouldn't just be modern luxury. Zenande had made sure the wedding week would start with umembeso — a traditional Zulu gifting ceremony to honour Nokwanda's roots.
The plan was a seamless blend of culture and opulence:
White and gold décor for the modern side.
Vibrant isidwaba skirts, beadwork, and traditional drums for the cultural side.
A white cow for ancestral blessings.
Imported champagne and a menu designed by a Michelin-starred chef.
Zenande's reputation meant the guest list wasn't just family and friends — it included politicians, business moguls, and celebrities. It was going to be the event of the year, and she was determined nothing would ruin it.
Menzi's Shadow
Far away in Johannesburg, Menzi Dlamini sat in a dimly lit lounge, swirling whiskey in a glass. The TV above the bar played a segment on Zenande's upcoming wedding.
Her smile filled the screen. Nokwanda stood beside her, holding her hand. The reporter called it "a union that challenges tradition and celebrates love".
Menzi's jaw tightened. "Celebrate love?" he muttered bitterly. "Celebrate my downfall, you mean."
He pulled out his phone and dialled. "Find me a way in. I don't care how tight her security is. I want to be there when everything falls apart."
Private Moments Amid the Chaos
That night, the noise of the world faded. In their bedroom, Zenande sat on the edge of the bed, reviewing security reports while Nokwanda brushed her hair in front of the mirror.
"Why are you so tense?" Nokwanda asked, watching her through the reflection.
"Because I know people," Zenande said simply. "And I know there's someone out there who would rather see us broken than see us married."
Nokwanda put the brush down and crossed the room. She sat beside Zenande, taking her hand. "They can try, but they can't touch what's real."
Zenande turned to her, her eyes softening. "Ngiyakuthanda, mphefumulo wami." – I love you, my soul.
Nokwanda smiled, leaning in to kiss her. The kiss was slow, deliberate — a promise of forever in the middle of chaos.
When they pulled back, Zenande's smirk returned. "Now, let's make sure our wedding is so perfect it makes the world jealous."
The night before the wedding was supposed to be full of joy.
Instead, Nokwanda couldn't shake the heaviness in her chest.
They had spent the entire afternoon in the master suite — blinds drawn, soft music playing, and the city hidden away behind thick curtains. Zenande's touch was gentle at first, tracing every curve as though memorising her. Then it deepened into something urgent, something that felt like both a goodbye and a promise.
Every kiss burned with unspoken words. Every sigh was heavier than the last.
When they lay tangled in the sheets, sweat cooling on their skin, Nokwanda whispered, "I feel like tomorrow… something will happen."
Zenande turned her face to hers, brushing damp hair away from her cheek. "Don't start with omens, sthandwa. Tomorrow will be perfect. I'll make sure of it."
But even Zenande couldn't fully mask the flicker of concern in her eyes.
The Wedding Day
The sun rose bright and golden over the estate. The venue was a masterpiece — white roses and orchids lining the aisle, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and guests in elegant dresses and sharp suits filling the seats.
Cameras flashed as politicians, celebrities, and business moguls arrived. Journalists whispered about how Zenande Mthembu was about to make history.
Nokwanda's heart pounded as she stepped into the aisle. The Zulu drumbeat in the background mixed with the hum of voices.
Halfway down, she caught sight of her father smiling proudly in the front row… just before it happened.
A loud crack split the air.
For a second, no one moved. Then her father's body jerked, and he collapsed to the floor.
Gasps, screams, chaos.
The Real Target
Security rushed forward. Zenande's eyes locked on Nokwanda — and in that instant, she knew. The bullet was meant for her.
From somewhere in the crowd, a man's voice roared, "She was supposed to be mine!" His face twisted with rage, eyes wild — a ghost from Nokwanda's past. The man who had once wanted her as his wife, who had sworn she would never belong to anyone else.
Zenande's security tackled him before he could fire again. Guests ducked for cover, the media kept filming, and the once-perfect day descended into madness.
Menzi's End
Amid the chaos, another scene unfolded outside the venue. Menzi Dlamini, who had been waiting in a black car across the road, watched the panic through tinted glass. He had come to see the wedding fall apart — but he hadn't planned for this.
Before he could drive off, two unmarked SUVs blocked his path. Doors swung open, and armed men surrounded the car.
A familiar voice came from the shadows. "Menzi Dlamini, it's over."
The wedding would go down in history — not for its vows, but for the blood spilled before they could be spoken.
The world slowed down into fragments.
The sound of Nokwanda's scream.
The sight of her father's blood pooling on the white aisle runner.
The smell of gunpowder hanging in the air.
Zenande's wheelchair skidded forward as she tried to reach Nokwanda, but the crowd surged, people crying and shouting, security shouting orders.
"Baba! Baba!" Nokwanda's voice broke as she dropped to her knees beside her father. Her hands shook as she pressed against the wound, desperate, helpless. His eyes fluttered, his lips moving as though trying to say something — but only blood came.
"Get the medics here now!" Zenande barked, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
Two paramedics pushed through, pulling Nokwanda back gently as they worked, but the look on their faces told Zenande the truth before they spoke it.
"I'm sorry…" one whispered.
The Vow of Vengeance
Nokwanda's sobs tore through the silence that followed. Zenande wheeled closer, ignoring the blood soaking into her gold-trimmed gown. She reached for Nokwanda, pulling her into her arms.
"This wasn't an accident," Zenande murmured against her ear. "He wanted you. That shot was meant for you. And I swear, on everything I am — I will find him. I will end him."
The cameras caught it — the image of Zenande holding Nokwanda on the blood-stained aisle, both of them shattered, but with a fire in Zenande's eyes that could burn the world down.
The Arrest
Outside, the man who had screamed "She was supposed to be mine!" was dragged into a police van, still shouting Nokwanda's name. His identity spread like wildfire online — a wealthy landowner from KwaZulu-Natal with a history of violent obsession.
But Zenande's mind wasn't only on him.
Menzi's Capture
While police handled the shooter, her private security had Menzi cornered in the parking lot. His face was pale, sweat dripping down his temple.
"You came to watch, didn't you?" Zenande's chief of security growled.
Menzi smirked weakly. "Guess I picked the wrong day for front-row seats."
"Not wrong," the guard replied coldly. "Just your last."
Menzi was dragged away in handcuffs, his plan to see Zenande humiliated replaced by the reality of his own downfall.
The Funeral Clouds the Wedding
By the end of the day, the wedding was postponed indefinitely. Nokwanda barely spoke, her eyes distant as her mother made funeral arrangements. Zenande stayed close, her hand always in Nokwanda's, her mind already piecing together the investigation like a chess game.
But deep inside, she knew one thing:
This was no longer just about love.
This was war.
The funeral was held under a grey sky that seemed to carry the weight of the family's grief. Hundreds gathered — neighbours, business associates, politicians — all dressed in black.
The Zulu homestead was draped in mourning cloth. A white tent covered the yard where the coffin rested, surrounded by wreaths of lilies and roses. The sound of hymn after hymn filled the air, some sung through tears, others through clenched jaws.
Nokwanda stood beside her mother, her hand trembling in Zenande's. She barely registered the speeches, the prayers, or the endless faces offering condolences. Her mind kept replaying the moment her father fell — the shock in his eyes, the feel of his blood on her hands.
When it was her turn to speak, her voice cracked.
"My father… was the man who taught me that love is shown through action. I promise to honour him by living in truth, even when the world tells me not to."
She broke down mid-sentence. Zenande wheeled forward without hesitation, wrapping her arms around her in front of everyone. Gasps and camera clicks followed, but Zenande didn't care.
Zenande's Private Move
That night, after the mourners left and the house fell into a heavy silence, Zenande retreated to the study. Her laptop glowed in the dim light as she made calls — not to the police, but to people who owed her favours. Powerful people. Dangerous people.
"I don't care how much it costs," she said into the phone. "Find every detail about the man who pulled that trigger. And dig deeper — I want to know who gave him the courage to come after her."
She ended the call, her eyes hard.
A Silent Vow
When she returned to the bedroom, Nokwanda was sitting on the bed, staring at her wedding dress still hanging in the corner. Zenande wheeled over and took her hand.
"Babe," Zenande said softly, "I'm going to fix this. But when I'm done… they will never dare touch you again."
Nokwanda looked at her, eyes glassy. "And what if they come for you instead?"
Zenande's lips curved into a dangerous smile. "Let them try."
She pulled Nokwanda into her lap, holding her tightly. The room was silent except for their breathing, but in Zenande's mind, the funeral had only lit the match. The war was coming.