I WAS JUST A SERVANT

The following morning in the Mthembu household began with an eerie stillness. Sunlight painted the marble floor in pale gold, but the warmth did little to dissolve the growing tension that clung to the walls like mist. Something unsaid hovered in the air—whispers, fragments, warnings.

Zenande woke early, her mind replaying every word she'd told Nokwanda the night before. Every flash of the black SUV, every second of the impact, every piece of glass that had sliced through her confidence. She'd never spoken about it in such detail. Until last night, it had stayed buried beneath painkillers and therapy.

Now it was out. And now, it was real.

She wheeled herself slowly to the window. Outside, Nokwanda was in the garden again, trimming the edges of the hedge with calm precision. As if nothing had changed.

But everything had.

Zenande didn't call her in. Instead, she watched her — admiring the woman who, in just weeks, had become her calm, her chaos, her comfort. Nokwanda had been honest. She had stood up to Thuli. She had remained — steady, patient, fierce.

And Zenande knew she would need that steadiness again.

Later that day, Nokwanda sat with Mrs. Mthembu in the reading room. A mahogany tray of tea and scones rested between them, untouched.

"How long have you known?" Mrs. Mthembu asked, without looking up from her teacup.

Nokwanda didn't pretend. "About Thuli? Since before Zenande found the photo. But I didn't know the full depth of it."

The old woman's face remained unreadable. "And yet you stayed."

"I stayed for Zenande."

Mrs. Mthembu nodded slowly. "Then you'd better be ready. Because if Thuli's involved in what happened to Zenande… she won't stop."

Nokwanda leaned forward. "She tried to destroy her spirit. She won't succeed again."

Just then, Zenande entered the room, wheeling herself in with composed elegance. "I need both of you to hear this," she said firmly. "I spoke to my private investigator this morning. They're reopening my case. The brake lines were tampered with. And it wasn't just a hit-and-run. It was a hit."

Mrs. Mthembu set her teacup down. "Do you have any names?"

Zenande looked directly at her mother. "Not yet. But I know where to start."

That afternoon, Zenande and Nokwanda sat together reviewing old footage from the gala — the last event she attended before the accident. Guests smiled, glasses clinked, laughter rang through the room, but something felt off.

"There," Nokwanda pointed. "That man, by the doors. He's not smiling. He's watching you."

Zenande leaned in. "I don't recognize him. But wait — look at Thuli. She walks straight to him before she leaves."

They paused the video.

"Could be a bodyguard," Nokwanda murmured. "Or worse."

Zenande grabbed her phone. "Time to find out."

Meanwhile, Thuli stood outside a tall black gate on the edge of the city. A luxury compound — guarded, quiet, untraceable. She handed the guard a slip of paper.

"I need him to handle it personally. No more delays."

Inside, a man in a velvet suit sat polishing a revolver. He smiled when the guard entered.

"She finally asked for the final step," the guard said.

The man nodded. "Then the game begins."

Back at the Mthembu estate, Zenande was on a call.

"I need his full name. The man at the gala in the gray suit. Yes, I'll wait."

Nokwanda placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to do this alone."

"I know," Zenande whispered. "But I want to. For once."

Minutes later, the investigator returned.

"Name's Luthando Dlamini. Ex-military. Private contractor. Hired muscle. Dangerous."

Zenande nodded. "And guess who his last known employer is?"

"Thuli Mhlongo."

That night, Nokwanda woke suddenly to the sound of glass shattering. She rushed from her room, heart pounding, only to find Zenande's room empty.

"Zenande!" she called.

A muffled scream answered from downstairs.

Nokwanda bolted toward the stairs, but before she could reach the bottom, she saw it: Zenande's wheelchair, toppled over at the foot of the stairs.

She ran.

"Zenande!"

She found her in the kitchen, cornered by a masked man with a knife.

"Get away from her!" Nokwanda shouted.

The man turned, charging.

Nokwanda grabbed the nearest thing — a cast-iron pan — and swung hard.

The blow landed. The man staggered.

Zenande pulled herself into a sitting position, bruised but alert.

The masked man stumbled out the back door.

Nokwanda chased him halfway down the lawn before he vanished into the shadows.

She ran back.

Zenande was trembling.

"I'm okay," she said, her voice shaking. "I'm okay."

But Nokwanda dropped beside her, wrapping her arms around her tightly.

"You are not alone anymore," she whispered fiercely. "I won't let them hurt you again."

By morning, police were at the estate. Fingerprints, evidence bags, questions. Mrs. Mthembu watched it all from her seat in the lounge, her face cold as stone.

Nokwanda and Zenande gave their statements. Nokwanda's hands never left Zenande's for more than a minute.

Hours later, when the officers left, Zenande asked, "Do you think she'll stop now?"

Nokwanda shook her head. "She's losing control. That makes her dangerous."

Zenande sat up straighter. "Then let her come. Let her see what happens when women fight back."

Elsewhere, Thuli stared at her reflection. Her perfect smile was gone.

"She fought," she whispered.

The man on the other side of the table nodded. "You underestimated her."

Thuli turned slowly.

"Then I'll stop underestimating. I'll end her."