It had been twenty-one days since Zenande's funeral.
The world had moved on — or at least, it pretended to.
Headlines had shifted from "Nation Mourns Zenande Mthembu" to "Who Will Run the Mthembu Empire?".
Her face no longer filled the front pages every morning. But for Nokwanda, every hour was still painted in shades of loss.
She sat in Zenande's office — her office now, according to the will — the wide glass windows spilling sunlight across the desk. Papers were stacked neatly in front of her, contracts and letters stamped with the Mthembu name. She hadn't touched them.
She couldn't.
She ran her fingers over the engraved pen Zenande had used, her thumb tracing the Z-shaped initial. A lump rose in her throat. She remembered Zenande leaning back in that leather chair, sharp eyes scanning every document, every deal — the woman was born to command a room.
Now the chair was empty.
The Billionaire She Never Wanted to Be
Her phone buzzed with yet another reminder from the legal team:
Miss Cele, the board requires your attendance at tomorrow's meeting. Please confirm your availability.
She ignored it. She didn't care about the board. She didn't care about the accounts, the businesses, the ridiculous wealth Zenande had left her.
All she wanted was Zenande.
But instead, she had numbers. Meetings. People calling her Madam Cele in the same tone they once used for Zenande.
It felt wrong.
Nights Without Sleep
The nights were worse.
She couldn't sleep in the bed without Zenande's warmth beside her.
She tried at first — laying on Zenande's side, hugging her pillow, breathing in the fading scent of her perfume. But as soon as she closed her eyes, she saw it: the phone screen shaking, the smoke, the moment it all went dark.
So she started sleeping on the couch, or not at all.
Some nights she wandered the mansion aimlessly, her bare feet silent on the marble floors, touching everything Zenande had touched, whispering to her like she could somehow hear:
"I don't know how to do this without you…"
And always, always, the tears came until her chest ached.
The screen glowed in the dark room.
Feed after feed flickered — the living room, the garden, the kitchen, and finally… the bedroom.
On the largest monitor, Nokwanda sat on the edge of the bed, hugging Zenande's pillow to her chest, her shoulders trembling.
Her lips moved, whispering something the microphones caught clearly.
"I miss you, my love…"
Zenande's fingers clenched around the armrest of her chair.
She was alive. Breathing. Heart beating. But it felt like she was the one buried in the ground.
The safehouse was nothing like the mansion. No gold, no marble, no glittering chandeliers — just steel, screens, and silence. The air smelled faintly of gun oil and coffee.
She sat in a black leather chair, her legs stretched out in front of her — no wheelchair anymore. She had been walking for weeks, training every day, regaining her strength in secret.
In front of her, Nokwanda's voice filled the speakers. Every laugh, every sob, every restless sigh reached her here. The cameras she had installed months before the "accident" picked up everything.
It was torture.
Hearing her cry.
Knowing she could end her pain with a single phone call…
And forcing herself not to.
Zenande leaned forward, elbows on her knees, watching Nokwanda press her face into the pillow again.
"I'm here, my queen," she whispered to the screen, her voice breaking. "I never left you."
But the plan wasn't finished.
Menzi was still free.
The shadowy hands behind her father's murder still moved.
And until every threat was destroyed, Nokwanda could never know she was alive.
Zenande wiped her eyes, her jaw tightening.
"Stay strong for me, baby… just a little longer."
The next morning, Nokwanda sat at the long boardroom table, her hands folded neatly on the glossy surface.
The Mthembu executives watched her cautiously, their eyes measuring her every move.
"Madam Cele," the finance director began, "the quarterly reports show growth, but—"
"Continue," she said softly, her voice steady though her heart wasn't in the room.
She went through the motions — signing papers, approving contracts, nodding at presentations.
On the outside, she looked composed, elegant, even powerful.
Inside, she was hollow.
Every signature felt heavier than the last. Every handshake felt cold. She wasn't built for this world — Zenande was.
The Night Ritual
At night, when the mansion was quiet, she'd sit at the desk in their bedroom with a pen and a black leather-bound journal Zenande once bought her.
Page after page, she poured out the words she couldn't say to anyone else.
Day 19 without you. I sat at your chair today. It didn't feel right. It will never feel right.
I'm doing my best, but everything I do feels like wearing clothes that don't fit. I'm not the queen — you are.
I keep looking at the door, expecting you to walk in, tell me I'm doing fine. I don't know how to keep breathing without you.
Her handwriting wavered with the tears she tried to hold back. She always ended the entries the same way:
Goodnight, my love.
The Silent Witness
In the safehouse, Zenande sat in her dark room, eyes locked on the feed from the bedroom camera.
She watched every stroke of Nokwanda's pen, every tremble in her hand, every tear that slid down her cheek.
When Nokwanda whispered "Goodnight, my love" and closed the book, Zenande pressed her forehead to the screen, her chest aching.
"Goodnight, baby," she whispered back into the empty room.
The only thing stopping her from running back was the vision she carried in her head — the day she could return without fear, the day they could be free together forever.
But for now, she stayed in the shadows. Watching. Waiting.
The rain was falling against the wide glass windows of the master bedroom.
Nokwanda lay in bed, the room dim except for the soft glow of her laptop screen.
She hesitated for a long moment, her fingers resting on the keyboard. Then, with a sharp inhale, she clicked open the hidden folder — the one labeled with a single Z.
Dozens of video files appeared.
Her heart thudded as she chose one.
The Memory
The screen lit up with Zenande's smile — not the guarded, arrogant smirk the world knew, but the soft, private smile she wore only for Nokwanda.
They were on the bed in this very room, tangled together, clothes half-removed, laughter spilling between kisses.
Nokwanda bit her lip, her eyes glistening. She pressed a hand to the screen for a second, as if she could feel Zenande's warmth through the glass.
The video played on — Zenande's hands tracing her curves, her voice low and commanding:
"Look at me, baby. I want to see your eyes when you fall apart for me."
The Release
Nokwanda's breathing quickened. Her free hand slid lower, her body remembering every touch, every rhythm.
She wasn't just chasing release — she was chasing her.
The sounds from the video filled the room — gasps, moans, whispered promises — until the line between memory and reality blurred.
She closed her eyes and let herself feel, every nerve alive, her body arching as the wave took her, a sob catching in her throat.
When it was over, she lay there trembling, tears sliding down her cheeks.
The Unseen Watcher
In the safehouse, Zenande's knuckles were white against the armrest.
The same video played on her screen — not the file, but the live feed from the hidden camera in the bedroom.
She had seen every movement, every shiver, every tear.
Her own breathing was uneven, her body tense with want, but she stayed rooted to the chair. This was her punishment — to watch the woman she loved ache for her, knowing she could end it but refusing to risk their future.
She whispered into the empty room, "Soon, my queen. I'll touch you again soon."
And then she switched off the feed, before the temptation broke her plan entirely.