The sun rose over the city like it did every other morning, but to Nokwanda, the world remained colorless—muted by a grief she could not escape. Six months had passed since Zenande's sudden and tragic death. Or so everyone believed.
Every morning, Nokwanda woke up in the same routine: shower, suit up, high heels on, makeup flawless—CEO mode activated. She walked into boardrooms like a storm in heels, fearless, intelligent, and dominant. Her name echoed across the city. Nokwanda Gumede had become a legend in just six months.
She was building their empire alone now:
The Valence Bank, now fully licensed, stood proudly in the heart of the city.
The Valence Mall, under construction, had every big retailer signing contracts.
Three new residential buildings were underway—each named after parts of Zenande's name.
But the truth was simple: Nokwanda was not okay. And the only one who knew it was Zenande—watching everything from afar, hidden behind her private surveillance system. Every camera in Nokwanda's home, office, car, and boardroom was streaming live to Zenande's secure setup.
At work, Nokwanda was ice-cold. Meetings ran with military precision. She never laughed. She never looked up when people tried to flirt. When her mother visited, Nokwanda said she was just "focused." But when she got home? That's when she cracked.
Every night, she cooked two plates. Always.
One for herself. One for Zenande.
Even though she knew Zenande would never walk through that door again.
She'd sit in silence, staring at the untouched second plate. Her fingers would tremble as she picked up her glass of red wine—one glass turned into the whole bottle. It had become her new habit: drink until the pain numbed. It didn't help, but it gave her something to do besides cry.
Tonight was no different.
Nokwanda stood in the kitchen, stirring beef stew. Her hands moved mechanically, but her eyes were empty. When it was done, she plated the food—two dishes, just like always. She lit a candle. Sat down. And ate in silence.
"Today was tough, babe," she whispered into the air. "I signed the mall contracts. You would've been so proud of me." Her voice cracked. "But it doesn't mean shit without you."
Zenande watched from her secure bunker, eyes locked on the screen. Nokwanda's pain pierced her like knives, but she didn't allow herself to react. Not yet. Her mission wasn't over. There were still enemies to eliminate.
After dinner, Nokwanda opened her third bottle of wine for the week. She didn't care anymore. The alcohol made her numb, and that was better than feeling everything. She stumbled into the bedroom, kicked off her heels, and threw herself onto the bed. Her phone buzzed—a video reminder from her gallery.
It was one of their sex tapes. She had hundreds saved.
She opened it. Watched it. Cried through it.
But her hand still slid beneath the waistband of her silk sleepwear. Her breath caught in her throat as the memory of Zenande's touch overwhelmed her. The pain mixed with pleasure until tears streamed down her face. It was the only way she could still feel her.
And Zenande was watching. Every moan. Every tear. Every broken whisper of her name.
"I miss you so much," Nokwanda sobbed after her climax, curling into a ball on the bed. "I don't want to do this life without you… I hate you for leaving me… I love you so much."
Zenande's heart shattered behind the screen. She reached out instinctively, as if she could touch Nokwanda through the monitor. Her voice trembled. "I'm coming, my love. Just hold on for me. One last mission, and then I'll be yours again."
But for now, Nokwanda remained alone in the world—drowning in success, buried in grief, and unknowingly being watched by the woman she thought she had lost forever.
The boardroom was silent when Nokwanda walked in. Her black suit was sharp, almost as sharp as the look in her eyes. She didn't greet anyone, didn't smile—just sat at the head of the table and opened her laptop.
The investors and senior partners shuffled uncomfortably. This was not the same Nokwanda they had met months ago—the one who lit up the room with energy and warmth. This Nokwanda was cold, composed, and painfully distant. Her voice, when she spoke, was measured and efficient.
"Let's begin."
The entire meeting passed with her leading every point, never missing a beat. If anyone disagreed, she cut them off with calm but final authority. Her success was undeniable—Valence Holdings was growing at a record pace. The mall in Durban was nearly complete. The banking license had been approved. Construction on a luxury apartment block had already begun. Everything was happening—on the surface, she was winning.
But inside, Nokwanda was dying.
When the meeting ended, she sat alone for a moment in the glass-walled boardroom, staring at nothing. Then a soft knock came at the door.
It was her mother, Lindiwe.
"Can I come in?"
Nokwanda nodded once.
Her mother stepped inside, her eyes searching her daughter's face. "You look tired."
"I'm fine," Nokwanda said, forcing the words.
"No, you're not," Lindiwe said gently. "I've been calling. You ignore me. I came to the house, and… baby, why are there always two plates on the table? Two wine glasses? Why is your fridge full of things Zenande liked?"
Nokwanda's hands tightened into fists on her lap.
Lindiwe continued, "I know you miss her. I do too, but—"
"Stop," Nokwanda said softly but with an edge. "You don't know."
She stood and walked to the window, her voice trembling.
"You don't know what it's like to be haunted by someone who's supposed to be next to you every night. To wake up hearing her laugh. To cook her favourite food because your hands refuse to stop. To pour her wine and sit in silence because she's supposed to come home and she doesn't."
Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she didn't turn around.
"Ma, every single thing I'm building… every brick, every signature… it's for her. It's so when she comes back—if she comes back—she'll see I never gave up on us."
Lindiwe swallowed hard. "I didn't know it was this deep."
"She wasn't just my girlfriend," Nokwanda whispered. "She was my wife. In my heart, she is my wife."
Outside the building, the city buzzed on as usual.
But far away, in a dark and secure place, Zenande stood in front of a monitor.
She had watched the entire thing—the meeting, the confrontation with Lindiwe, the way Nokwanda broke down once her mother left.
Zenande's face was pale, her body still, but her eyes were full of rage.
She picked up her phone and pressed a secure line.
"He didn't die that night," she said coldly. "Menzi. Finish it. Tonight."
"Yes, Boss."
She hung up and stared at the monitor again. The feed showed Nokwanda slumped in her office chair, wiping tears from her cheeks.
Zenande whispered to the screen, "Soon, my love. When it's all done, I'll come home. And when I do, no one will ever hurt you again."
The neon lights of the club flickered like the chaos in Nokwanda's chest. Loud music vibrated through the walls, but it still couldn't drown out the quiet pain burning inside her. Dressed in a black silk dress and heels, she walked in like a woman on a mission — not for love, not for fun… but for distraction.
The room was filled with bodies dancing and laughing, but she felt like a ghost drifting between the living. For a moment, her eyes scanned the bar and stopped on a stunning woman with curly hair, dark red lipstick, and bold eyes full of confidence. The woman looked at her as if she could read her mind. Nokwanda didn't blink.
They danced. They drank. They laughed.
But none of it felt real.
Later, the woman leaned in close and whispered, "Hotel?"
Nokwanda nodded.
They barely made it through the door of the hotel room before their lips collided. Clothes fell to the floor like pieces of broken restraint. They kissed fiercely, the stranger's hands tracing Nokwanda's body with urgency. For a moment, Nokwanda tried to lose herself in the heat of it all. She wanted to forget the pain, the loneliness, and the way Zenande's absence left a hole in her soul.
But as her lips kissed down Nokwanda's body and her fingers danced between her thighs, something cracked inside Nokwanda.
The woman gently moved down, kissing her inner thighs. She whispered something, but Nokwanda didn't hear it — because suddenly, Nokwanda moaned a name:
"Zenande…"
The woman froze.
Nokwanda realized what she had said. Her heart dropped.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, breathless. "I… I can't—"
But the woman didn't move.
"I heard it," she said quietly. "Zenande… That's who has your heart?"
Nokwanda sat up, pulling the covers over herself. "She's not here anymore. She… she's gone. But I can't get her out of my mind. Not even now."
The woman stood slowly, pain and confusion in her eyes. "I thought maybe I could… be the one to help you forget. But I get it now. You're not ready."
"I'm sorry," Nokwanda said again, tears rolling down her cheeks.
The woman, clearly heartbroken but understanding, grabbed her clothes and headed toward the door. Before she left, she looked back. "I hope she knows how lucky she is. Because you… you love her like a religion."
As the door clicked shut, Nokwanda sat in the silence of the hotel room, sobbing quietly. The sheets still smelled like the stranger's perfume, but it only made her feel emptier.
What she didn't know was that the whole moment — the kisses, the cries, the heartbreak — had been recorded. Two of Zenande's most loyal people had followed Nokwanda that night, blending into the shadows of the club and hotel.
Later, the footage was sent to a secure private channel, where Zenande sat watching.
She saw everything.
She saw her wife try to forget her — and fail.
She saw her name whispered between kisses and cries.
And she saw the pain in Nokwanda's eyes… the kind of pain that no enemy could fake.
Zenande's jaw clenched. Her eyes, cold and calculating, turned darker than before.
"Menzi," she said in a low, sharp voice to her soldier nearby. "He lives?"
"Yes, he's still inside. Protected."
"Not for long. Make it loud. Make it painful. I want him to know he died because of what he did to her."
"Yes, boss."
Zenande didn't blink as she watched the video one more time. Nokwanda curled in the hotel bed, shaking and crying. That image was burned into her heart like a brand.
And now, it was time for blood.
Nokwanda walked through the garden of silence, her footsteps soft against the earth, flowers in hand, trembling. The cemetery had become her secret refuge—where she poured her soul out to the woman the world believed was gone.
She wore black today. Not for mourning, but for protection. Darkness became her armor, her way to hide the storm inside her. Her sunglasses shielded her eyes, but they couldn't hide the brokenness in her posture. She stopped in front of the tombstone that bore Zenande's name. Tears gathered in her eyes, the pain too loud to silence.
"I don't even know where to start," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I keep building things for us. I open new stores. I negotiate million-rand deals like it's nothing. I smile in meetings. I walk like a boss. But at night… I break. I come home, and I pour myself a drink just to stop shaking. I cook dinner and plate two servings… for me and you. Then I sit and stare at your empty chair. I'm losing my mind, Zenande."
Hidden nearby, Zenande sat in a black van, emotionless on the surface, but her heart bleeding inside. The live feed from the micro-camera hidden in the tombstone displayed every tear, every breath, every truth Nokwanda confessed. She watched as the love of her life suffered in silence—held together by work, shattered by loneliness.
"I did something stupid," Nokwanda continued, voice soft like regret. "I went to a club. I kissed someone. I tried to feel alive again. But the moment she touched me, your name came out of her mouth. It was like the universe reminding me—you're still here with me. I can't move on. I don't want to. Even when I tried, I felt like I was cheating. Not on the memory of you… but on you."
Zenande gritted her teeth inside the van. Her people had shown her the footage from the hotel. Every moment. Every accidental name drop. Every awkward escape. The woman Nokwanda met was now obsessed—sending messages, calling, begging to see her again. But Nokwanda never responded. She'd buried herself in work, grief, and a love too powerful to replace.
Zenande wiped a tear from her cheek and gave a silent nod to the man seated beside her.
"Execute the order," she said coldly.
Menzi's time had come.
Meanwhile…
Nokwanda stood tall the next morning, dressed in a sleek black suit, her eyes unreadable. She walked into her boardroom filled with executives, architects, and legal advisors.
"We're acquiring another four hectares outside Durban. A school, two malls, and a luxury hotel. I want groundbreaking in six months . No excuses."
Her voice was sharp, authoritative, and emotionless. Inside, she was barely breathing. Outside, she was a force of nature.
After the meeting, her personal assistant entered the room.
"Your mother is waiting in your office."
Nokwanda nodded, removing her blazer slowly as if preparing herself. When she entered her office, her mother stood near the window, holding a photo of Zenande and Nokwanda from their engagement party.
"Tell me," her mother said, voice trembling. "What really happened? You haven't been yourself since… since the funeral."
Nokwanda took a long breath. She walked over, took the photo from her mother's hands, and looked at it as if it were the last image she had of her soul.
"Zenande was… is… everything to me," she said. "We had dreams. Plans. Secrets. She was my future. My peace. My strength. Now… now I just perform like a machine. I run this empire for her. I survive… because of her. But I don't know how long I can keep pretending I'm okay."
Her mother wrapped her arms around her, tears sliding down both their cheeks. Zenande watched all of it from her hidden screens.
"Come back to me, Nokwanda," she whispered, tears in her eyes. "I'm coming for you… but first, I'll make sure the world that broke us pays."
Elsewhere, in a cold, dark chamber…
Menzi screamed as Zenande's soldiers dragged him toward the execution room. He was bloodied, broken, begging. But Zenande didn't flinch. She watched through the surveillance feed, jaw clenched, eyes ice-cold.
"This is for every tear she cried," she said.
A single bullet echoed.
Zenande looked at her reflection in the black monitor.
"One down. More to go."
It had been four long years since Zenande "died." But for Nokwanda Zulu, the love hadn't faded—it had just gotten quieter. The kind of love that lives deep in the bones, in the veins, in the space between each breath. That kind of love doesn't just vanish. It lingers, whispering in the silence and screaming in the dark.
Despite the ache, Nokwanda had become a force. She built an empire. Not just a company—but fifteen.
A bank.
A hotel chain.
A luxury mall.
A real estate empire filled with flats.
A garage that only sold Lamborghinis—no other brand, no exceptions.
She said it was for Zenande. She remembered how Zenande used to say, "Babe, the day I die, you better drive like a mf queen."
And now she did.
But behind the power suits, boardroom dominance, and cold CEO façade, Nokwanda still went home and stared at the second plate she always dished up. She never stopped buying Zenande's favorite wine. She never stopped sleeping on the left side of the bed, where Zenande used to lie. Every night, she still cried. Not loudly. But the tears always came. They came with memories, dreams, hopes that never got to happen.
She had a new woman in her life—Thando, a lawyer she met during a hotel investor meeting. They had a sneaky link arrangement.
Never at Nokwanda's home—only hotels.
Nokwanda said, "I respect my home too much to bring another woman there. That home belongs to me and Zenande."
And Thando, as much as she didn't understand, respected it.
They weren't in love. Thando wanted more, Nokwanda couldn't give it.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Still, both families—the Mthembus and the Zulus—were starting to worry.
Nokwanda was young, rich, and beautiful.
But she was lonely.
So a family meeting was called.
Aunts, uncles, cousins—they filled the Zulu homestead like smoke filling a burning house. They smiled gently, but behind their eyes were questions, judgments, hopes.
Her mother sat beside her.
"Nokwanda, mntanam… it's time," she said softly. "You can't keep living in the past. You need to build a future. A family."
Nokwanda smiled. But it didn't reach her eyes.
"I did build a future, Ma. It just didn't go the way we all hoped."
Zenande watched all this unfold—from a screen far away. Her hidden camera system, still linked to the Zulu mansion and office, had never been detected. Every word, every cry, every secret moment—she'd seen it all.
And though her hands were bloodied from four years of revenge killings, her heart remained wrapped around one thing:
Nokwanda.
The mission wasn't done.
But the love?
It never left.