I WAS JUST A SERVANT

Zenande waited in the hallway.

The cleaner passed by, holding a bucket and mop like nothing was wrong — like she hadn't just dropped a match into a room full of gasoline.

"Stop," Zenande said coldly.

The woman froze. "Yes, Ma'am?"

Zenande wheeled closer. "What's your real name?"

The woman blinked. "I… I don't understand—"

"Your file says your name is Busisiwe Khumalo. But facial recognition software says otherwise."

Silence.

Zenande leaned forward.

"You're not here to clean. You're here to destroy."

The woman straightened slowly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Zenande's eyes narrowed. "Security will walk you out. If you resist, I'll press charges for trespassing."

A cold smile touched the woman's lips.

"Do you really think you're protecting her?"

Zenande flinched. "I'm protecting the truth."

The woman pulled a photo from her pocket and placed it gently on Zenande's lap before walking away.

"Then look at that," she said. "And ask her what else she hasn't told you."

Upstairs, Zenande stared at the photo.

It was Nokwanda — standing outside a familiar café.

The woman beside her was her ex.

They weren't touching. But they were laughing. Close.

The timestamp?

Three weeks ago.

Zenande's chest caved in.

She gripped the wheels of her chair tightly, fighting the burn of betrayal.

Was it all a lie?

Nokwanda was in the laundry room when Zenande arrived.

She knew something was wrong the second she saw her face.

Zenande didn't speak.

She simply handed her the photo.

Nokwanda's world cracked.

"No," she whispered. "That's not what it looks like."

"Then what is it?"

"She… she saw me on the street," Nokwanda said. "She stopped me. I didn't reach out to her—"

"But you talked."

"I told her to leave me alone."

Zenande's eyes burned. "You're smiling."

"She was apologizing. I didn't know someone was taking a photo!"

"You didn't think to tell me?"

"I didn't want to give her space in this house, in us."

Zenande's voice trembled. "So you chose silence."

Nokwanda stepped closer. "I chose peace."

Zenande pulled away. "No. You chose to protect yourself from discomfort."

Nokwanda's throat tightened. "I didn't lie to you, Zenande."

"But you hid the truth."

Zenande turned.

Rolled away.

That night, Nokwanda sat on her bed staring at the photo in her hand.

Three weeks ago.

That was before the kiss. Before the closeness. But still, she should have told Zenande. She should have been honest the moment she walked back inside that house.

But she hadn't. And now everything felt like it was slipping through her fingers.

In the study, Zenande sat with her mother.

"I don't know what to believe anymore."

Mrs. Mthembu took her hand. "Do you trust your own heart?"

"I did. Until today."

Her mother squeezed gently. "Then trust what it told you before the photo. Nokwanda has stood beside you when no one else did. You don't throw away a whole forest because of one fallen tree."

Zenande stared into the fireplace.

"I'm tired of being abandoned."

"Then stop expecting to be."

The next morning, Nokwanda stood outside Zenande's door.

She didn't knock.

She slid a note beneath the door and walked away.

Zenande picked it up with a shaking hand.

You deserve the full truth. I've written everything — from the first time I saw her, to the day I told her to never come near me again. I was ashamed. I wanted to start over without baggage. But silence is its own betrayal.

If you want to read it, I'll leave it in the garden under the tree where we first talked without arguing.

If you don't come, I'll understand.

But I won't stop loving you. — Nokwanda

Zenande read it twice.

Then wheeled herself to the garden.

There, tucked beneath the roots of the wild fig tree, was a letter.

Handwritten.

Raw. Honest. Bleeding.

Zenande read it from beginning to end.

By the final line, she was crying.

Not from anger.

But from relief.

Because the truth was ugly — but it was hers now.

And so was Nokwanda.