I WAS JUST A SERVANT

The storm outside had passed, but the one inside Zenande's heart still rumbled.

Rain had soaked the world in silence, but her thoughts were loud — too loud. She lay in bed beneath satin sheets that suddenly felt too heavy, too warm. Nokwanda was sitting at the edge, brushing her fingers along Zenande's forearm, eyes distant but alert.

"I thought they'd win," Zenande whispered. "Thuli. Her husband. The silence."

"They can't win what they never built," Nokwanda said. "They didn't build you. They don't own you."

Zenande looked up slowly, her eyes glossy. "But what if they take you from me?"

Nokwanda leaned in, close enough for their foreheads to touch. "Then I'll fight my way back. Every time. Even if it means bleeding for it."

Zenande exhaled shakily. "I'm tired of being broken. I want to feel like a woman again… not just a survivor. I want to feel alive."

Nokwanda's fingers stilled. "Are you sure?"

Zenande nodded. "Please. Stay with me tonight."

They undressed slowly — not out of lust, but reverence. It wasn't about what had been lost; it was about reclaiming what was still there. Every scar. Every breath. Every silent ache that yearned to be seen.

Nokwanda kissed Zenande's neck, her collarbone, trailing her lips with tender worship. Zenande's eyes fluttered closed, the sensation grounding her, centering her.

"You're beautiful," Nokwanda whispered. "You're whole. You're mine."

Zenande gasped softly. It wasn't just touch — it was awakening. Her body, long numbed by trauma and painkillers, responded with shivers and sparks.

"I… I felt that," she whispered, her voice shaking.

Nokwanda froze, heart hammering. "What did you feel?"

Zenande touched her own thigh. "There. A tingle."

Nokwanda repeated the touch. Slowly. Patiently.

Zenande inhaled sharply. "Yes. I can feel that. It's faint… but it's real."

Tears welled in both their eyes. Not of sorrow — but of hope.

And so, they continued, exploring each other like a prayer — soft, sacred, infinite.

They moved together, skin against skin, their rhythm a language spoken without words. Zenande's legs wrapped around Nokwanda, her back arching, her lips finding Nokwanda's again and again.

"I never thought I'd feel this again," Zenande breathed.

"Feel it all," Nokwanda whispered. "You're safe. You're home."

Zenande's moans grew louder, more desperate — not from need, but from release. From the sheer freedom of being alive in her own skin.

When they climaxed, it wasn't violent or explosive. It was trembling, soft, slow. Like dawn creeping over a shattered city.

Zenande clung to Nokwanda as tears spilled down her cheeks. "I felt it all. Every second. My body… it's waking up."

"You were never asleep," Nokwanda whispered. "You were healing."

Hours passed.

They lay tangled in each other's arms, listening to the rain return in soft rhythms against the window.

Zenande's fingers played with Nokwanda's hair. "Promise me something."

"Anything."

"If I ever forget how to fight… remind me."

"You won't forget. But I'll remind you anyway."

Zenande smiled and reached for her thigh again. "Still tingling. Like nerves are finding their way back."

"You are finding your way back," Nokwanda said. "One night at a time."

They fell asleep wrapped in skin and trust.

But danger doesn't wait for morning.

Downstairs, a faint noise broke the silence — a window sliding open. The air inside shifted.

A shadow moved past the hallway arch.

The figure stepped lightly, slowly, with gloved hands and covered face. It wasn't a burglar.

It was a message.

The study was dark, save for the red blinking light of a hidden camera just recently placed. A second figure followed, carrying a box.

They moved like professionals.

One whispered, "In and out. Five minutes."

They left a note on the desk before vanishing into the storm.

Zenande woke with a start.

She didn't know why at first. Then she heard it — the soft click of a door downstairs.

Nokwanda was already up, sliding into her robe and grabbing the pistol from the drawer.

Zenande whispered, "Be careful."

"I'm always careful."

Nokwanda descended the stairs, ears trained for the slightest breath. She moved like a shadow herself — swift, unafraid.

The study door creaked. She entered, heart pounding.

A shattered window.

A note on the desk.

She read it by flashlight:

"Next time, we won't knock."

Her stomach twisted. She scanned the room.

The drawer was disturbed. Books displaced. Then she saw it — the blinking red light beneath the antique lamp.

A secret camera.

She yanked it free and rushed back upstairs.

Zenande's face went pale as she read the note.

"They were inside?"

"Yes. And they left this." Nokwanda held up the small device. "They were watching."

Zenande looked like she might be sick.

"Why didn't the alarm go off?" she whispered.

"They knew the system. This was inside help."

They alerted Sergeant Nyathi immediately. Within hours, the estate swarmed with security and technicians. Hidden devices were found in two more rooms — one in Zenande's bathroom, the other in the hallway mirror.

"Whoever placed them had time," Nyathi said grimly. "And codes."

Zenande swallowed hard. "That means it's someone who's worked here."

The betrayal cut deeper than the threat.

By morning, the footage from the device was decrypted. Nokwanda watched it in horror.

Clips of Zenande in the bath. Changing. Crying.

"We need to shut this down before it leaks," she told the investigator.

But it was too late.

A local tabloid posted stills from the footage with a cruel headline: "Billionaire's Broken Heiress in Secret Lesbian Affair"

Zenande's face went cold. Not angry. Not broken.

Just quiet.

"They wanted to humiliate me," she said.

"They tried," Nokwanda replied. "But you're still standing."

Calls flooded in. Journalists. Activists. Trolls. Supporters. Donations poured in for Zenande's legal fund — but so did threats.

Then another blow:

Her youngest cousin, a student at university, was attacked on campus.

Hospitalized.

A note was found near him: "Tell your cousin to shut up."

Zenande visited him the next morning, Nokwanda pushing her chair beside the hospital bed.

He smiled weakly. "They jumped me. Said your name. But I'm okay."

Zenande's hand trembled as she held his. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't stop," he whispered. "Don't ever stop. You've already made them scared."

Tears fell silently from her eyes.

Nokwanda placed a hand on her back. "They came for the body. But they'll never touch your spirit."

Back at the estate, a letter arrived from Thuli's lawyers — an attempt to gag the press conference recordings and silence Zenande's claims.

Zenande didn't hesitate.

"Prepare my response," she told her lawyer. "We go to court. Publicly."

"And the footage?" Nokwanda asked.

Zenande held her chin high. "Let them watch. I'm not ashamed of being loved."

That night, Nokwanda crawled into bed beside her.

Zenande sighed. "I never thought healing would be this hard."

"But you're doing it," Nokwanda whispered. "Every breath, every fight, every kiss. You're becoming whole."

They held each other tight, two souls wrapped in battle wounds and rising courage.