The quiet after the funeral felt heavier than the ceremony itself. The Zulu homestead was still; the last of the mourners had gone, leaving only the sound of night insects and the occasional creak of the wind through the trees.
Zenande sat in the study, not at her usual polished mahogany desk, but at the small carved table facing the window. Her wheelchair was angled so she could see the darkness outside while speaking on a secure line.
Menzi Dlamini's arrest had been a spectacle — one she'd made sure played out in the media exactly the way she wanted. The headlines were clear: "Businessman Menzi Dlamini Arrested Amid Wedding Shooting Chaos." Pictures of him being dragged into a police van with his face twisted in anger were splashed across every major news outlet.
But Zenande knew Menzi was not the man who had pulled the trigger. He was a snake, yes — greedy, manipulative, dangerous — but not foolish enough to fire the shot himself. Which meant someone else had used the chaos to make their move.
She lit a cigarette, something she only did when she was deep in thought. The smoke curled slowly toward the ceiling as she dialled another number.
"It's me," she said when the line connected. "I want everything on Sipho Dlamini's shooter — his bank records, calls, movements for the last six months. And I want it in my hands by sunrise."
There was a pause on the other end. "That will require… unconventional methods, Miss Mthembu."
Zenande's lips curved into a cold smile. "I'm not asking for a favour. I'm paying for results. You have twelve hours."
When she hung up, she rolled toward her laptop, opening a private, encrypted program most people didn't even know existed. On the screen, a web of connections began to form — names, companies, shell accounts, and offshore holdings.
She moved like a machine, clicking through layers of data, cross-referencing the shooter's last known locations with Menzi's business associates. The pattern was already emerging.
Someone in KwaZulu-Natal had financed him. Someone with old grudges and deep pockets.
Zenande's eyes narrowed. "You thought you could touch her and walk away?" she whispered to the empty room. "Ngizokufundisa ukuthi udlala nobani — I'll teach you who you're playing with."
That night, Zenande returned to the bedroom long after midnight. Nokwanda was curled up on her side, the moonlight spilling across her face. She looked peaceful, but Zenande knew it was the exhaustion of grief, not real rest.
Quietly, Zenande wheeled to the bedside and just… watched her for a moment. Every line of her face. Every breath.
Nokwanda stirred, blinking sleepily. "You're back late."
"I had calls to make," Zenande said softly, moving onto the bed and lying beside her. She wrapped her arms around Nokwanda, pulling her close.
"You've been… different since the funeral," Nokwanda whispered, searching her eyes.
Zenande smiled faintly. "Different how?"
"Like you're here… but also far away."
Zenande kissed her forehead. "Maybe I'm just thinking about the future. Our future."
Love Wrapped in Secrets
The kiss deepened, and soon their bodies were tangled in the sheets. Zenande's hands traced every curve, committing them to memory. She kissed Nokwanda like she was memorising her — slow, lingering, full of unspoken promises.
"I love you, Nokwanda," she murmured between kisses. "More than life itself."
Nokwanda smiled faintly. "Then promise me… you'll never leave me."
Zenande froze for a second before brushing the hair from Nokwanda's face. "I promise you'll always have me."
It wasn't a lie — but it wasn't the truth either.
Unseen Moves
Later, when Nokwanda fell asleep against her chest, Zenande quietly slipped out of bed and wheeled to her desk. Her private lawyer was already on a secure video call.
"The transfer will be discreet," the lawyer confirmed. "Everything — properties, accounts, offshore holdings, company shares — will go to Nokwanda Cele, with secondary rights to her mother and brother. No one will contest it; the will is airtight."
Zenande nodded. "And the assets no one knows I own?"
"Also in her name. But, Miss Mthembu… are you sure about revealing your full net worth in this?"
"Yes," Zenande said firmly. "If I'm not here, she must have the empire. Every last diamond mine, every luxury car, every hidden investment. I don't care if it shocks her."
The lawyer hesitated. "And… the other part of the plan?"
Zenande's eyes hardened. "We stick to the schedule. No one — not even her — can know until it's over."
She ended the call, glancing back at the bed where Nokwanda slept peacefully. A bittersweet ache pulled at her chest.
"I'm doing this to keep you safe, sthandwa sami," she whispered. "Even if you hate me when you find out."
The moonlight poured in through the curtains, silvering the edges of the room. Zenande had changed into nothing but a silk robe, her hair loose around her shoulders. She wheeled closer to the bed where Nokwanda sat, brushing out her long hair.
Zenande's voice was low, almost husky. "Come here."
Nokwanda turned, a small smile playing on her lips, and crossed the room. She climbed into Zenande's lap without hesitation, straddling her in the wheelchair.
Their mouths met in a kiss that started soft, but quickly deepened — tongues tangling, breaths growing heavy. Zenande's hands slid up Nokwanda's back, fingertips pressing just enough to make her arch.
"God, I love you," Zenande whispered against her lips. "Every inch of you."
She wheeled them back toward the bed, never breaking the kiss. Nokwanda eased her down onto the sheets, her own hands exploring Zenande's body — the softness of her skin, the way her muscles tensed under her touch.
Zenande's robe slipped open, revealing smooth curves and the warm glow of her skin in the low light. Nokwanda bent down, kissing her neck, then lower, tasting her slowly, deliberately, as though she had all the time in the world.
But Zenande's breathing told another story — there was urgency there, the kind that comes when you know every second matters.
They moved together in sync, a slow build of pleasure that became a consuming wave. Zenande's fingers tangled in Nokwanda's hair as she gasped her name.
When they finally collapsed against each other, slick with sweat and breathless, Zenande pressed her forehead to Nokwanda's.
"You're my home," Zenande murmured. "No matter where I am, you're my home."
Nokwanda smiled softly, not knowing those words were also a goodbye wrapped in love.
The sun was dipping low, painting the sky with warm colours that meant nothing to Nokwanda as she sprawled across the bed, waiting for Zenande's call.
Her phone buzzed. Video Call: Zenande.
The moment she answered, Zenande's radiant smile filled the screen. She was in the back seat of her gold-trimmed SUV, her hair catching the light like a halo.
"Babe," Zenande greeted, her voice rich and warm. "I'm heading back now. You better be ready for me."
Nokwanda smirked and slid the straps of her vest from her shoulders, tilting the camera just enough to tease. "I'm giving you a preview… so you'll have something to think about on the way home."
Zenande's eyes darkened. "You're dangerous, Nokwanda Cele."
"Then hurry up and come face your danger," she whispered.
The sound came suddenly — a deafening BANG.
The camera jolted violently. Nokwanda's smile vanished. "Zenande?!"
Through the shaky image, she caught flashes — the driver screaming, the car spinning, glass shattering. The camera tipped sideways, showing nothing but the ceiling of the SUV and the glow of smoke filling the space.
"ZENANDE!" Nokwanda's voice broke into a scream as the video froze… then went black.
The Call That Shattered Her
Her phone rang again minutes later. The caller ID read Head of Security.
His voice was tight, almost strangled. "Miss Cele… there's been an accident. The car… caught fire instantly. She's gone."
Something inside Nokwanda cracked. She slid to the floor, clutching the phone like it could bring her back. "No. No, please, tell me you're lying! She was just— I was just talking to her—"
Her sobs came from a place so deep it hurt to breathe. Her chest burned, her hands shook, her vision blurred. It felt like her heart had been ripped out of her body.
The Hollow Days
That night, she didn't sleep. She sat on the cold floor, replaying the video call in her mind over and over, trying to remember every detail of Zenande's face, her voice, the curve of her smile. Every time she reached the part where the noise came, she collapsed into sobs all over again.
By morning, the world had found out. The news ran endless clips of the charred wreckage. Social media flooded with tributes. Strangers cried over the loss of a woman who had meant everything to Nokwanda.
But for Nokwanda, it wasn't about influence, wealth, or power.
It was about the woman who made her feel seen, safe, and deeply loved — and now she was gone.
Every breath hurt. Every second without her was torture.
The day was soaked in black.
Black skies. Black dresses. Black cars lined up like a royal procession.
Johannesburg had never seen a funeral like this.
Zenande Mthembu's name had dominated headlines for days — not just because she had died, but how she had lived.
The accident had silenced one of the country's wealthiest, most mysterious women.
Now, the world came to say goodbye.
A Nation Weeps
The church was more glass than stone, a towering architectural wonder Zenande herself had quietly donated to build.
Inside, walls overflowed with white orchids and lilies — her favourites. A portrait of her stood tall at the altar: poised, elegant, with that commanding gaze that once made CEOs stumble and politicians sweat.
Nokwanda sat in the front row, flanked by Zenande's mother and brother.
She looked fragile. Her skin was pale, her eyes hollow, ringed in red. She had cried so much over the past four days, her voice was gone.
She hadn't spoken since the call. Not one word.
People whispered about her, but she didn't care. All she could see was the golden casket.
The Lawyer's Revelation
After the ceremony, the estate lawyer requested a private moment with Nokwanda and the Mthembu family.
He opened a thick leather folder and cleared his throat.
"In accordance with Miss Zenande Mthembu's will, prepared seven months ago, her assets are to be divided among three beneficiaries:
Mrs. Nombulelo Mthembu, Mr. Siyabonga Mthembu… and Miss Nokwanda Cele."
Nokwanda blinked, lost. "What? No, that must be—"
"She knew exactly what she was doing," the lawyer said gently. "She left you everything she valued."
The list went on:
Ownership of multiple companies.
Four international accounts with combined holdings worth over R6.2 billion.
A mansion in Camps Bay.
A private jet.
Luxury vehicles, including the Lamborghini Nokwanda once joked about.
A rare pink diamond… with a note: "For your crown, my queen."
Each item listed pierced Nokwanda like a blade.
"She planned this," Zenande's mother whispered. "She knew she was going."
Nokwanda couldn't breathe.
The Breakdown
At the gravesite, when the gold casket began its descent, Nokwanda finally snapped.
"No!" she screamed, rushing forward. "Stop! Please stop!"
Her cries echoed as guards gently held her back. Her knees buckled. Her sobs tore through her like fire.
"I wasn't ready… I still had more love to give her!"
She clutched the diamond envelope Zenande had left in her will. A letter inside read:
"No matter what happens, I will always belong to you. And I want you to belong to yourself, even when I'm gone. — Z."
Six Days Later
Nokwanda hadn't left her room. She hadn't eaten. The world thought she was now a billionaire, but none of it mattered.
She slept on Zenande's side of the bed, curled around her pillow, replaying that last call a thousand times. The moment the screen went black haunted her dreams.
Her mother came to visit.
"Zeni would hate seeing you like this," she said softly. "She'd want you to live, Nokwanda."
But Nokwanda only stared at the wall, whispering one name over and over.
"Zenande… Zenande… Zenande…"