uGULUVA Chapter 19

PHINDILE GWALA.

“This is your room with Abuti Nca,” Amanda says as we step inside.

I freeze for half a second. Didn’t he say we’d be separated? I look at Amanda and force a polite smile, even though my chest tightens.

“Well, we honestly didn’t think he’d come,” she continues casually, “and definitely not with someone. But the space is enough. The other room is already reserved for MaZwane and Abuti Zwe—they’ll be arriving tomorrow.”

She moves further into the room, unfazed. The first thing that greets me is the soft lavender scent hanging in the air. My eyes drift around slowly, taking everything in. Emerald green walls. Grey bedding. Clean lines. Everything blends so effortlessly, expensive yet calming.

“You can take your time and view the room,” Amanda says. “It’s already late, so I ordered food for all of us. Come downstairs when you’re done.”

Her attention settles on me fully now. I meet her gaze, holding it a second too long, before nodding.

“Okay, no problem,” I say, even though my nerves are screaming.

She studies me briefly—as if trying to read something I’m not ready to reveal—then nods and walks out. The door clicks shut behind her, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I sit on the edge of the bed, inhaling deeply.

This pretending thing is harder than I thought. But I need to push through.

It’s almost 22:00 here in Dubai. All I want is a hot bath and sleep—but how am I supposed to do that when I’m sharing a room with the very man who hired me to pretend to be his girlfriend?

Before my thoughts can spiral further, the door opens. The sound of suitcase wheels rolling across the floor reaches me first. Then his scent—wood, faint nicotine—fills the room as he steps inside.

“MaP,” he greets, closing the door behind him.

My heart skips. Why is he even here? He said he’d respect my privacy. He didn’t even mention that we’re coming to Dubai. Not that I’m mad—but I hate how he decides for me. Contract or not, he should have contacted me first.

I tighten my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm.

This was supposed to be simple. Clearly, it isn’t.

“Phindile,” he says again.

I straighten on the bed, my spine stiff, fingers curling into the duvet. I hate that my body reacts before my mind does—that my chest tightens just from his presence.

“Ncanezwe, you said separate rooms. Manje yini le?” I snap, letting my attitude surface. Maybe it’s time I used it. This man has been taking advantage of me lately.

(What is this?)

“MaNzimande, let’s not fight about sleeping arrangements. I’ve got myself sorted. I just brought your suitcase,” he says calmly, still standing there, my suitcase in his hand.

I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“Good. Because you said pretending, not actual. So if you say so,” I reply, meeting his gaze.

“Right,” he chuckles under his breath, then looks back at me—really looks at me.

He holds my eyes, steady and unreadable, and something shifts. My skin prickles. Goosebumps rise along my arms. He keeps his gaze on me until I break it, looking down. I hear him chuckle softly.

“I’ll be sleeping at a hotel nearby. If you need anything, let MK know—he’s part of the security team,” he says.

My eyes wander everywhere except to him. He slips his hands into his trouser pockets and waits. I know that pause. In the past two weeks of training, I’ve learned it well—when he speaks, you listen, and you respond.

“No problem then,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. He nods once.

“See you downstairs for dinner,” he adds, leaving the suitcase behind before walking out of the room.

The moment the door closes, I jump up from the bed and lock it, my heart racing harder than before. I swear that eye contact stirred something in me. It definitely did.

I press my back against the door for a moment, breathing in slowly, then push myself away. Get a grip. I smooth my dress, check my reflection in the mirror, and force my shoulders to relax. Whatever that was… it stays here. I sit on the edge of the bed until my heartbeat finally steadies. Downstairs. Dinner.

When I step into the dining area, the atmosphere is warm—everyone is mid-conversation, plates already half-empty. Laughter hums softly in the background. MK gives me a brief nod from near the entrance, alert and professional, eyes scanning the room. Always watching.

“Oh, you’re finally here,” Amanda says the moment she spots me. “I was about to send your man to come get you. Take a seat.”

Your man. The word lands heavier than it should. A strong claim—but is he one? Just not a real one.

I scan the table. Only three seats are left: one beside him, the other two next to Kayla and her husband. I sigh inwardly. I already know where I need to sit. Dragging my feet, I move toward him, feeling everyone’s eyes follow me as I take the seat at his side.

Once I’m seated, the conversation resumes like I was never the interruption. Amanda gestures toward the food, telling me to dish up.

“Bafo, you didn’t formally introduce us to your woman,” Kayla’s husband says just as I’m about to take my first bite.

Ncanezwe shoots him a sharp look. I guess he’s the talkative one.

“Qhawe, awuyeke ukuphapha and eat,” Ncanezwe says coolly. “Didn’t bhuti teach you manners at the table?”

Qhawe glares at him, then turns that same unreadable stare on me. My heart starts to race. Is he able to see our pretending?

“We’ll do the introductions properly after we eat, Abuti Qhawe,” Amanda cuts in quickly, sensing the tension tightening around the table.

I lower my gaze to my plate, pretending to be far more interested in the food than the weight of the room. Conversations resume, but they’re softer now—measured. I can feel eyes flicking toward me and back again, curiosity simmering beneath forced normalcy.

Ncanezwe leans back slightly in his chair, relaxed on the surface, but his knee brushes mine under the table—a quiet warning or reassurance, I can’t tell. He eats slowly, deliberately, like a man who knows exactly who he is in any room.

“So,” Amanda’s husband finally says, breaking the stretch of silence, his tone light but probing, “Jozi treating you well, bhuti?”

Ncanezwe nods once. “It’s quiet. I like it that way.”

Amanda hums. “Quiet doesn’t suit you. You were never the quiet type.”

“That was before,” he replies, not elaborating.

Kayla smiles at me then—polite, assessing. “And you?” she asks gently. “Are you from Jozi too?”

I clear my throat, surprised by how dry it feels. “No. KwaMashu,” I answer simply.

Qhawe chuckles under his breath. “Figures.”

Ncanezwe turns his head slowly, fixing his brother with a look sharp enough to cut. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Qhawe lifts his hands in surrender. “Nothing. Relax.”

Amanda shoots Qhawe a look before turning back to me, her smile warmer now, almost disarming.

“You’re welcome here, sisi. Don’t let these ones intimidate you.”

I nod, managing a small smile. “Thank you.”

The rest of the meal passes with cautious ease—stories about work, complaints about traffic, laughter that feels slightly forced but genuine enough. Still, I’m aware of Ncanezwe beside me the entire time: the way he listens more than he speaks, the way his presence subtly anchors me.

*

NCANEZWE CELE.

I glance at her, feeling that familiar pull, the ache in my chest that tells me I’m already losing control. Her scent lingers in my nose, cocoa and vanilla twisting into something dangerous, something that makes every rational thought scatter. I bite it back, lean into her ear just enough to feel the warmth, my lips brushing her skin—but not crossing the line.

“Don’t be scared,” I murmur, low enough only for her to hear. “My brothers will—and can—see it through you. Relax, mamacita.” Her shoulders tense, that tiny flinch setting off alarms in me, and I know she feels it too—the electricity sparking between us. I let my hand hover just above her thigh under the table, teasing, testing… then pull back. Her breath catches; it’s the only confirmation I need.

“Alright,” MaMofokeng interrupts, eyes flicking between me and her like she knows something I haven’t decided to admit yet. My body stiffens for a second—wait, is this a moment? No, it’s not… or maybe it is, but I’m not letting myself feel it unless I have to.

“Now that everyone’s fed and calmer… we can do proper introductions.” Her gaze lands on me with that teasing tilt of her head, and I can’t help but chuckle under my breath. So, they want me to introduce her? Huh… this is going to be interesting.

I stand slowly, letting my chair scrape softly against the floor. Every head turns toward me. I can feel her eyes on me—the quiet intensity from across the table—and it tugs at me, a pull I can’t—or don’t want to—resist.

“She’s…” I pause, scanning the room as if I’m choosing my words carefully, though all I’m really thinking about is her. “…someone I’ve come to respect, someone… unforgettable.” My gaze flicks to hers for a heartbeat, and I catch it—the spark, that quickening in her chest that mirrors my own.

A small smirk curls on her lips. She doesn’t say a word, but the subtle tilt of her head, the slight shift in her posture—it tells me she knows exactly what I’m doing. The game is on, and I’m already losing… or maybe I’m winning. Depends on how you look at it.

“Well,” I continue, letting my voice drop a notch, “I think it’s only fair you get to meet her properly.” I gesture toward her with casual elegance, though everyone senses the weight behind my tone. Even MaMofokeng glances between us, raising an eyebrow, clearly catching on.

She rises smoothly, hips swaying just enough to make my pulse spike. I resist the urge to reach for her hand—this is about power, control, patience.

“This is Phindile Gwala—MaNzimande to you—and I met her a year ago. Yes, I didn’t tell you, but what matters is that I now have a woman in my life.” I take her hand briefly. An electric spark shoots through me, and I ignore it, pressing my lips to her hand before letting it go.

“You can sit, MaNzimande,” I say, continuing my introductions.

“This is the elder brother, Mabutho, uNdosi.” I gesture toward him, then turn to MaMofokeng. “And that’s his wife, the glue of the family after Qhawe—MaMofokeng.” She nods in acknowledgment.

“That’s Qhawe, the glue of the family, and next to him… yindiya lakhe, usamosa, uMaCele omncane. I call her MaK,” I continue.

“And the quiet one, uSizwe, with his blabbering MaZwane… angazi baphi, but yes, this is the Cele family,” I finish, turning back to her.

I settle into my seat, catching their glances as they begin to welcome her into the fold. I smirk. The game… it’s going just the way I like it.

*

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