uGULUVA Chapter 20

PHINDILE GWALA.

It’s been about thirty minutes since dinner ended, and honestly… I think I survived. More than survived—I actually felt welcomed. For a moment, I let myself breathe, sit back, and just… be. The ladies were amazing company; Amanda’s warmth and Kayla’s sharp, yet inviting energy made me feel like I belonged, or at least like I wasn’t completely out of place. I had my usual—cranberry juice—and sipped it slowly, letting the tart sweetness calm the nerves that had been buzzing through me all evening.

We talked, really talked, about things beyond the surface. Amanda, I discovered, runs her house like a general. Every detail, every decision, she’s on top of it. Kayla, with her effortless composure, is an advocate. That was impressive. And me? Well… my story isn’t exactly conventional, and I sticked to what Nca and I rehearsed and I felt them listening, and it wasn’t judgment—it was curiosity, intrigue maybe. That was enough.

Now, Ncanezwe and I are upstairs, in the bedroom that—technically—is mine, though it feels strange calling it that when he’s here too. I am sitting on the edge of the bed while he’s standing by the balcony, not talking much, just waiting. Waiting for the couple to drift off so he can leave the house quietly and I can finally exhale. It’s 00:30, and the house is quiet except for the faint hum of the aircon and the distant tick of the wall clock.

“You did well, MaNzimande,” he says suddenly, standing by the balcony, one hand resting on the railing as he looks out into the darkened night. His voice is low, calm, but I feel it wrap around me like a warning and a compliment all at once.

I smile, a small, tired smile. I didn’t think I would pull it off tonight, but I did. Somehow, I held my ground, navigated the delicate dance with his family, and came out without embarrassing myself—or us.

“Thank you,” I say softly, trying to sound composed as I straighten the sheets and smooth the bedspread. My body hums with exhaustion, but I still need to fix the bed, take a bath, and just… lie down. My mind is still buzzing from the evening, replaying glances, half-smiles, subtle judgments. And of course, there’s him—the quiet presence I can’t seem to stop noticing.

“Hmmm,” he murmurs, turning his gaze toward me for a second before letting it drift back outside. “Keep it that way tomorrow.” His words are soft, but there’s a weight to them, the kind that makes me shift slightly under his scrutiny. I nod without speaking. I know what he means—I need to stay sharp. Be flawless. But his brothers… his brothers are a different level of intimidating, and I can feel their watchful eyes in my mind even now.

I catch myself staring at him for a moment, wondering how someone can feel so near yet so untouchable. His presence fills the room in a way that’s almost suffocating, yet I can’t look away. He doesn’t turn to face me, but I can feel him measuring me, silently assessing. My pulse quickens—not from fear, but from something else. Something I can’t quite name yet.

*

NCANEZWE CELE.

He can feel her eyes on him, burning with curiosity, desire, and something else—something he doesn’t yet want to name. Yet, he keeps his gaze fixed outside, tracing the glittering lights of Dubai sprawled beneath them. The city pulses, vibrant and endless, a stark contrast to the storm simmering quietly in the bedroom.

Sleep at the hotel calls to him, a safe, predictable option. He knows he should go. But what if this raises suspicions from his brothers? They already distrust him, already question his every move. Still, promises are promises. He made one, and he keeps them—always. Slowly, deliberately, he turns back toward her.

“I am leaving,” he says quietly, his voice a low rumble that seems to scrape along the edges of the room. He moves toward the bedroom, the sound of his steps muted against the plush carpet, stopping in front of her. She’s perched at the edge of the bed, still settling herself, her posture taut with attention.

For a heartbeat, they simply stare at each other. No words. Just two magnetic forces colliding, measuring, testing. His hands remain buried deep in his trousers, as if holding onto restraint itself. Phindile, as usual, is the first to blink, her gaze dipping to the floor as a small, nervous smile tugs at her lips. Ncanezwe chuckles softly, a sound low and deliberate, sending another ripple through the air. She fiddles with her fingers, twisting them together, betraying the tension she refuses to voice.

Then, slowly, he crouches just slightly, leaning toward her. The faint scent of her—cocoa and vanilla, rich and warm—hits him, and he inhales it, savoring the moment, the intimacy, before straightening back up. His presence alone seems to fill the room, heavy, magnetic, demanding acknowledgment.

Ncanezwe slides his right hand from his pocket and lifts her chin, forcing her gaze back into his. Her eyes meet his again, wide, caught between anticipation and hesitation. Her breath hitches, and he smirks, noticing how her body betrays her calm facade. Every small reaction—a quick intake of air, the shift of her shoulders, the tremble of her lips—feeds a hunger he refuses to give into, at least not yet.

“Be a good girl for me, MaNzimande,” he murmurs, the words velvet-wrapped steel, and her breath catches audibly. She closes her eyes for a moment, and he notices, almost savoring, the way her chest rises and falls, betraying her racing pulse. His gaze flickers down to her lips, just briefly, before he releases her chin, letting his hands slip back into his pockets.

He takes a measured step back, the tension still taut between them, electric and unbroken. Every fiber of her seems to call to him, yet he resists, holding to a promise—holding to control.

“Goodnight, MaP,” he says finally, his voice softer now, almost gentle, as he turns and exits the bedroom. His steps fade into the quiet of the hallway, leaving her there—vulnerable, aware, and aching with unspoken longing.

For a moment, Phindile stays still, the echo of his presence lingering, the room suddenly colder and emptier. Her fingers trace the edge of the bed, as if following the path of his hands, and she exhales slowly, shakily, trying to collect herself. He has left, but the tension, the game, the danger… it hasn’t. Not yet.

.

.

.

I step into the cab, letting the quiet hum of the engine soothe the restless parts of my mind. Her scent lingers in my nostrils, subtle yet impossible to ignore—cocoa, faint vanilla, something that makes the world slow down for me. Even at the dinner table, it had done this—settled me.

That’s why I can’t resist it now; I lean slightly, just to inhale it again, letting it anchor me. By the time I reach the hotel, I’m calmer, sharper, though the pulse of anticipation hasn’t left me. I thank the driver with a curt nod and walk inside. The lobby is quiet, almost expectant, like it knows the game I’m playing.

Check-in is fast, almost routine. My room key slides across the counter and I take it, moving toward the elevator, the scent still there, still pulling at me. Once inside the room, I shut the door and glance at the clock—00:50.

I need to be back at the house by 03:00, just to make the story convincing. She doesn’t know this yet; I haven’t briefed her. But that’s okay—I’ll use my phone to keep her in the loop, keep her comfortable, make her feel safe while I pull this off. Everything has to feel natural, effortless… even if it isn’t.

I drop my bag onto the bed and stretch, muscles still tense from the evening—holding myself together, staying sharp, keeping the edge in check. Even here, alone in this hotel room, I can’t escape her. She lingers, a quiet gravity pulling at me, the memory of her presence heavy in the air. Strange, unsettling, maybe dangerous—but for now, enough. I close my eyes, let the scent, the memory, wrap around me, an anchor before the next step, the next move in a night that refuses to be ordinary.

*

100+ comments & 10 shares.