uGULUVA Chapter 9

PHINDILE GWALA.

I force myself to walk with confidence, even though I can feel his eyes on my back. The moment I step out of the private VIP section, I head straight for the bar, my eyes scanning the room frantically for Zinhle.

I find her leaning over the counter, looking around like she’s waiting for something.

“Zee,” I whisper urgently as I reach her, “why didn’t you tell me Ncanezwe is the boss? I just called him by his name. His name, Zinhle. Oh God… I might lose my job.”

She turns to look at me, her face creasing with confusion.

“Whoa, Phindi,” she says calmly. “Slow down. Talk nicely. Take a deep breath.”

I stare at her.

“In and out,” she demonstrates.

I follow her instructions—once, twice, five times—until my chest stops tightening. Only then does she study me properly.

“Okay,” she says. “Now you can talk. What’s going on?”

I exhale sharply.

“Yesterday, Mr Ncanezwe was talking to me and everything, but he never introduced himself as the owner of this place. I gave him my… sassy attitude—you know how Joburg men are sometimes. I thought he was just one of those men.” I shake my head. “Now he’s asked to see me in his office after my shift. Zee, do you think he’s going to fire me? I can’t afford that. My mom is—”

“Phindi.” She cuts me off gently but firmly.

I look at her.

“Relax. No one is firing you,” she says. “Especially not here. Just finish your shift, then go see Mr Cele.”

She leans closer.

“He doesn’t even fire people himself. Casey and I handle that. So for now, go finish these last few minutes.”

Her calmness eases me a little, though my mind is still racing.

“Okay…” I say hesitantly.

I walk away from the bar, smoothing my uniform as I head to attend to one last table before my shift ends—trying to ignore the heavy knot sitting in my stomach.

Thirty minutes later, my shift is over—and my anxiety? Sky-high. Higher than my mother’s blood pressure every time she hears about one of my sister’s pregnancies. I sigh, placing the tray on the counter and asking the bartender for a glass of water. My hands feel clammy as I wipe them on my apron before climbing onto one of the bar stools. He slides the glass toward me, and I mutter a soft thank you before his voice creeps back into my head.

“When your shift ends, you’ll come to my office.”

I try to shake it off. I really do. But the words sit heavy in my chest, raising more questions than answers as I take a slow sip of water. Someone clears their throat beside me. I turn—and there he is. The buff man who accompanied me yesterday.

My heart kicks violently against my ribs. My throat goes dry, like I’ve forgotten how breathing works for a second. My shift ended barely two minutes ago. Couldn’t Mr Boss at least give me time to calm down? To collect my thoughts? To prepare myself for whatever this is?

“The boss is ready for you,” he says, his voice flat and professional. No greeting. No smile. “Please follow me.”

I glance at him. Then at the glass of water. Then back at him again. The glass is my only comfort right now.

“You can come with it,” he adds, already turning away.

I pick it up, my fingers trembling slightly, and slide off the stool. Scared—but moving anyway.

We walk down a narrow corridor I hadn’t noticed before, the noise of the club fading with every step. The walls grow quieter, thicker, like they’re designed to swallow secrets. My heels echo softly on the floor, each step counting down to something I don’t understand yet.

He stops in front of a dark wooden door.

“This is it,” he says, knocking once before opening it without waiting for a response.

I step inside. The office is nothing like the chaos outside. It’s calm. Too calm. Dimly lit, expensive, and deliberate—just like the man seated behind the desk. Ncanezwe Cele doesn’t look up immediately. He’s focused on something in front of him, flipping a page slowly, unhurried. Like he knows exactly how long silence can torture a person.

My grip tightens around the glass. Finally, he lifts his eyes.

“Close the door, Phindile.”

My name on his lips sends a chill straight down my spine. I do as I’m told. The door clicks shut behind me. And just like that, I know— this isn’t about my shift ending.

It’s about something beginning.

*

Phindile stands there gripping the glass of water like it might slip away if she loosens her fingers. Ncanezwe rises slowly from his chair, unhurried, deliberate. She looks up at him—and no matter how many times she tells herself she’ll get used to it, she never does. His height. His presence. He Today he’s dressed in black. A fitted shirt, black formal trousers, the first two buttons undone as usual, exposing a glimpse of skin that should not be distracting… but is. Very much so. She stares.

“Drooling is never the best option,” he says calmly. “A picture lasts longer, MaP.”

His deep voice snaps her back to reality. Heat rushes to her face as she quickly lifts the glass and takes a sip of water, hoping it hides her embarrassment. It doesn’t. The corner of Ncanezwe’s mouth curves into a lazy chuckle as he turns toward the glass wall, the City of Gold glowing beneath them. He slips a cigarette from his pocket and taps it against the box.

“Take a seat,” he says, leaning against the wall, eyes still on the lights below.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he glances at her and lifts the cigarette slightly.

“You don’t mind, right?”

Phindile shakes her head instinctively.

“Words, MaP,” he says, not looking at her.

“No,” she answers quickly, taking another gulp of water.

The sassy Phindile disappeared the moment he summoned her to this office. Right now, humility is survival. She needs this job. She needs the money.

Ncanezwe lights the cigarette, inhales slowly, then finally turns to look at her. His gaze is sharp—measuring, unreadable.

“You’re tense,” he says.

“I’m fine,” she replies, sitting down as instructed, back straight, hands folded neatly on her lap.

He exhales smoke through his nose, amused. “People who are fine don’t hold a glass like they’re about to throw it.”

Her fingers loosen slightly around the glass. Silence stretches between them, thick and deliberate. He watches her the way a man watches something he already owns but hasn’t decided what to do with yet.

“You know why you’re here,” he says at last.

Phindile swallows. “You asked to see me.”

A slow smile appears—dangerous, controlled. “Careful,” he says softly. “That’s not an answer.”

Her heart pounds.

“No, sir.”

He pushes himself off the wall and walks toward her, each step unhurried. He stops just close enough for her to catch his scent—smoke, cologne, something darker underneath.

“I don’t like repeating myself,” Ncanezwe says. “And I don’t summon people without reason.”

She nods, eyes fixed on the glass in her hands.

“I called you here because I have a job for you. A job that will give you extra cash,” Ncanezwe says again.

Phindile doesn’t answer. She only looks at him, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, noticing her gaze finally leave the glass.

Her breath catches—but she hides it quickly by taking a deep breath. Why is he closer now? She hadn’t heard him move, yet suddenly he’s right there, his presence pressing into her space.

“This job requires loyalty, silence, and keeping everything between us,” he continues calmly. “Can you do that?”

Her eyes widen. Is he asking what she thinks he’s asking?

“Yes and no at the same time,” Ncanezwe says.

She looks at him sharply. She said that out loud…didn’t she? Yes. She did.

“I want you to be my date to my brother’s third-year anniversary next weekend,” he says, unbothered. “You’ll name your price.”

“Name my price?” Phindile echoes, stunned.

Her mind races. What if she says R250,000—for just being his date? Or half a million? Would he laugh? Would he agree? Ncanezwe watches her carefully, as if reading every reckless thought crossing her face.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he says with a faint smile. “Relax. I didn’t say you had to sell your soul.”

She swallows.

“Why me?”

A pause. Deliberate. Heavy.

“Because,” he says slowly, “you don’t belong to that world… and yet you look like you do. Because you can sit next to powerful men and still look like you don’t need their approval. And because,” his eyes darken, “no one would suspect you.”

“That’s not comforting,” she mutters.

“It’s not meant to be,” he replies.

She folds her arms, grounding herself. “And what exactly would I be expected to do?”

“Smile. Hold my hand. Let them believe you’re mine,” he says evenly. “No more. No less.”

Phindile studies him, searching for cracks, for hidden meanings.

“And after the weekend?”

“We go back to pretending this never happened.”

Silence stretches between them.

She thinks of her mother’s medication. The rent. Her sister’s children. The weight she carries alone.

“How much?” she finally asks.

A slow, satisfied smile curves his lips.

“Now,” Ncanezwe says, stepping back just enough to let her breathe, “that’s the right question.”

Phindile lifts her chin, forcing her spine straight even though her heart is hammering.

“How much?” she repeats, firmer this time.

Ncanezwe doesn’t answer immediately. He walks back to his chair instead, unhurried, like a man who knows time bends around him. He sits, crossing one leg over the other, eyes never leaving her.

“No,” he corrects softly. “You tell me.”

Her fingers curl into her palm. This is a test—she feels it in her bones. Say too little and she’ll look desperate. Say too much and she might insult him… or expose herself.

She exhales. “For one weekend. Public appearances. No… expectations beyond that.” She pauses. “R50,000.”

The words hang in the air.

Ncanezwe lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head slowly.

“You really don’t know your worth.”

Her stomach drops. Too low.

“Or,” he continues, eyes sharp now, “you’re pretending you don’t.”

He reaches into his drawer, pulls out his phone, and taps the screen once. A soft notification sound echoes in the quiet room.

“R150,000,” he says. “Paid upfront.”

Her breath stutters. “That’s—”

“For your time,” he cuts in smoothly. “And your inconvenience.”

“And the silence?” she asks before she can stop herself.

His eyes flicker with something unreadable. “That comes with the job.”

She hesitates. “What if someone asks who I am? What I do?”

“You’re a marketing consultant,” he replies instantly. “We met at a private function in Umhlanga. You don’t talk much about work. You hate gossip. You’re private.” A pause. “Very private.”

Phindile swallows. He’s thought this through far more than she has.

“And if I say no?” she asks quietly.

Ncanezwe leans back, studying her like a chess piece he hasn’t yet moved.

“Then you walk out of that door with your dignity intact… and the knowledge that you almost stepped into a very comfortable life.”

Her jaw tightens. Comfortable. Dangerous. Tempting. She thinks of Nobantu’s messages. Of her mother coughing through the night. Of how tired she is of choosing between survival and pride.

“When is the event?” she asks.

His lips curve. Victory—subtle, controlled. “Friday evening to Sunday afternoon. You’ll stay where I stay.”

Her eyes snap to his. “You said no expectations.”

“And I meant it,” he replies calmly. “Separate rooms. Security everywhere. You will be safer with me than without me.”

Silence again.

Then, quietly, firmly: “I’ll do it.”

Ncanezwe stands. “Good.”

He extends his hand. She hesitates only a second before taking it. His grip is warm. Steady. Too sure.

“Welcome to my world, Phindile Gwala,” he says softly. “Just remember—once you step in, people will start looking at you differently.”

She meets his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away.

“I’m used to being looked at.”

A slow smile spreads across his face.

“Oh,” he says, “they haven’t really seen you yet.”

*

100+ comments & 10 shares.