It was the fourth time this week that I caught him watching me.
Not directly.
Not boldly.
But in reflections, mirror glass, polished silver, sliding doors. His eyes would linger for a heartbeat too long. Then drop the moment I turned.
His name was Thabiso.
Nineteen. Broad shouldered. Quiet mouthed. Always respectful, always on time. A transfer from my husband’s cousin’s household in Cape Town. He’d arrived just three months ago, after the last steward was fired for drinking my husband’s aged whiskey behind the wine cellar.
Thabiso was different.
Too focused. Too clean cut.
Too watchful.
He always smelled faintly of detergent and citrus. He ironed his uniforms to military perfection. He never broke a rule or spoke out of turn.
But I knew.
I felt it.
That hunger. That heat. That
