Chapter Two
Ashon
The first time I kissed her, she tasted like defiance. Like something I had no business wanting, something stamped with red flags but couldn’t help taking.
I hadn’t planned it. Hell, she’d factored nowhere on my agenda.
I came home far less drunk than I wanted to be, far angrier than the occasion demanded, ruined in a tuxedo that still stank of funeral lilies.
Nana’s voice had echoed in my skull all night—you’ve lost touch with who you are, Ashon.
You’ve lost your honour and, the way you’re going, you’ll lose your bloodline too.
I hope this little pipedream of yours will be worth it in the long run.
Doors slamming behind me as if I could shut him out, frustrated growls building, I stumbled into my kitchen at midnight, yanked off my tie and there she was.
Cilla. Barefoot with a messy bun and an apron and far too sexy temptation for a man on his last nerve could withstand. Washing a pan like it had offended her ancestors.
‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ she’d said without looking at me.
I dropped the whiskey bottle I’d snagged on my way in onto the counter and ignored her. Until she turned.
Until those dark eyes pinned me with something sharp and electric. Read every expression I hadn’t bothered to camouflage because, damn it, I was in my house. My space. And she had no right to be there but there she was, nevertheless.
‘You were at the funeral,’ she said softly. ‘How was it?’
My voice came out raw. ‘My father’s gone.
And now so’s my mother. That’s how it was.
’ Because Nana hadn’t even waited until my father, the man who’d effectively placed himself as a buffer between son and grandson, my last champion in a sea of sceptics, was in the ground before he’d sharpened his barbs.
Cilla didn’t utter the catch-all sorry for your loss. Nor did she give me pity.
She just walked over, took the freshly poured glass from my hand and poured a drop on the floor with the usual muttered incantation to the ancestors for my mother’s safe passage to the afterlife, then poured the rest down the drain.
‘Drink water, Ashon,’ she murmured, her breath brushing my jaw. ‘And go to bed. You’ll thank me in the morning.’
I didn’t heed that unwanted advice on top of the unwanted pile I’d received all day. I caught her to me, pinned her insolent little waist and that plump ass that had teased and taunted me for weeks against the kitchen island.
And I kissed her instead.
Cilla
Ashon moves through the narrow aisle of the jet like he owns the sky itself. All long limbs and quiet power, dressed in slate-grey slacks, jacket and a black shirt rolled at the sleeves. He shouldn’t still have this effect on me, not after everything, but God help me—he does.
His skin is a warm, golden-brown blend of sun and shadow, the legacy of his Ghanaian father and American mother etched into every angle of his face.
High cheekbones, strong jawline, and a mouth that looks carved for sin and scorn in equal measure.
The tight, dark curls of his hair coils against his scalp in a way that makes my fingers itch with memory.
And then there are his eyes. Dark and unreadable and far too shrewd. Bottomless wells of calculation and heat and everything that’s made him a seemingly overnight success in Hollywood with blockbuster after masterpiece after blockbuster.
As he glances at me once across the width of the plane and plush seats, my breath snags, because buried under all that arrogance is the man I shouldn’t still want.
The one who once touched me like I was something essential he desperately needed.
The one who now looks at me like I might be a threat to everything he’s built.
And maybe I am. I’m guessing we’ll find out sooner rather than later.
I take a breath and drag my gaze—far too taxingly—from him to take in my surroundings once again, attempting not to display the awe trawling through me.
The Biney jet is obscenely luxurious.
Cream leather seats, polished mahogany accents, a flight attendant who looks like she was plucked from a beauty pageant.
I sink into the buttery seat and try not to flinch when Ashon sits across from me, his knees almost brushing mine. The hum of the engines starts the second his seat belt clicks into place, like some carefully orchestrated synchrony.
In minutes we lift off and Los Angeles fades behind us.
Ahead lies Ghana. A hidden or ignored tangled history, and a man who makes my pulse race for all the wrong reasons.
Ashon’s assistant, a woman named Renée, had swept into my life like a hurricane within hours of my agreement.
Motherly in her tone, but sharp as cut glass beneath the warmth, she’d handled the logistics of my transformation with unnerving efficiency.
Garment bags had appeared at my door like offerings to a reluctant queen.
Spa appointments were booked before I could blink.
Personal stylists descended, nodding at my figure and discussing neckline theory like I wasn’t in the room.
Now, sitting across from him, I’m wrapped in a form-fitting silk blouse the color of obsidian, tucked into high-waisted cream trousers that hug me in all the places a woman is supposed to look expensive. My braids are swept into a soft crown. Gold hoops catch the cabin lights when I turn my head.
I look like someone who belongs in a private jet.
But I don’t feel like me. At all. Not since Ashon’s assistant had arrived on my doorstep, iPad in hand, clipped orders at the ready.
I’d seen Renée once or twice in person. The first time, she’d looked me up and down with a gentle, assessing gaze that had no business being so perceptive.
Something in her expression—withheld judgement but not disapproval exactly—had made my skin itch.
It was almost like she knew. Like she’d guessed I hadn’t taken the housekeeper job out of pure financial need.
That I’d entered Ashon’s world looking for something more.
If she did know, she hadn’t said a word.
The lawyers had been worse. All charm until it came time to write the terms. Then it was masks off—ruthless, clinical precision. Every clause a veiled threat and every signature a show of force and surrender. I signed because I had to. Because backing out would’ve cost more than my pride.
But facing the full force of Ashon Biney’s machine—his wealth, his reach, his absolute control—had been sobering. A reminder that he owns more than companies and mansions.
He owns narratives.
And I just stepped into one of them. Possibly the most important one of his life.
I want to reassure myself that high risk means high reward, or even just reward, and more importantly, reparations for me and my family.
But… I can’t shake the ominous notion that’s continued to grip me since he turned up on my doorstep last night.
That this might cost me more than I anticipate paying.
He unbuttons his jacket and leans back like he does this every other Tuesday. Which he probably does. ‘We should talk,’ he says.
‘I assumed we’d already done that through our lawyers and your assistant,’ I reply, keeping my voice breezy and not at all tart like my insides feel.
But he’s in business mode now, eyes sharp and assessing. ‘We need to get our story straight. Dates. Places. Details. My grandfather doesn’t play. He’ll look into every corner of your life.’
‘Charming.’ My dry tone is totally undermined by my shaking hand as I reach for my glass and take an unnecessary sip of mineral water.
‘He’s old-school and very…thorough.’
I glance at the champagne bucket someone placed beside me. The flutes waiting for a celebration. Or just par for the cause because this is how the other half live. I haven’t touched it. Too dangerous. Drink and unstable emotions were what brought me to this in the first place.
‘What do you need to know?’ I ask.
Ashon taps his fingers against the armrest. ‘Let’s start with how we met. What drew me to you. What made us fall…as it were,’ he says drily. A complete opposite to the way his dark brown eyes drill into me.
That word. Fall. My chest goes tight. Even as my brain shrieks, as if.
‘Maybe don’t oversell it,’ I say, forcing a smirk. ‘We both know I was your housekeeper. You were emotionally compromised. One night doesn’t exactly scream epic love.’
He leans forward, eyes dark. ‘It might not have screamed it. But it felt real. Until it didn’t.’
That shuts me up. The air between us thickens.
Until he adds, ‘We’ll go with that. The first part, at least. Sometimes the simplest moments are the most profound. Not every love story is a coup de foudre.’
It feels impossible for relief to co-exist with hurt.
For both to sit on a foundation of apprehension.
And yet… ‘Okay,’ I say, shifting. ‘How about this? I was your housekeeper, my contract ended, but we reconnected by chance. You ran into me at some grocery store in West Hollywood, pushing a cart full of ramen and peanut butter.’
He huffs a sardonic laugh. ‘That would sound…plausible if I did my own shopping.’
I shrug. ‘You could pretend you’re less of an A-hole who barks at minions for not colour-coding his green juices with the days of the week. Turned over a new, better leaf for the sake of saving your soul before it’s too late?’ My tongue is firmly in my cheek.
His nostrils flare but his eyes remain quirked. And I swear I catch the faintest hint of amusement before he kills it.
‘So we met at the grocery store. I told you to go to hell. Which, again, tracks. Because I’m wishing that right now.’
He studies me, my words bouncing ineffectually off his broad shoulders. ‘And then?’
‘And then you wore me down. With your influence. And whispered promises. And your absurd jawline.’
His mouth lifts, just slightly. But it’s not playful. Two slim fingertips brush his lower lip. He’s watching me like he’s remembering too. How I kissed that jawline. Nipped it with my teeth when he withheld his kisses and drove me to the brink of begging.
Silence stretches. My thighs clench.