Chapter Two #2
‘We’ll need to be convincing,’ he says quietly. ‘In public. Around my grandfather. That means touching. Eye contact. Chemistry. And less of wishing me to hell. It might convince him if he’s feeling particularly onerous. Or it might make him question your true motives.’
My true motives. I force a breath out slowly and try not to squirm in my seat.
‘You said that before. Chemistry won’t be a problem,’ I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes gleam. ‘No, it won’t.’ He leans in, voice dropping to that low rumble that used to echo in my bones. ‘We’ll need to be comfortable kissing. Holding each other. This farce won’t work if we act like we’re allergic to each other.’
A churn of confusion knots my stomach. ‘You blacklisted me like yesterday’s gossip and now you want banter?’ I step back, pulse thudding. ‘What game are you playing, Ashon?’
He tilts his head, expression unreadable. ‘Call it rehearsal. You succeeded in pulling the proverbial wool over my eyes like a pro before. Let’s see if your acting skills are still award-worthy.’
Heat floods my neck—part fury, part reluctant ache. ‘Don’t,’ I whisper, though I’m not sure if it’s warning or plea.
But he keeps coming. Of course he does. ‘You’ll have to let me touch you like I did that night. Like I remember. Think you can manage, Miss Rockson?’
I suck in a breath. ‘Do you? Remember?’ Dammit. Why am I rehashing this? Glutton for punishment much?
‘Every second,’ he breathes. But it’s impossible to tell if recollection pleases or infuriates.
His smile is slow and lethal. ‘Every. Detail. When your hands were in my hair and you whispered my name like it meant something,’ he continues, ‘So decide now, Cilla—can you stomach pretending you still burn for me, or should I find someone who can lie better?’
God.
My thighs clench and I fight the surge of arousal I haven’t felt since—
No.
No.
‘I told you not to go there,’ I snap, trying to hold onto logic, air, anything that isn’t this sudden rush of want.
He lifts his hands in mock surrender, but his voice is all gravel, with heat and deadly, ruthless intent. ‘We’re supposed to be in love, Cilla. If I can’t talk about it, how the hell are we going to convince anyone it’s real?’
I press my palm to my chest, grounding myself. ‘We don’t need to talk about it. We just need to act. And you might be used to playing pretend, Ashon, but some of us don’t have the luxury of blurring the lines.’
His brow furrows. ‘What does that mean?’
I shake my head. ‘Nothing. Forget it.’
Focus.
Stay sharp.
He’s not here for you. He’s here for your performance. You’re here for your justice.
And yet… I can still feel the heat of his skin. The memory of his mouth, hot and reverent. The way he whispered, grief-shrouded, ‘stay’ that probably wasn’t intended for me when I was already halfway out the door.
I drag in a breath. ‘So what’s next, boss?’
His eyes flick to my mouth. ‘Next? We sleep.’
‘Separately,’ I say quickly.
That damn mocking, belly-flipping half-smile again that triggers all sorts of warning bells I should heed. ‘For now.’
Ashon
The sun is molten gold as we descend into Kotoka International Airport, but all I feel is the dull pressure of history pressing in.
Ghana is beautiful. Vibrant. Alive in a way Los Angeles could never be. But being back makes my chest tighten, like I’m bracing for a punch that never lands on time only to land twice as hard when I’m not expecting it.
As the jet touches down, I look across at Cilla.
Her face is unreadable, eyes shielded behind oversized sunglasses.
She’s changed into a turquoise linen sundress perfect for the punishing temperatures with a matching soft silk scarf knotted at her throat.
Renée did an exemplary job, far exceeding my expectations.
Everything is plucked straight from Rodeo Drive because Nana notices things like labels.
Cilla sits straight-backed like a queen in exile, ready for war.
God help me, she looks perfect.
If only it wasn’t the better version of the woman who offered sympathy and mind-blowing sex, then left my bed to pursue her nefarious agenda.
An agenda you’re still in the dark about…
It grated that my security team had drawn a blank on her true motives, then and now. That I’m left with the bilious conclusion that it was indeed just gold-digging greed that had led Cilla Rockson to my door.
I surge to my feet the moment the plane stops. Then force the unwanted churning in my gut away.
I’m home. It’s time to play this role I never wanted but am forced to enact.
Outside, it’s chaos in the best way. A crowd has gathered. Local and international media. Placards and cell phones jostling for position. Courtesy of Renée, I already know what the social media headlines are screeching.
Hollywood’s Favourite Son Brings Bride Home.
I hadn’t expected this much fanfare. But I should have. Nana Biney orchestrates optics like a maestro. Of course he would turn my homecoming into a circus.
We’re met by a traditional dance troupe at the terminal exit. The air pulses with the beat of fontomfrom drums, dancers leaping and spinning in vibrant Kente, mimicking the ceremonies of the Year of Return.
Cilla’s eyes widen. ‘Is this for us?’
I nod. ‘Welcome to Bineydom. It’s only going to get worse from here. Or better, depending on your outlook.’
The motorcade that whisks us away is pure overkill—four black SUVs flanking a glossy Mercedes Maybach with government plates. Waving crowds. Police escorts. Drones overhead.
‘Overcompensating much?’ she mutters.
I don’t respond. My stomach coils tighter the closer we get to the house.
Nana’s house.
No—compound is more accurate.
And courtesy of our mode of transport, we arrive far too quickly.
The Biney residence to the west of Accra is less home and more fortress, a sprawl of ivory pillars and shuttered grandeur perched on ancestral land that smells of history and power.
The kind of power that doesn’t ask for anything—it simply expects.
Old money hums in the stone beneath my feet.
Portraits of ancestors line the hallway like judges, their eyes oil-painted and watchful, condemning me before I’ve even stepped through the front doors.
I feel thirteen again. An outsider. Unworthy. Caught between two countries, two cultures, never quite enough of either. Ghanaian in name, but not in voice. American in accent, but never in standing.
Nana never let me forget it.
And I can hear the echoes of the impending judgement, even before I’m in his presence.
Making movies is a child’s dream.
Don’t throw away your legacy for something cheap and shallow.
I went against his better advice. Built everything from the ground up—studio, name, empire. But still, here I am. Crawling back with a woman I barely trust and a performance I don’t want to give, just to prove I’m worthy of land already marked by my bloodline.
He wants a show. He wants respectability. Continuity. He wants legacy he can point to before he dies.
So here I am. I glance at her as the front doors swing open, the beat of ceremonial drums rising in the distance.
The irony of it is that she looks like she belongs here more than I ever did.
I fix my jacket, square my shoulders, and step forward into the gilded corridor I once swore I’d never walk again.
Here goes nothing.
Let the performance begin.
Cilla
When Ashon pins me with a piercing stare one second before he offers his arm, I take it. Not because I want to, but because I know how imperative the next ten minutes are. I need to perform. To hold myself like I belong even when my knees are shaking beneath the linen hem of a $5,000 dress.
We walk side by side into the lion’s den.
Polished teak floors glow in the amber light of the early evening sun. Baobab trees line the inner courtyard like sentries. Somewhere in the distance, the smell of roasting plantains mingles with frangipani on the breeze.
Nana Biney is a towering figure of old-money Ghanaian aristocracy—regal, ruthless and razor-sharp beneath his dignified exterior.
With deep-set, hawk-like eyes, ebony skin burnished by age, and a full white beard trimmed with military precision, he looks every inch the retired elder statesman he is.
Draped in rich ntoma with one shoulder bare, he commands the very air like a king holding court. From studying everything I could get my hands on about this man and his ruthless claim, I know his words are few, but each one lands with the weight of legacy and silent threat.
Once the butler ushers us into his presence, I perch on the edge of an ornate wooden chair beside a brass tea table, hands dampening with sweat. My stomach is already unsettled, not just from the nerves, but from the faint suspicion of a secret I haven’t verified or dared name. Yet.
Across from me, Old Man Biney watches like a hawk in indigo and gold. Two signet rings glint on his fingers. Nothing about him is soft, but then nothing ever was.
Ashon stands behind me, a shadow carved from mahogany, silent but alert. I can feel him there, just out of reach, the tension in him coiled like rope before a storm.
Nana didn’t rise when we approach. Power never needs to stand—it waits to be acknowledged.
‘Ashon,’ he says, with a nod so slight it barely qualifies as a gesture. ‘Back from the land of lights and lies.’
Ashon returns the nod, smooth as silk. ‘Nana. It’s…good to be home.’
A pause and a silky sound of swords leaving scabbards. A flicker of something cold in the old man’s eyes.
‘Funny how quickly you return when there’s an estate on the line. I don’t know whether to wish you Akwaaba or not.’
Ashon’s lips twitch—an almost-smile, practiced and unreadable. ‘Or maybe I missed the sound of your charm.’
Nana’s chuckle is dry, edged with warning. ‘Don’t flatter me, boy. You were born with your father’s face and your mother’s rebellion. Dangerous combination.’
Ashon doesn’t flinch. ‘You’ll find I’m more practical than rebellious these days.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’