Chapter Two #3
He finally turns to me, his gaze sharp enough to slice through the fabric of my dress.
Ashon rests a hand briefly on the curve of my shoulder—possessive, a warning disguised as support.
I stiffen, just enough for him to feel it.
His hand stays for a moment longer. Just enough to deliver the firmer warning.
‘This is Cilla Rockson,’ Ashon says smoothly. ‘My fiancée.’
‘You carry yourself well, Cilla Rockson,’ Nana says, voice like gravel dragged across a stone floor. ‘But breeding, like a pregnancy, always tells eventually, you know.’
I smile, soft but sharp, even as my heart lurches straight to my heels. ‘I was raised to speak when spoken to, sir. And to look a lion in the eye when I meet one.’
He chuckles, low and gravelly. ‘Ah. A sharp tongue hidden behind pretty manners. I like that. Tell me, who are your people?’
My spine stiffens. My pulse hammers, but I don’t blink. ‘My father was a schoolteacher. My mother ran a fabric stall. Hardworking, ordinary people.’
Mostly true. Just not the part about the land. The shame. The whispered secrets that wrapped around our family name like vines. Not the part where I swore on my father’s grave that I would get it back.
‘From where?’ he presses.
I sip my tea. Hot and bitter. Buy myself a little bit of time. ‘Central Region. A small town not many remember.’
Something flickers in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or suspicion. The name Rockson clearly scrapes at something buried deep. But it’s also a name found in many regions of Ghana.
‘And when will you marry my grandson?’ Nana asks, sharp and sudden. ‘Or is this just another Hollywood trial period?’ His surprisingly nimble fingers snap. ‘What do you call it? An experimental pilot?’
The questions land like a slap.
My fingers tighten around the porcelain. I will them not to shake.
Before I can find my voice, Ashon steps forward. His hand settles again on my shoulder. Warm. Heavy. Grounding. And despite myself, I lean into it, the smallest surrender.
‘We’ll announce the date soon,’ he says, gravel-voiced and sure. ‘We wanted to settle in first.’
‘You’ve always run, Ashon,’ Nana says, slicing him open with a look. ‘From family. From responsibility. But now you bring a woman into my house and expect me to believe you’re ready? How do I know it’s not one of those cheap reality show set ups?’
Ashon stills behind me. I feel the breath catch in his chest. The primal tension rising inside him. And for the first time I wonder how far he would go for this thing he craves so much. And how far he would go for a woman he craved just as much.
Enough. You only just got here. Don’t get carried away. Now. Ever.
My cup clinks against the saucer as I set it down with practiced grace. I raise my eyes to Nana, letting steel filter through my voice. ‘I don’t claim to know everything about your grandson’s past, sir. But I know what I see when he talks about the future.’
Nana arches a brow. ‘And what is that?’
‘Conviction,’ I say quietly. ‘Fire. A man who wants to build something bigger than himself.’ I clench my belly, raise my hand and place it on the one on my shoulder. A picture of solidarity that terrifies me a little because it should feel much more difficult than this.
There’s a pause. Then he tilts his head, more intrigued than before.
‘You speak like someone who understands legacy. Do you want children, Miss Rockson?’
My throat tightens. The question shouldn’t feel like a dagger, but it does. A hundred thoughts crash inside me. I don’t know how to answer. I barely know how to breathe.
My hand drifts—instinctively—towards—
No.
‘Yes,’ I say softly. ‘One day.’
Nana leans forward. The gold in his rings catches the light like claws. ‘A family is more than an inheritance. It is continuity. If you carry his child one day, you will understand. Until then, be careful with his name. It carries weight.’
The words sound harmless but they land exactly like what they are—a warning.
I force a smile, breathe through the nausea curling at the edges of my composure.
‘She carries it well already,’ Ashon says, voice low and proud.
Nana studies us one last time, then nods. A ruler granting permission. ‘Very well. You’ve had a long journey. Eat something. We will speak again tomorrow. Sleep well, Mrs Biney…soon-to-be.’
He rises and I see he’s a few inches shorter than his grandson, but no less formidable. The power shifts as he disappears down the colonnade, leaving the scent of sandalwood and challenge in his wake. And I’m not surprised at all when the power settles on his grandson.
I realise I’ve been holding my breath for half the conversation but it doesn’t come any easier when Ashon’s gaze so much more reminiscent of his grandfather’s, settles on me.
‘He doesn’t miss a thing,’ I murmur.
‘No,’ Ashon replies. ‘He doesn’t. But you handled him admirably enough.’
The compliment warms me, but it also stings. Because it means nothing is real—not even this moment of fragile victory.
‘Thanks,’ I respond a little sharper than I intended.
His own gaze sharpens, his face tightening a touch. ‘Everything okay?’
I nod, though I’m not sure it’s true. My heart is a riot. My mind a minefield. His presence makes it worse. Or better. I can’t tell. ‘I’m fine,’ I say, chin raised. ‘I told you I could play the role,’ I whisper.
‘Hmm. So you did. You should remember though that in my world, it requires several takes for a landing to stick. This was merely your first take.’
The words hang there between us, thick with tension and something dangerously close to longing. The reminder from him of what we are—strangers, enemies, actors in a farce—burns a little, which is absurd.
I should get up. Walk away. But I don’t and neither does he.
We sit there, two actors still in costume, the performance clinging to our skin like sweat.
The air is heavy with what we didn’t say in front of Nana—our sordid one-night history, our mutual distrust, the sharp awareness that even pretend intimacy has a body count.
I hate how my body leans towards his heat, even as my mind warns me to keep my distance.
Ashon shifts beside me, that unreadable look back in his eyes, the one that says he sees too much and trusts too little.
‘Don’t forget your lines, Mrs Biney,’ he murmurs, voice low, mocking and lethal.
Then he rises, leaving behind only his cologne, his tension and the distinct sense that the real performance, the one that could ruin us both, hasn’t even begun.
The suite is decadent in a way that makes my breath catch.
High ceilings draped in gauze, carved mahogany furniture polished to a mirror sheen, soft golden light glowing from sconces shaped like twisted vines.
The kind of space that’s meant to seduce, not soothe.
Floor-to-ceiling windows open onto a private garden bathed in moonlight, the scent of jasmine thick in the air.
And in the centre of the room, like a loaded weapon, is a single, enormous four-poster bed.
I stop dead in the doorway, growing cold, then hot. Far too hot. ‘No,’ I mutter. ‘Absolutely not.’
Ashon steps past me like he owns the oxygen in the room, already loosening his jacket. ‘Problem?’
I shoot him a look that could split concrete. ‘One bed? Under your grandfather’s roof? Really?’
He doesn’t flinch. ‘We’re almost married, claiming a relationship that includes intimacy. It would be suspicious otherwise.’
‘There are entire wings of this house,’ I hiss, crossing my arms. ‘Multiple suites with connecting rooms. East-facing, discreet, perfect for guests of status. I know for a fact other rooms on this floor connect to others with their own ensuite.’
His brows lift, and I wince inwardly at the unwieldy slip. ‘And how would you know that?’
I hesitate only for a breath. ‘I read it in some architectural magazine somewhere, I’m sure.’
He doesn’t bother to hide the deep scepticism in the smile that curves his lips.
‘Always so thorough.’ He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the bed, watching me with that maddening glint in his eyes.
‘It’s the 21st century, sweetheart. People survive shared mattresses.
And as you’ve been at pains to insist, there will be no touching outside my grandfather’s presence and especially in private.
Or is this something else?’ he stares at me with piercing eyes.
‘Are you worried about slipping in private, Miss Rockson?’
I roll my eyes to hide my throbbing pulse and the heat pooling between my thighs as my gaze darts between his face and the bed. ‘Absolutely not. But the fact remains that your grandfather is the picture of old-school conservative.’
‘And he’s also a man with a dozen ulterior motives firing off at any one time,’ he counters in a tone outwardly casual, but there’s an undercurrent of mockery and acerbic amusement. ‘Maybe he wants a great-grandchild sooner rather than later.’
My spine stiffens. My hands clench.
I don’t answer.
Because even now, even in this absurd palace of privilege and performance, I can’t deny the low flutter in my belly. The possibility that terrifies me. The secret I haven’t spoken aloud even to myself.
The possibility that maybe—just maybe—that great-grandchild isn’t a pipe dream but a reality already growing inside me.