Chapter Three
Ashon
I can’t stop watching her. And it’s maddening in the extreme.
A mere forty-eight hours after our arrival, Cilla glides through the Biney estate like she was born to it, barely faltering. She smiles at the kitchen staff, charms my grandmother’s nurse, asks thoughtful questions about the art on the walls and about the gardener’s family.
She’s flawless. Too flawless.
We’re attending a state charity gala tonight, at Nana’s insistence.
Cilla wears a gold silk gown that hugs her curves in all the ways I remember, playing havoc with my insides.
It’s annoying and disturbing that I haven’t been able to take a full breath since she came down the stairs, fully absorbed in her role.
On our arrival, she took my arm and walked into the ballroom like it was the most natural thing in the world.
We dance, pose for photos, do interviews with Ghanaian press. She plays the part so well I almost forget it’s all a game.
Almost.
I don’t miss that she’s found an excuse to head for the ladies room more than twice now, or that when the night fades into the thrum of cicadas and the scent of hibiscus on the breeze, she leaves my side, heading for the relative solitude of the terrace.
If she needs a breather, I should let her have it. She’s played her part exemplarily tonight. And yet…
I step out before I can will my body to behave otherwise, to not hunger for this…for her. There are few million women in the world who will welcome my attention, after this little production is done and I’ve achieved my—
God, the way the moonlight touches her skin like a lover.
Just like that night…in my bed.
My body remembers hers, instinctively. The scent of her. The soft sound she made when I kissed her throat.
She turns, sees me and her breath catches.
‘Ashon…what do you…’ She glances behind me. ‘Am I needed back in?’ she asks, a trace of something sharp in her voice.
I wave that away. ‘We’ve done enough for tonight, I think,’ I murmur.
She turns fully, arms folded across her middle, but it’s not in coldness—more like protection. Against me. Against the memory that simmers between us, potent and poisonous. The urge to question her, dig deeper into her own motives, strikes again but I push it away. I don’t care.
To preserve the status quo or because you don’t want to be disappointed?
Neither. Both.
I grit my teeth against the mocking voice and cross the terrace slowly, unwilling to break the spell of her standing there under the stars, wrapped in a sunset-hued Kente shawl that makes her skin glow like caramel dipped in gold.
Her braids are pinned into a soft knot. Her neck bared like an invitation I know better than to accept.
Still, I offer her the champagne flute in my hand.
‘For celebration of a job well done tonight,’ I say. ‘Or maybe to just…survival.’
She doesn’t take it.
‘No thanks,’ she replies, her voice measured. ‘I’d rather not add booze to the mix. After all, alcohol was part of the mess before, wasn’t it?’
I blink, jaw clenched at the memory I don’t need. The bottle. The numbness I chased. The taste of guilt the morning after.
Her refusal lands like a punch, more telling than she realises. But she’s careful—too careful.
I’ll remind you why you should’ve stayed in your side of town.
I should probe that threat too, dismantle that landmine before it blows up in my face, especially if it’s connected to whatever games she’s got going on beneath that breathtaking surface.
Instead, I lift my own glass and toast the distance between us.
‘To fakery, then.’
Her gaze holds mine, unwavering. ‘And to remembering that it’s only ever that.’
But as she brushes past me to head back inside, her shoulder grazes mine and the jolt is real. Instant. Intimate. Dangerous.
I stay rooted on the terrace, alone with my drink and the echo of her warmth, wondering why that bite of hers sparks a thrill of…something inside me.
And why the idea of playing with Cilla Rockson’s fire—a surprisingly salacious thought—along with using her the way she intended to use me, makes me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt in a long time.
Cilla
The music pulses beneath the hum of laughter and clinking glassware, the air thick with billion-dollar-deals being cut and perfume that costs more than my rent used to.
The evening can’t finish quickly enough but I try to smile, to focus on the sweetness of the chocolate mango dessert I foolishly accepted because saying no to everything was drawing eyes my way.
But the combination of the sickly taste of the dessert melting on my tongue, and the hyperawareness of the curve of Ashon’s palm at my back exacerbates the wave of nausea rolling through me, sharp and relentless.
I excuse myself with a smile I barely hold together and slip away, again, knowing I’ve done it a few times now, drawn his complete focus I feel at my nape as I dash into the marble-lined washroom for the third time tonight.
The second the door clicks shut, I grip the edge of the sink like it might steady me.
Until my knuckles ache and my breath stutters in my chest.
In the mirror, I see someone I barely recognise—flawless in silk, with gleaming skin and lips stained hibiscus red. Poised. Beautiful. A woman who looks like she belongs here.
But underneath, I’m…a dozen bags of nerves. What was it Nana Biney said on our first meeting? Character was like pregnancy…it reveals itself eventually?
Unfortunately, so does actual pregnancy.
I press a hand to my stomach. Finally acknowledging what I’ve been hiding from. It’s still flat. But I know I can’t keep ignoring what could be happening.
What the truth might—
Two women entering drag me from the direction of thoughts I’ll have no choice but to parse through, sooner rather than later.
When I step back into the party, I fix my face into something camera-ready. Polished. Distant. But Ashon catches the shift in a heartbeat. His eyes sharpen, trailing me through the crowd like a laser.
‘Something disagreeing with you?’ he murmurs, eyes far too watchful.
‘Just hot,’ I lie. ‘Still acclimatising I think.’
He doesn’t push. But I feel the pressure of his gaze on me, steady and unsettling, through every toast and every saccharine conversation.
I’m so hung up on not giving anything away, I don’t see the woman approaching until she’s right next to us.
Delphine Daniels.
The stunning woman Ashon dated publicly a few years ago. The woman who shared her heartbreak on social media with the zeal of an Oscar-hungry actress and ostensibly sold every intimate detail of their time together to every tabloid in existence.
The woman I suspect is responsible for Ashon throwing that chilling ‘gold digger’ label at me.
She slinks over in crimson silk, all teeth and legs and malice disguised as charm. ‘I see you’ve finally decided to settle down, Ashon. I was beginning to think Hollywood made you forget your roots.’
‘I never forget my roots,’ he says coolly but subtle tension rides his broad shoulders.
Her eyes slice to me. ‘And your fiancée? Is she enjoying Ghana? Or just the spotlight?’
I smile. Sweet. Lethal. ‘I don’t need the spotlight, Miss Daniels. But thank you for the warm welcome.’
Ashon’s fingers find mine, his grip possessive.
But maybe in warning too. I let him. For now.
Just long enough for Delphine’s eyes to narrow and her smile to fall flat before she rallies, and the killer smile resurfaces, slippery and hungry.
‘Well, if the spotlight ever proves too much for her, I’d be more than happy to…
ease the pressure. I learned a thing or two the last time.
’ Her hungry gaze lingers on Ashon. ‘Let’s catch up. For old times’ sake.’
She trails a manicured finger down Ashon’s lapel like she has the right.
I force myself not to stiffen. Or flinch. I just tilt my head, letting my smile stretch wider. ‘He doesn’t do reruns, Miss Daniels. But I’m sure you can pitch yourself to Netflix.’
Her mouth twitches, her eyes darkening with malice. But before she can recover, the nausea comes back—hard. Like someone lit a fuse in my gut. The room tilts.
Ashon turns to me instantly. His free arm slides around my waist with jarring tenderness but a quick glance up shows a frown forming on his face, questions brimming in his eyes.
Questions I’m in no mood to answer. Maybe he sees that, which is why his lips thin.
‘We’re leaving,’ he grates, his voice like iron wrapped in silk.
Delphine blinks. ‘Already? But the night’s just—’
‘Over.’ His tone brooks no argument.
He doesn’t wait for her response. Just steers me away, palm warm against my spine.
Heads swing our way, including Nana’s and his grandmother’s but Ashon doesn’t stop, nor even acknowledge them.
And I hate to admit it, but it’s a powerful, heady feeling to be in the wake of a man like him doing exactly what he wants.
Only when it suits you though, right?
I suppress a bite of shame because it’s true. Wanting to leave and being granted exactly that is welcome in the moment, but I can’t forget that the Bineys taking exactly what they wanted shattered my family’s dreams.
But it’s not just the heat.
Ashon leans in, voice low, brushing the edge of my bare shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ The word slips out too quickly, too easily.
‘You were glowing half an hour ago. Now you look like you’ve been through a war.’
‘I told you. I’m fine.’ My voice is clipped, and I hate how brittle it sounds.
Outside the crowd parts like water in front of us and minute later, we’re in the car.
Silence stretches taut between us.
‘You looked like you were about to faint back there,’ Ashon drops silkily into the dark interior.
I stare straight ahead, ignoring the piercing stare. ‘I didn’t.’
‘You barely ate anything all evening too.’ He leans back, jaw tight. ‘Was it Delphine?’
I blink. Then narrow my eyes. ‘You tell me,’ I say, ice in my tone. ‘Is she part of this elaborate performance too? Or was that her trying to stake a claim?’