Chapter Four #4
And dammit, it chafes greatly that her words, her reference to her mother’s pride, should excavate my own memories.
Now I can’t stop thinking about my father. About what he sacrificed so I could realise my own dream, repeatedly going toe to toe with his own father, even when Nana would’ve burned the country down to save face from the purported disgrace I was bringing to the Biney name.
My father didn’t live to see the legacy I’m trying to build. But this studio? It’s for him. All of it. Every concrete slab, every sleepless night, every goddamn compromise.
And now that I’m going to be a father…this dream on the cusp of reality feels more imperative than ever.
I scrub a hand down my face and set my jaw in stone. There’s no option of backing out. I have to finish what I started.
I leave the study. My body is restless and overheated, the kind that requires liquor or a cold shower.
My brain’s jammed with figures, architectural projections, budget approvals—anything to keep my focus off the fact that there’s a woman down the hall carrying my child. A woman I kissed in front of half of Ghana. A woman I can’t stop thinking about.
I told myself I agreed to this arrangement because it would give us space. Boundaries. Keeping a crotchety and cunning old man onside long enough to fulfil a dream. But I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not stoking the beginnings of a nightmare.
The estate is dark, hushed, save for the low rumble of the generator and the occasional chirp of a gecko clinging to the outside walls.
Moonlight spills through the windows, turning the marble floors silver.
A soft breeze hums through the open shutters, but it’s not enough to cool the heat under my skin.
I drift into the kitchen…another kitchen, telling myself I’m only here for cold water. Maybe something stronger. Maybe even some sign that what started in my kitchen in Bel Air wasn’t as monumental as I’m making it out to be.
But then I hear the sound.
The door clicks open. And even before she appears, I know it’s her. From the way my skin jumps. The way my chest and throat tighten. Hell, the way my cock jerks in my pants.
Cilla.
She moves like a whisper—barefoot, silk robe clinging to her curves like it was made for my undoing. Her hair’s loose, a wild halo that catches the moonlight. She doesn’t see me at first, reaching for a mango on the island like she’s done it a hundred times before.
But when she looks up, our eyes lock.
She goes still, almost as still as I am. The air thickens with that infernal inescapable chemistry designed just for us—two people who shouldn’t crave each other but do.
She’s glowing in a way she wasn’t a week ago. It’s not the pregnancy. It’s something sharper. More dangerous. The kind of glow that comes when a woman knows her power and refuses to let it be tamed. The kind of strength and spirit that in another time and place I would’ve—
No. Absolutely not.
‘You’re not sleeping,’ I say, my voice low, rougher than I mean it to be. Spouting inane words that should shame me, a notable master of dialogue and nuance.
She lifts a brow, not exactly mocking but not benign either. The bracing before the unleashing, maybe. ‘Neither are you.’
I take a breath and cross the room slowly. Deliberate. Her eyes track me the whole way.
My sweats hang low, waistband slung lazily across my hips, dipping with the weight of my body’s reaction to this woman.
To my wife.
I’m aware of her gaze skimming me, just as I’m aware of the way the silk moulds to her breasts, the soft curve of her stomach already faint beneath it.
I glance at her belly. Then at her mouth.
‘You should be resting.’
‘I’m pregnant, not incapacitated,’ she says, tone even and careful but tired. There’s something fragile in the way she leans against the counter, like she’s more worn down than she’s willing to admit.
A beat of silence stretches between us. I breach the distance and pluck the mango from her hand. She’s too surprised to react or maybe she’s waiting for me to pick up the knife so she can locate hers. My lips twitch.
‘Something funny?’
‘Not if I find a way to turn the prospect of being stabbed on my wedding night into a comedy.’
She blinks long and lush eyelashes at me, then frowns. But I see the faintest twitch curve one corner of her sensual mouth.
‘So is this a pregnancy craving or just a run-of-the-mill midnight snack on your wedding night?’
Something gleams in her eyes, and her gaze moves over me once more, lingering on where it shouldn’t. Or rather where it absolutely should, were this an age-old dance to the glorious inevitable. Sadly a very virile part of my anatomy is eager for it to be the latter.
‘Does it need to be one or the other?’
‘Oh yes, wife. Because you don’t strike me as the spur of the moment type.’
I keep my tone even, despite the churning of new and old revelations between us, because—I tell myself—the day has been festooned with enough acrimony and even the devil needs a break. And perhaps she feels the same because she blinks again but doesn’t spit fire at me the way I know she should.
‘You don’t know me that well, Ashon.’ It’s a firm admonishing. Perhaps a touch reluctant, even.
A well-brought up boy, like I am, enjoying the Ivy League entrapments should cross the room and fetch a plate to serve her on.
But I’m in no mood to vacate this bubble.
Damn if I want to prematurely disrupt this and be forced back into the study to do work that can wait.
So I slice a plump piece of mango and offer it to her on the flat of the knife.
Then I ask what I probably shouldn’t. ‘Do you think about it? That night?’ Her lips part.
A flicker of shock—or want—flares in her eyes before she masks it.
I step closer. ‘Because I do,’ I say. ‘More than I should. How it started. And how it ended.’ I mean to study her, watch for a reaction.
Perhaps even a sign of remorse for how this played out, something Delphine never displayed.
And then I kick myself. For wishing it in the first place and for comparing the two women.
They might not be as different as night and day, but yes, they’re closer to dawn and dusk.
Both had agendas. But, so far, my wife has stuck to her insistence of not wanting a penny more than was initially agreed on top of the return of her family land.
She signed the pre-nup with a pointed flourish after a cursory perusal.
And, as much as I hated to admit it, that move had surprised me.
Seared its ungrasping significance into my memory in a way that made her just that little bit more unforgettable.
As if I could forget this stunning creature, half-glaring at me with nostrils flared.
‘Stop it.’ Firmer. Less reluctant. But still bristling with heat and sensuality this night, this moment deserves. If only…
And those two words draw my brow up, comfort and habit demanding sardonicism. ‘We agreed on no intimacy.’ I pause, holding her gaze. ‘But you didn’t say no memories. Sometimes, isn’t that all that sustains us? What makes us pick our next steps with better care?’
She stiffens. Her fingers dig into the piece of mango like it might keep her upright. I’m closer now. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off her. Her nipples press lightly against the silk, pebbling beneath it. My mouth dries.
I reach up. Gently, slowly, I brush a stray braid off her cheek. It’s barely a touch. But it crackles like fire.
‘Do you remember,’ I murmur, striving to contain heavy things that strained to come out, ‘how you said my name when you came?’
Her throat works. She swallows hard. Her thighs clench. I see it in the flicker of movement, the subtle shift of weight. I know that look. I know that need.
She steps back a mere half-step as if her body is resisting the distance. ‘What are you doing?’ She mutters, then shakes her head. ‘Don’t answer that. Because what I remember is how fast you thought the worst of me. Ensured I would be punished for giving you what we both wanted.’
The words hit like a gut punch. Not enough to damage but enough to remind me of my power, and the overexertion of it. It grates to admit it, but I might have been a little too heavy-handed in my sorrow. There was crime, certainly but the punishment didn’t fit. At least not then…
And now?
I shake my head. ‘Cilla—’
‘This is a contract,’ she says. Her voice is cool, but I hear the tremor beneath. ‘Let’s not rewrite it with hormones and fantasy.’
She turns, stops at the sink long enough to rinse the juice off her fingers. Then she walks away.
The scent of mango and hibiscus lingers. A bead of juice drips from the counter to the floor.
I stare after her.
And I burn with want that shouldn’t exist and yet does. And with the distinct notion that I might have met the only woman on the face of this earth who might well step up to, and perhaps even attempt to, slay a Biney.
She won’t succeed of course, but the process of watching her try is…intriguing.