Chapter Five
Cilla
In the days that follow, I completely despise myself for dwelling on those moments in the kitchen.
Dear God, what it is with me and Ashon Biney and kitchens?
Even worse, I hate that I walked away because all I returned to was more tossing and turning, but wildly infested with Ashon’s low, deep voice when he enquired if I ‘think about that night…because I do. More than I should.’
Meaning what? He hates himself for it? Or it’s a delicious, decadent memory he can’t help but revisit, almost as fervently as I do?
God. Enough.
It’s almost a relief when Renée calls three mornings after the wedding, efficient as always—even from another continent.
‘We’re shortlisting three locations for the honeymoon,’ she starts, the choices a foregone conclusion because of course they are. I curb the need to object for the sake of it.
‘Have you?’ I murmur, feeling a touch of catty satisfaction when she hesitates for a moment. ‘And when is all this happening or is that to be a happy surprise?’
‘In the next week, two at most, if that’s all right?’
I curb a snort, bite my tongue against a snarky retort about whether that matters since I seem to be secondary to decisions about me. ‘Sure, why not,’ I say instead.
‘Great. We’ve settled on Cap Ferrat, Seychelles or a boutique wildlife lodge in Botswana. Unless you object?’
I’m still blinking sleep from my eyes, curled on the terrace with a mango smoothie Ashon insisted I drink.
I’m not entirely sure whether he’s capitalising on my craving for mangoes to make some sort of point or he’s being thoughtful for the sake of the child I’m carrying.
Whatever. The air is heavy with humidity and a heady swirl of hibiscus from the garden below.
And I can easily take another half-hour nap. ‘Cap Ferrat?’ I echo.
‘It’s on the French Riviera.’ Before I reply that I’m well aware of the location, she continues, ‘He filmed The Heir Apparent there, the movie that made him a household name. The terrace scene overlooking the sea? That wasn’t a set.
That was the villa he stayed in for months during filming.
’ Renée pauses, then says more softly, ‘It meant a lot to him. First time he said he felt seen.’
I’m not sure why that sticks with me.
Or why it settles something strange in my chest.
Because I’m not supposed to care. I shouldn’t be chasing meaning in a sea of illusions. This is strategy. Nothing more.
But when I call Renée back two hours later, I choose Cap Ferrat.
‘Excellent choice, Mrs Biney. No need to pack much, we’ll have a brand new wardrobe awaiting your arrival.’
And that…was that.
Until breakfast the next morning.
Ashon barely touches his toast, instead reaching for the cutlets of mango. It’s become a thing now, sharing mango with him at breakfast.
He’s dressed down for once, crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, collar open. He still manages to look like a luxury brand come to life.
‘I heard you picked Cap Ferrat.’ His tone is even. But his eyes? Sharper than usual. Digging for something?
I shrug. ‘I liked the sound of it.’
His brow lifts, mouth tilting at one corner. ‘Sentimental choice for someone so committed to emotional detachment.’
I slice a mango with unnecessary precision. ‘You assume sentiment. I’m just yearning for a break from the heat.’
We sit with the lie for the moment, and yes, I avoid his incisive eyes while he takes a sip of his coffee.
‘I also gave Renée a backup. Somewhere quieter. More…grounded. Somewhere on your bucket list.’
I glance up, hating the lurch of my heart. ‘Oh…you did?’
He nods. ‘Botswana. You once mentioned it to your uncle in passing—he told me at the engagement lunch, I think—that you dreamed of visiting the Okavango Delta. Something about your mother showing you a photo in a National Geographic map when you were little.’
I freeze. The ache of that memory, her voice, tracing the river with her finger, the way she whispered, I wanted to take you there when you were younger but maybe someday, you’ll see it yourself.
My uncle mentioning it to Ashon is one surprising thing but… ‘You remember that from a fleeting meeting?’ I ask, because I know how much Ashon spent with each guest, hell, aware of him, period, the same way I’m aware of a dancing cobra—with a worrying, near hypnotic fascination.
He shrugs. ‘I listen. Sometimes. When it suits me.’
Something flutters low in my stomach. Nerves. Or maybe something worse. Emotional elation. ‘Well we’ll see. Maybe. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’
‘Indeed. But one unavoidable thing is the ultrasound.’ He fixes me with a steady stare, glances down at his Richard Mille watch, then nods at my plate. ‘Eat up, wife. We don’t want to be late to see our child for the first time.’
Despite the ultra private hospital status of our destination, the room is warm, too bright. White walls. The faint scent of antiseptic seemingly unavoidable in places like this.
A machine beeps in the background as the doctor smooths cool gel across my lower belly.
I flinch at the temperature and before I can steel myself, Ashon’s hand finds mine.
Like magnets, my eyes are drawn to his face and I swallow when I see this is not for show. There’s no audience here. No Nana, no paparazzi, no agenda. Just us and this sterile room. I should pull away but I don’t.
Because right then the sound fills the room, instantly reaching for my heart, capturing it.
A flutter. Then a thrum. Then something steady and impossibly alive.
My baby’s heartbeat.
I suck in a breath. My head whips towards the monitor, but it’s immediately drawn back to the man whose breath has also caught.
Ashon’s already looking at me, his eyes dark and wide with something I can’t name.
A little awe. Perhaps joy. It’s indefinable but it’s there. Something raw and reverent and real.
His grip tightens around mine. His thumb brushes over my knuckles in a slow, anchoring sweep.
I feel the pressure in my throat, tears I didn’t know I was holding pressing behind my eyes.
A shared moment I didn’t expect and really…
shouldn’t hang on to, but there it is. Joining the cons list of everything I shouldn’t have done or craved where this man is concerned.
This man. The father of the blob squirming about on the screen.
Dear God…
The doctor smiles kindly. ‘There’s your little one. Strong heartbeat and growing right on track. With a healthy diet and exercise regime I won’t need to see you for another six weeks.’
The screen flickers with the grainy black-and-white image—small limbs, curved spine, tiny movements. It hits me with full force. That’s my baby. Ours, I amend, even in my mind because I can’t fool myself that its father isn’t fully intent on claiming him or her.
Ashon leans forward slightly. I see his jaw clench, see the muscle twitch there. Like he’s holding himself together too tightly. Like if he lets go, something irreversible will happen.
‘I—’ I start, but don’t finish. There are no words big enough for this.
Then the moment cracks.
‘Oh,’ the doctor says lightly, tapping the keyboard, ‘your grandfather mentioned he’d like a copy of the scan image for the family archives. I’ll print three.’
‘No,’ Ashon says sharply.
The doctor blinks. ‘Pardon?’ A trace of apprehension, perhaps belatedly realising that while Nana Biney might be the ruler of this pride, he’s very quickly aging out.
‘You’ll print two. One for my wife. One for me. That’s all.’ His tone is cool, firm. Final. ‘Is that understood?’
‘Yes. Of course, sir.’
As the doctor hurries to finalise the procedure, I blink at him, yet another emotion I don’t want to feel moving through me.
Because it wasn’t the refusal but the implacable force with which he countermanded his grandfather’s wish.
Like this—this heartbeat, this image—isn’t for public display.
Or even an old man’s roughshod demand. It’s sacred. Ours.
And he wants it to remain just ours.
I look away quickly, covering the rush of heat in my chest. I shouldn’t be thrilled. I shouldn’t let it matter.
But it does.
Done, the doctor clears her throat delicately, sensing tension and quickly moving on. The rest of the appointment is all protocol and scheduling.
But Ashon doesn’t let go of my hand.
Even when we step back out into the waiting room and a pair of eager, meddling cousins from the Biney side pretend not to pounce on us with curious eyes and sly smiles, he draws me in closer, his palm warm on the small of my back. His other hand reaches for my fingers again.
‘My dear, are you taking your folic acid?’ Auntie Paulina demands.
‘You must stop carrying heavy things,’ another pipes in. ‘Don’t lift even your purse!’
Ashon takes my bag smoothly off my shoulder, a tight smile that fools no one curving his lips. ‘There. Crisis averted. I’m going to take my wife home now. The honeymoon isn’t going to celebrate itself.’
He smiles down at me, eyes sparkling and a far too sensual mouth curved with wicked promise and heaven help me, mine curves back before I can caution myself of exactly what this is.
In public, we’re supposed to be a couple in love.
But as Nana’s driver whisks us away in an air-conditioned cocoon, and my hand rests protectively over my still-flat stomach—uncaring that Ashon watches the motion and says nothing—I wonder, foolishly if just for a minute…it doesn’t feel like pretending.
Cilla
Two weeks later
I’m arranging flowers when the Biney butler approaches me.
‘A call for you, madam.’
I look up, a little surprised, more than a little alarmed. My mother, uncle and my cousin Tessa, the three people I’m closest to and speak to more often that anyone else, have my mobile number but my phone is currently sitting in my pocket.
‘Who is it?’
‘I believe it’s the Land Registrar General, madam.’
I’m not sure why my heart jumps into my throat as I take the phone. ‘Hello?’ My voice displays more than a shade of wariness.