Chapter Five #3
‘She knew what she was getting into,’ I snap.
He barks a laugh. ‘No one ever does, Ashon. Not with us.’
My temples throb. I push my chair back and rise. ‘I’m not discussing this with you.’
‘You don’t trust her,’ he says simply.
I stop. My spine straightens.
‘I don’t trust anyone,’ I say. ‘And you taught me that.’
Nana stares at me for a long moment, then nods slowly. ‘Good. And I pray to God that boy or girl in her belly does the same. The only ones we can truly rely on in this life is ourselves.’
I leave him sitting there, brandy in hand, watching me like a man who sees a mirror walking away.
In my wing, the lights are dimmed. The hallway hums with night. But my head refuses to quiet. It’s full of doubts and her eyes are full of fire.
But the one thing I can admit, as I tear off my clothes and step into a cool shower, is that, deep in my marrow, that I want Cilla. Still.
Not the version I can control through my lawyers or predict. Not even the convenient wife on paper or the grasping gold-digger I erroneously convinced myself she was. The one easily used and then discarded with relief and barely a thought that didn’t exist after all.
I want the real woman, the one who cut me with her raw sensuality and open, unsullied comfort that night, who kissed like it cost her something precious, who now throws my name back at me like a pesky nuisance where other cower in sycophancy.
It should feel absurd that I crave the woman who wants nothing from me save what she is owed but that niggle of thoughts grows with alarming speed.
And wanting her terrifies me more than any deal, any investor, any legacy.
Because I could survive losing all of that.
But when even the slightest hint of her attaining leverage over me tightens a vice in my chest? I need to drill down into that, sooner rather than later. So I can deal with it properly.
Even if I hate that a part of me knows exactly what is behind my questionable feelings.
A reason that might stray very close to…obsession with the very woman I shouldn’t crave this much.
Cilla
The coastline of Cap Ferrat glitters like something out of a dream.
Even through the tinted windows of the Rolls-Royce, the Mediterranean winks beneath the sun, impossibly blue, the villas carved into the cliffs like something from a luxury travel reel.
I press a hand to my belly as we glide past them—palms swaying lazily, flowers spilling from balconies, salt on the breeze.
For the first time in weeks, I breathe free and deep.
No Nana. No probing eyes. No staged smiles or hushed arguments behind closed doors. Just clean air and the sound of ocean spray licking the rocky shore.
Ashon, seated beside me, watches the world like he owns it. Like he’s brought me here not just for the performance, but for the promise it implies.
I glance down one last time at the text exchange with my cousin Tessa.
Tessa: Sorry I missed the wedding. Long story. But you owe me photos, cousin.
Me: You were missed. But I get it. You hate all things love and lace these days.
Tessa: I hate anything that smells like a trap. Speaking of…what’s going on, Cilla? Really. Don’t give me the PR version.
Me: It’s…complicated.
Tessa: You’re married to a Biney. I can smell the complication from three time zones away. Just…don’t let him get under your skin.
Me: You sound like you speak from experience? Anything you want to tell me?
Tessa: It’s…complicated. But listen, whatever made you do this, the Biney’s are cunning. And, I know you don’t want my interference, but don’t expect me to sit on my hands if things look sketchy. If I think you need protecting—I’ll act. And don’t tell me not to. You’d do the same for me.
Me: Always. I’m fine, Tess. Just trying to make smart choices.
Tessa: Make the smartest one: think twice before you trust a man who weaves dreams and magic into box office billions.
The warning within has a bolstering effect but also terrifies me because while I’m humbled to know she has my back I’m thrown by how much I want her to be wrong.
I push it all away as the villa comes into view. Of course it’s breathtaking—stone and glass sprawling across a hilltop with panoramic views. There’s a helipad, a terraced infinity pool, a team of staff waiting in sleek uniforms. I force myself not to gape.
As we step inside, Ashon rattles off a list of things Renée’s arranged—sunset yacht tours, a private chef who does prenatal-friendly meals, a spa retreat tucked into a lavender grove.
‘Does she pick your underwear too?’ I say before I can stop myself. It’s flippant. Bitter. Petty, even. But I don’t walk it back.
His jaw tenses, but not with anger. ‘Renée’s been with me a long time,’ he says quietly.
‘Since the beginning. She got me through losing my father. Then my mother. And everything that came after.’ He pauses, eyes on the horizon beyond the glass doors.
‘When you’ve spent your whole life being wanted for what you can give, not who you are, you learn to trust loyalty over emotion.
’ His voice drops, rougher now. Harder. ‘People tend to let you down so it’s always best to keep them out. ’
Guilt prickles. I glance away. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘You’re not the only one with armour, Cilla.’
We stand there for a beat, surrounded by too much space and unspoken things. The silence thickens until he adds, voice low, ‘About that night. After…’
I look up, startled.
‘I could’ve handled it differently. You walking away… I took it personally.’
‘I know,’ I whisper. ‘It felt intensely personal. And not at all in a good way.’
His eyes search mine for something I’m not ready to give. For forgiveness. Can I risk it? Especially when the battering of my foundations seems incessant and relentless? I hold my breath, caught between reassurance and hanging onto my grievance.
Then he nods. Just once. And the moment slips away and I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or sorry.
‘I have a few calls to make. Call for refreshments if you need, otherwise I’ll see you for dinner at seven?’ he says, eyebrows raised.
I nod because what else can I do?
And he leaves.
Dinner is served on the terrace, the sun bleeding into the horizon in streaks of blush and gold, like the sky itself can’t bear to say goodbye.
The villa glows in the soft amber light, every surface kissed with warmth and luxury—silverware glinting and linen rippling in the ocean breeze, the scent of grilled sea bass and citrus lingering between us.
We sit across from each other at a table set for intimacy, low candles flickering, crystal catching the last of the sun’s gleam, white roses spilling from a silver bowl.
It’s quiet, almost too quiet, but the tension that usually brims between us has mellowed into something…
less rigid. A truce, maybe. Or the fragile beginnings of one.
Or it could all be wishful thinking on my part and we’ll be back to digging furrows in each other to see which one of us bled, hurt the most.
Maybe it’s this place where he set his masterpiece.
Wow, melodramatic much?
He serves me first, unprompted, his movements fluid and precise, and oh so sexy and assured.
I thank him, a little brisker than I intended, perhaps in direct opposition to the softening inside me.
But if he objects, he doesn’t show it. He merely nods again, eyes unreadable as he lifts his wine glass.
We eat slowly, saying little, but there’s something comforting in the silence this time. Like we’ve both stopped pretending for a moment and are simply existing—two people, on a beautiful terrace, trying to find peace in a war of emotional attrition.
Neither of us feel inclined towards conversation. That feels okay too as we sit there and the sea hushes in the distance like a lullaby.
When we’re done eating the most sublime food Ashon stands and comes around to my chair, the perfect gentleman, and we walk side by side along the marbled corridor, past a series of antique mirrors and open archways. That feels extremely fine too.
I expect us to part at the first hallway bend, but instead we keep walking—together—until we reach the far wing.
There are two doors.
One to the left, carved with a soft curve of C for Cilla. The other to the right, darker wood, marked A. Matching brass handles. Matching etched glass above. One shared suite, yes—but separate bedrooms.
Renée’s touch, no doubt.
It shouldn’t bother me.
It shouldn’t spark this strange ache, this hollow little bloom of disappointment in my chest. We’ve agreed to nothing but civility, strategy and zero intimacy.
But still, in hindsight and with calmer temperatures, am I being disingenuous to think he accepted this arrangement too easily?
There was no protest, very little hesitation.
No regret except maybe on our wedding night when he let that little question slip?
I wonder if that’s a good thing. Or the worst possible omen. Or am I protesting too much, as he’d mocked me for?
At the threshold of my room, I pause. So does he.
There’s a beat, just a breath between us, where everything stills. Where I feel the weight of his gaze press into me like a hot little secret, itching to come to light and life. Where I think he might step forward. Kiss me. Shatter what’s left of our resolve.
But instead, he steps back. His voice is quiet, entirely too composed. The Ashon Biney I know and, yes, maybe loathe a little for this supreme control part of me wants to shatter. ‘Bonne nuit, Mrs Biney.’
I manage a small smile despite feeling a little brittle. ‘Goodnight, Ashon.’
I enter and close the door gently, the whisper of it like a sigh between us. My pulse flutters. My body is warm, too warm. Neither of us says what we’re really thinking.
Not yet. Maybe never.
Because really, what else but unholy devastation lies in wait for even the tiniest loss in this war between us?