Chapter Seven
Ashon
What the hell just happened?
I’m still standing there, shirt half-unbuttoned, her taste on my tongue, her heat clinging to my skin like a sexy ghost—and she’s already gone. Slipped away like a wisp of smoke through my fingers.
Again.
I drag a hand over my jaw, my breath still ragged, my body pulsing with need and frustration and something far more dangerous.
Will I never learn?
I should be furious. Hell, I am furious.
Not just with her for walking away again, for leaving me in this state like I’m some lovesick fool, but with myself.
Because I let it happen. Because I wanted it to happen.
Because for one goddamn minute, I let go of the plan, the performance, and I let myself feel.
I stalk across the deck, each step a barely restrained explosion. The teak floor groans under my weight. The horizon mocks me with its white-hot perfection, the air still humming with the echo of her moan, her hands, the soft tremble of her body under mine.
It wasn’t enough. But it was too much.
I grip the railing, muscles tight and knuckles creaking. The sea stretches out before me, dark and glittering like a cruel mirror.
And I force myself to see beyond the blazing lust and clawing need. To our conversation. To how she asked me earlier, how long this goes on for. When Nana would hold up his end of the bargain. Maybe it’s a blessing this thing stopped when it did.
Because maybe that is all she cared about?
A fucking piece of land? Not the moment we shared at the clinic? Not the sound of our baby’s heartbeat, echoing through the sterile room like a promise?
I draw the ultrasound picture from my pocket once more, falling effortlessly back into that moment.
It gutted me in a way I didn’t expect.
Because an astonishing part of me wanted to hold onto it. Make it real.
Make us real.
The admission hits me square in the chest now, a truth clawing its way up.
I want my child.
This fragile, terrifying thing we’ve made together.
The need to protect it—to protect them—is carving something open inside me I didn’t know I still had. Something raw. Human. Real.
But… God help me. I also want more of those moments. Power and legacy. Yes. But I’m the greedy bastard who also wants even more. Not what my grandfather believes is the culmination of every man’s dream but what my father had with my mother.
I want a semblance of that with her.
I want it all. Not just the version I show the world. Not just the roles we agreed to play.
I want Cilla.
And what the hell am I supposed to do with that? I’m not built for tenderness. For vulnerability. I’m built for domination as I’m constantly reminded. For winning.
So I do what I’ve always done when my emotions threaten to drown me—
I dive.
I fold the image back into my pocket, shrug out of my shirt, strip to my briefs and launch myself over the edge of the yacht.
The water hits like fire and ice, stealing my breath. But it’s a relief. It cuts through the heat in my veins, the ache in my body, the tangled mess in my chest.
I swim hard and fast, pushing against the current, trying to exorcise the ghost of her lips, her scent, the sound of her whispering this doesn’t mean anything.
Because I know that’s bullshit. Whether we wanted it to or not, it does.
It does.
And that’s the goddamn problem.
Cilla
The chopper hums low over the Mediterranean as Cap Ferrat shrinks behind us, a glittering crescent of wealth and shadowed memory.
Ashon sits beside me, legs splayed wide, one hand resting on the seat between us—close but not touching.
We haven’t spoken since take-off. Not much since that outing on the yacht and the clinch that shouldn’t have happened if I’m honest.
A truce, yes. Comfortable? Not exactly.
He’s in work mode now. Clean-shaven with sunglasses.
Black button-down shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows and confidence tailored to his skin.
Stupidly hot beyond measure or fairness.
He’s quiet but humming with the energy of someone about to dominate a room.
The man the world calls a prodigy. The one I first noticed not in a boardroom or on a red carpet, but in a dim projection booth in LA, hunched over a monitor, coaxing colour into truth.
That’s what I remember. Not the headlines or the glitz. But his quiet brilliance. That impossible focus.
We land at the converted vineyard thirty minutes later. It’s a rustic-modern hub now, half-production studio, half artist colony—a test site for the Obibini studio model: empower through access, not pity. The idea is brilliant. The implementation? That’s what Ashon’s here for.
I trail behind him, my heels crunching the gravel, still unsure why I decided to tag along when he threw the offer at me like a king throwing bread to peasants.
Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment. Maybe I want to see him in his true element once more, see if he passes some sort of test I’m not even aware of?
The staff part like petals for a sun they recognise. And he is dazzling, directing without ego, listening with intent, sketching ideas onto whiteboards, switching between En-glish, French and Fante like they were coded into his DNA.
A few of them greet me too. Politely. With that odd, sideways curiosity reserved for political wives or reality TV stars. I smile and shake hands. Nod when expected.
But mostly I watch him.
Ashon Biney, my husband, is magnificent when he’s in his element.
There’s no other word for it. He’s not just powerful, he’s purposeful.
It’s sexy in a way that makes my throat dry and my brain combust. He laughs once, a real one, and the sound ricochets through me like a memory.
Like that night. The night we shouldn’t have had and the one I haven’t stopped thinking about.
I sit in a shaded corner with a notebook, pretending to jot observations. Really, I’m just trying not to melt.
This is dangerous. Not just because of what’s between us physically, but because—against all logic—I’m fearing that I’m starting to like him. That hearing him speak of his father last night and this morning has given me another glimpse into the man behind the myth and that man…
Yes, he’s relentless, but not just for power’s sake.
He’s chasing something lasting. I see it now.
In the way he talks about legacy. In the reverence when he speaks of his father’s belief in him.
He’s trying to build something that outlives the fame, the gloss, the noise.
And isn’t that what I’m trying to do, in my own way?
Especially now that I’m carrying a future neither of us expected?
Worse, I don’t need to do more than simply close my eyes to picture him cradling our child. Fierce and flawed and terrifyingly tender. I can almost feel what it would be like to trust him with more than my body.
God help me, do I already more than like him?
Because that’s a problem. A big one.
Because I swore I’d come into this with clear eyes. A plan. I’d get the land, restore my mother’s dignity and my father’s memory, and then walk away with my head held high.
But what happens if I want…if I want a different deal that I’ve made for myself?
What if I want…more. I’ve spent years sharpening that goal like a blade—getting back what the Bineys stole.
It consumed me after I lost my father. Gave me purpose even when I had no money or power.
Just pain and a promise to do right by the parents who gave me everything they could.
And now…now the plan is blurring at the edges.
Because I’m not just their daughter any more.
I’m a mother. And a wife.
Even if it’s just for show, the reality of it all has started to press against my heart.
I don’t just want justice. I want peace when all of this is done.
A future where I don’t have to fight every single day to prove my worth or my claim.
Where my child won’t grow up carrying the bitterness I’ve worn like armour for so long.
And the most terrifying part? I wonder what Ashon would say if he knew that.
If he’d still see me as the principled woman who stood in his study demanding fairness…or just another person rewriting the script halfway through.
Dear God, we’ve been married less than a fortnight and I’m already crumbling?
Questions and impossible desires haunt me as we leave the production and head for the helipad.
When we’re back in the air—closer now, the helicopter a tin can of tension—I finally break the silence. Mostly because I can’t stand my own thoughts. ‘That went well.’
Ashon hums, his eyes on his phone. ‘It’s a strong pilot. Might even syndicate and expand sooner than expected.’
‘You’re building something remarkable,’ I say, my voice softer than I intend. ‘It’s…it’s different from what people expect of you.’
He lifts his head at that. Tilts it slightly, assessing. ‘And what do people expect of me, Cilla?’
I shrug. ‘Headlines. Drama. Power plays. This feels more…subtle. Emotion that creeps up on you.’
Something glints in his eyes. ‘And you? What do you expect of me?’
His tone is unreadable, but it coils around me anyway. I should say something light. Dismissive. But my recent thoughts crowd every corner of my brain. ‘Do you really want to know?’
His gaze sharpens. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t. I’m sure you know that about me.’
‘Do I? I think you care more than you want people to see, which makes me wonder if…’
‘If?’ he probes. I feel every ounce of his focus drilling into me.
‘If your still waters run deeper than the legacy you pursue so doggedly?’
I realise what I’m really asking. And I hold my breath, caught between wanting to see beneath the surface and hoping he doesn’t answer because I’m mildly terrified of what either would imply. For me. For this excavation of feelings I’m not sure I want to unearth.
He’s silent. Then, abruptly, he shakes his head. ‘Careful. You keep digging and I might mistake you for a journalist. Or worse, one of those paparazzo,’ he drawls but I catch the lingering probing of my face.