Chapter Nine #2
Cilla
The answer arrives sooner than I want and entirely uninvited.
When the doorbell chimes, I expect the butler to bring in groceries or to usher in the designer commissioned with the wardrobe racks for tomorrow’s promo shoot.
Instead, the concierge accompanied by the butler, hands me a thick courier envelope addressed to Mr and Mrs Biney—Nana’s law firm seal in heavy gold emboss.
My pulse stutters. I tear it open.
Inside is an executed deed transfer, decades old, signed over to the Biney Trust. The land’s cadastral map is unmistakable—my parents’ cocoa farm. Stamped FINAL in red.
But the date of final signature: one month ago. While we were in Botswana. And even worse? The thing that sends me sagging into the sofa, my breaths short and my visions hazing. The new owner of the land that belongs to me—Ashon Kobina Biney.
I should feel vindicated that fierce guarding of my emotions has been fully justified.
But I can’t. Not when my stomach drops, nausea and betrayal roiling harder than first-trimester morning sickness ever did.
Muted voices sound, then hurried footsteps behind me.
I whirl. Ashon stands in the doorway, phone in hand, expression already tight—like he knows exactly what I’m holding.
So. The equilibrium ends here.
And I realise that sand isn’t strong enough to hide the heads buried in them, not for ever, and especially not when the tide keeps rising.
Because all you risk then is drowning.
So I recite my most fervent prayer as my husband approaches. As the deed trembles in my grip.
I don’t bother with prevarications. ‘You knew,’ I say, voice thin as cracked glass. ‘You knew the land was finalised weeks ago and you didn’t—’
‘Cilla,’ his voice is a warning. No surprise there, but there’s a flash of something in his eyes. Something resembling an…imploration. ‘You need to let me ex—’
‘Explain?’ A ragged laugh tears free. ‘You’ve been stalling for weeks. How long did you expect to string me along for? The whole year? And then what, you were going to find some reason to explain away why my family’s land is no longer your grandfather’s but yours instead of—’
A sharp, hot spasm knifes low in my abdomen. I suck in air as the papers slip out of my hands, unheeded. As my palm splays across the small swell beneath my shirt.
No. Oh God, no!
Ashon’s expression snaps from guarded to sharp to… terrified. ‘Cilla. What’s wrong?’
‘I—don’t know. It hurts.’ Another cramp twists, fiercer. My heart drops and I cling to the arms of the chair, my knuckles screaming in pain.
Just as a slick warmth blooms between my thighs.
‘Ashon! Oh God!’
In two lunges, he scoops me up. ‘Silas, car—now!’ he barks his stride already devouring the hallway.
Two hours later
Monitors beep in lazy, unwanted rhythms.
Antiseptic hangs in the chilled air and I swear to the heavens that if I never see another hospital, it’ll be soon enough.
I lie on the narrow bed while a kindly obstetrician finishes an ultrasound sweep.
Time suspends in the air. Tension screams as we wait. Wait. Wait.
Ashon’s fingers are tight around mine. And I allow it. For now.
‘Good heartbeat,’ she announces an eternity later, turning the screen so we both see the rhythmic flicker. ‘No placental abruption, just mild cervical spotting—common at this stage. But you…’ she adds with a stern look, directed at me, then at Ashon, as if she knows, ‘…need to rest. No stress.’
‘Are you sure?’ My voice is a hoarse, weak mess. ‘About the heartbeat?’
Sympathy washes over her face and she turns the monitor to face us once more, redirecting the wand onto my belly. Once again the heartbeat echoes, louder than the other monitors. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
I feel Ashon shudder with the same relief coursing through me. So hard I almost sob. And I do quietly in the hanky suddenly pushed into my hand, as she lists more cautionary measures.
‘We’ll keep you in for forty-eight hours for observation.’
Ashon exhales beside the bed, shoulders caving before he straightens, slipping the mask back on.
When the doctor leaves, silence swells—thick, unfinished.
He reaches for my hand. I let him—for now.
‘I was going to tell you tonight,’ he says, voice rough.
I laugh, a caustic sound that scrapes my throat. ‘Very convenient, isn’t it? When you could’ve mentioned it at the other two dozen dinners or breakfasts.’ My throat is raw, equal parts fear and anger. ‘And I’m sure you have an explanation as to why it’s in your name rather than mine?’
‘Because I didn’t want Nana and his lawyers questioning why and getting in my way.
Do I need to remind you that this is still supposed to be a love match?
Do you really think divulging that the family of the woman I just so happen to be marrying used to own a portion of the very land I’m inheriting won’t throw up a dozen red flags?
I wanted to present it with the new trust documents—everything that proves it’s yours again.
’ He drags a hand through his hair. The words hover, scented with truth and omission.
Part of me wants to believe him; the other part remembers the cold stamp FINAL.
‘Or you wanted to use it as leverage for whatever it is you want down the line from me.’
Something hard and rigid flashes over his face but with a trace of emotion I would call guilt if I didn’t know better. ‘I think we’ve established that trust isn’t a thing I embrace very quickly, but, Cilla—’
‘You’re right. Which is why I don’t know whether I can trust anything you say now, Ashon.’ I whisper the harsh, unwanted truth.
He rears back, his eyes blackening. That flash returns, stays two seconds longer. Then his nostrils thin as he inhales long and deep.
He steps back from the bed and prowls to the window overlooking the sterile car park. For an eternity, we stay locked in our own hellish scenes.
His shoulders stiffen, in that way that tells me to brace myself.
‘Very well, if that’s how you feel…’ he pauses, eyes shining with something close to resignation. ‘Rest.’ His eyes swing to the monitor. ‘Keep our child safe. That’s what matters right now.’
I close my eyes, exhaustion rolling over me. Safe. The word has edges I no longer recognise. But the baby’s steady heartbeat still echoes in my ears, an anchor against the storm.
Forty-eight hours.
Two sleepless nights.
Plenty of time to decide what safety, and truth, really look like.
Ashon lowers himself into the visitor’s chair, legs crossed, arms folded, an ocean away across the room. And slowly, slowly, his face closes off.
Outside the ward window, Accra’s dusk gathers, violet and uncertain.
Waiting for the next act.
Ashon
My wife, who might no longer wish for the title, sleeps fitfully behind a glass door, her pulse line blinking steady green, but my heart refuses to match the rhythm.
Every rustle of a nurse’s shoe makes my veins chill.
Every muted alarm farther down the ward punches fear through my ribs.
I’m going out of my damn mind.
Securing my legacy had felt like triumph, proof I’d finally out-manoeuvred Nana, secured the studio of my dreams, honoured my father. Now they feel radioactive. One glaring stamped date mark and the woman I’m trying not to lose was bleeding on our penthouse floor.
Cause and effect? The rational part of me says no. The superstitious boy still hiding under my skin isn’t so sure.
I press knuckles to my forehead, replaying every excuse.
I’ll tell her tonight.
She deserves the whole picture.
Just wait until the timing’s right.
The timing is never right.
My grandfather weaponised time and used it against me until I bowed to his will, engaging in a fake relationship that’s as far from fake now as the sun is from the moon.
I swore I’d be different, yet here I am, watching my cause and effect detonate before my eyes.
A wave of memory blindsides me—my father’s hand on mine, his voice hoarse—Legacy means nothing if the people you love can’t share it.
I was twenty-one, affronted over one thing or another and too angry to listen. Now his words vibrate like prophecy.
I stalk to the vending alcove, swipe a card I don’t remember pulling out, and stare at rows of ginger biscuits she might stomach tomorrow. My hands shake. Anger, caffeine, terror—who the hell knows any more?
Footsteps. Renée. Of course she flew in the second she read my text.
‘A CEO pacing a maternity wing at midnight is a bad look,’ she says quietly, snatching the sofa and handing me water.
‘What if I’m the bad look?’ I mutter. ‘What if I got everything I wanted and still lose her?’
Renée studies me, eyes soft but unyielding. ‘Then fight harder. Not for deeds. For her. If she’s what…who you want. Or are you arrogant enough not to admit that?’
My lips twitch. ‘Arrogant is all well and good. But it doesn’t keep me warm.’
‘Then reclaim what does.’ She nods towards Cilla’s room. ‘No time like the present. You taught me that.’
I turn, attempting and failing to ignore the dread and hope tangling in my throat.
Inside, she’s propped against pillows, her eyes shut. I suspect she’s not really asleep but pretending.
I cross to her, take her hand—warm, steady—and I grit my teeth. ‘We’ll have to talk about this sooner or later. We both know that.’
Without opening her eyes, she turns away. ‘Maybe. But not tonight. Tonight I can’t stand to look at you.’
‘Be that as it may, I intend to look at you. I have to. Because I simply cannot.’
All truth, shockingly raw and scraping every inch of my chest, I retreat to my chair for my harrowing vigil.
Because certain other truths are locking into place. I suspect I delayed and prevaricated because of a greater purpose.
Which is that when it comes right down to it, the land means nothing. The studio is hollow. And legacy—mine, Nana’s, all of it—is just empty acreage without the woman who turned my facade into a life.
Of course I can’t confess all of that now. It’ll be a hollow, desperate reaction of my unravelling world.