Chapter Ten #2
But I do know this. I love him, the man whose name represents my family’s destruction. Who introduced me to this heightened feeling I doubt I’ll ever be rid of. Who in a few short months will help introduce me to motherhood.
For good or ill, I’ve been falling in love with Ashon since Botswana. Maybe since Cap Ferrat. Or even right here, in this vast monument to his talent and power when I caught a glimpse of everything he is when all else is stripped away.
Heaven help me, I’m already there, quietly, entirely.
So now what?
Do I cling to the past? Or protect what’s growing inside me, even if it means letting go of the past? Of what ignited all this?
My baby kicks—the strongest one yet, like a heartbeat I can feel within my palm.
Maybe the answer isn’t one or the other.
Maybe it’s finding the space in between.
And choosing something new. Something equally powerful.
Everlasting.
If I dare?
Ashon
The late-night office is quiet except for the soft rustle of script pages and the glow of my laptop. I’m half-listening to a producer drone about merchandising when an alert pops:
RE: Treatment Notes and Music Rights Proposal
From: Cilla Rockson
To: Renée cc: Ashon Biney
She should be asleep, is my first thought.
My second act is to glance up, as if I’ve achieved x-ray ability to see through walls to the woman who’s brazenly avoiding me.
My third, an eager attempt to devour anything to do with my wife is to click on the email.
A three-line reply, but it’s pure Cilla—crisp, insightful, a reference to that South African composer we discovered on a veranda in Botswana while in post-coital bliss.
Heat pools in my loins at the memory while higher, in my chest and the place I’m still reluctant to examine, a deeper warmth collects.
If she hasn’t checked out of my professional life—not completely—then maybe she hasn’t checked out of us.
If it’s not too late, then act quickly.
Teeth setting and chest thumping, I start a measured, appreciative answer, nothing needy, when another ping slices the moment.
Subject: URGENT—Land Inquiry
From: Nana’s Legal Counsel
To: Ashon Biney
Cc: Nana Biney
Attached: Preliminary Legal Action Over Rockson Family Parcel—Central Region.
Claimants: The Rockson Family.
Nana’s note atop the thread: ‘She never stops scheming.’
Ice floods my veins. The inquiry is two weeks old, demanding copies of all documents to the land. The request isn’t signed by Cilla, it’s her cousin Tessa’s, but the letterhead bears her contact details, her address, her phone number.
Did she know?
Is this why she stayed?
I’m out of the office before the thought finishes, barefoot, righteous fury and something I refuse to admit is fear tangling inside my throat. Right alongside it is the very convenient thought that I was right to wait. To assess. Because this proves I was right to. Doesn’t it?
Upstairs, in the media room, she’s curled on a sofa in one of my threadbare hoodies, bare legs tucked under her. She looks up—peaceful turning to wary as she sees my face.
‘Cilla.’
Her fingers pluck at the hem of the hoodie, as if she’s contemplating taking it off now I’ve seen her in it. ‘What’s wrong?’
I thrust the computer at her. ‘Explain this.’
She skims the document, then her shoulders sag. ‘That’s my cousin. She’s over-protective.’
‘But she used your name.’
‘It’s family, Ashon. They meddle. You of all people should know that. And they meddle harder when you don’t have answers for them because your husband is keeping secrets.’
I ignore the sting for something more imperative. Something that feels like my whole life is hinging on it. Is it entirely unfair? Maybe. But all is fair in love and war, isn’t it? ‘That inquiry’s two weeks old. Right after Botswana.’
Her eyes widen, confusion giving way to pain she immediately tries to hide with pride and affront. ‘You think I filed that?’
‘Why not? You played house, charmed me, fucked me, then accused me of subterfuge—who wouldn’t suspect?’
Tears glint but don’t fall. ‘You bastard! I was trying to l—’ She freezes. As do I.
Her lips tremble. A thousand unspoken things flash in her eyes.
But she shuts them tight like that’ll help cage the truth.
‘Say it,’ I murmur, gentler now. ‘To what, Cilla?’
She flinches like I’ve slapped her. Then silence swells between us, thick as wet clay. Smothering and reshaping and destroying.
‘Say what this is really about. Because it stopped being about land a long time ago.’
Her eyes fly open. ‘Oh no,’ she says, voice cracking.
‘You don’t get to root around for something you don’t deserve.
You don’t get to hold all your cards to your chest, Ashon.
I’m so damn tired of pretending I’m the only one who feels something here while you just wait in the wings for me to fuck up. ’
I suck in a breath that burns going down because, God, isn’t there a boat load of truth in there? This harrowing sensation of the shoe about to drop? Or has it dropped already and I’m too blind to see it?
She doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
But I can’t. I just…can’t say the words pounding at the back of my throat.
Not when admitting it would break open everything I’ve spent my whole life trying to keep locked up.
Her laugh is short. Shaky. Heartbreaking. ‘You can’t even give me scraps, can you?’ she whispers. ‘Not even now. I thought you’d be man enough, but clearly, I was wrong.’
More silence throbs.
I open my mouth to answer the taunt, but it’s too late.
She draws herself up, pain morphing to armour. ‘Then let’s end this farce while I still have some pride left.’
‘Cilla—’
‘No! Get out,’ she says, the words quiet but lethal. ‘Leave me the hell alone.’
I retreat—backwards through the hallway, down the stairs, into darkness that suddenly feels far more honest than the light I just destroyed.
Cilla
Ashon’s footsteps stalk down the hallway, fast and purposeful, as if he can’t stand another second inside the same walls. The front door slams a moment later. Silence billows out to fill the space he leaves behind. It’s so loud I hear the pulse in my neck.
I stare at the email on the laptop he thrust into my hands.
My cousin Tessa’s digital signature.
My name in the ‘beneficiary’ line.
My phone number. My address.
Proof, if you’re looking for it, that I’m still the Rockson girl clawing for restitution.
I’m so tired of proof. Of everyone demanding it emotionally and physically. Of me trying to contain and outrun it.
A single tear slides, hot and humiliating, before I swipe it away and shove to my feet.
The hoodie—his hoodie—hangs to my mid-thigh, smelling of sandalwood and yearning—mine.
I peel it off as if it scorches me, toss it over the back of the couch, and pad upstairs to the guest suite he curated like a personal museum of my old life.
The room feels suddenly alien. My stack of books here, the Sundance lanyard neatly pinned to a corkboard propped on the floor over there. Artefacts of a woman who believed justice could be bought with patience and a heart filled with inherited righteousness.
I feel like a robot when I pull a small roller suitcase from the closet. I don’t need much. Laptop, camera, pre-natals, that foolish dream-notebook of documentary pitches.
The baby kicks, soft and inquisitive when I bend to pack shirts. ‘It’s okay,’ I whisper, though my throat burns. ‘We’ll land on our feet. We always do.’
I hesitate over the envelope of new ultrasound photos. Botswana feels so distant now, like a film I once screened and then misplaced the reel. I tuck the images into my purse anyway. Some memories are worth keeping even if they hurt.
Phone and purse and charger.
Done.
When my phone rings my heart jumps, until I remember Ashon stormed out, is unlikely to call. A quick glance at the screen and I’m not sure I’m relieved or anxious that my mother has chosen this moment to ring, as if the universe needs witnesses to my undoing.
I answer on the second buzz, forcing steadiness. ‘Hi, Ma?’
‘What’s wrong? You sound winded,’ she says. ‘Everything all right?’
I close my eyes. ‘Yes…no… I don’t know.’
A sigh crackles over the line, equal parts worry and judgement. ‘Cilla, come home. Whatever that man promised, he’s still a Biney.’
‘He promised me nothing tonight.’ My voice breaks on the last word.
Silence. Then softer: ‘Child, loving a powerful man is a dangerous game. Make sure you hold all the pieces before you play.’
I want to argue, explain how he touched my belly, how he laughed with me over morogo stew in the delta, how he whispered plot twist like a vow. But all I say is, ‘Thanks, Ma. I’ll call you soon.’
Suitcase packed, I roll it down the landing. Halfway to the stairs I freeze.
The nursery door, the small room between guest suite and master—sits ajar. I toured it when we first arrived but not since, not being in the state of mind to start picking baby blankets and booties.
But someone has clearly been in there, putting furniture together while I wasn’t paying attention.
Ashon?
My heart leaps into my throat as I step inside.
Turn in a full circle. A white crib, plush giraffe, a tiny Biney-blue blanket with pink flowers embroidered with Baby Biney.
My heart cleaves. No matter how furious I am, the sight of that blanket wrecks me.
I step in, fingertips brushing the crib rail. There’s a note taped to the mobile:
‘Record your lullabies here.’
Below is a voice-memo mic and a flash-drive already labelled Cilla’s Songs.
The ache and the yearning are instant, raw.
Am I holding an overblown grudge?
Maybe he never told me about the deeds because he wanted some grand reveal, like Cap Ferrat sunsets and Botswana stars. Maybe he’s just a man who doesn’t know how to lead with vulnerability, so he leads with strategy.
But strategy pulverised my parents. He knew that. And he allowed it to pulverise me.
The window of benefit of the doubt has been left open too long. I can’t help but remember that moment in the hospital when I hoped…prayed he would echo what lurked in my heart.
He didn’t.
It’s time to close the window.
I wheel the suitcase to the foyer.