Chapter Ten #3
The rideshare confirmation demand blinks in my phone, but my thumb hovers.
If I leave now, I cut the last thread. No more Mrs Biney, no more front-row seats to the raw and reckless beauty of his dreams, no more Ashon, the man who kisses me like I’m the centre of a universe he alone can create.
I’d be walking away from the laughter that curls out of him at midnight, the rough velvet of his promises against my skin, the way his eyes soften when our baby’s heartbeat echoes in a quiet room.
But I meant what I said. I can’t stand in this overwhelming emotion alone, and he…he’s not ready to stand with me.
I’m not sure the emptiness that follows would hurt any less than staying.
But those were pockets of wonder borrowed from time, fleeting sparks that can’t outshine the shadows settling in our cracks, and I’m terrified that once they fade, all I’ll have left is the echo of what might have been.
A sob climbs my chest. I clamp a hand over my mouth and head for the door.
Just as headlights slash the driveway. Did I hit the rideshare button by accident?
I check my phone. No, I didn’t.
So it can only be…
I hear the roar of Ashon’s sports car before I see it. He’s back already?
Panic spikes. I can’t face him. Not like this.
I duck behind the curve of the staircase just as the door opens, then hightail it for the kitchen.
Ashon’s voice, low, rough and wrecked, floats through the foyer.
‘Renée, she’ll be heading for the airport.
Have security intercept her. Get her on the jet, make sure she doesn’t exert herself.
No, I don’t care what it costs. She wants distance, give her the Gulfstream. But make sure a doctor’s on board.’
A heavy breath. ‘And call Tessa Rockson. Tell her if she meddles again, I’ll—’ He breaks off, voice splintering. ‘No. Forget it. Just… I’ll call her myself. This mess is my creation. I’ll fix it.’
My pulse stutters. He’s not scheming—he’s scrambling. Problem solving. Making amends the only way he knows how. For me.
In that instant the floor seems to tilt. I thought power was his language, but maybe his real dialect is control as apology. And maybe he’s terrified because he knows control is the one currency I won’t accept any more.
I straighten, rolling the suitcase back away from the kitchen, deeper into the house instead of the door. A new plan buds, clearer, braver. If we’re going to rewrite this script, it has to start with a scene the audience never sees coming.
I square my shoulders and head down the hall to face the man who breaks things trying to save them—and decide if love is worth letting him try again.
I linger behind the wide staircase, suitcase in hand, listening to Ashon’s ragged half-orders swirl through the marble foyer.
One part of me wants to bolt—cling to outrage the way a drowning woman clings to driftwood.
Another part aches at the cracks in his voice, the way he stumbles over threats he can’t bring himself to finish.
He’s scared, a small voice whispers. And hurt. All of this has hurt him too.
But fear doesn’t erase the stranglehold of his control, does it? It doesn’t return years of my parents’ dignity.
I retreat into a pool of moonlight by the tall windows, pulse thudding. Outside, the jasmine hedge is heavy with white blossoms, their scent drifting through the open transom like a memory of Botswana nights—of laughter, of trust that felt almost real.
Is it foolish to miss that feeling? To want it back?
I think of my mother’s brittle pride the day our farm title vanished.
The tremble in my father’s hands every time he opened another rejection letter.
I promised restitution, reclaiming what was ours.
Justice, Cilla. Not romance. The vow has defined me for so long I’m not sure who I am without its iron edge.
Yet here I stand, heart twisting at the sound of my husband’s broken breathing.
What if justice can live alongside love?
What if the greatest victory isn’t wresting land from the Biney empire, but forging a future where our child never has to choose between the two surnames stitched into their blood?
I rub my belly, feel a soft flurry, our little one responding to the storm inside me.
A tear slips, warm against my cheek. I want to build a home that isn’t balanced on revenge. A story that isn’t written in spite.
But wanting that means trusting Ashon—and trusting myself to temper his power, not be devoured by it. Am I strong enough?
Footsteps approach. I swipe at my face and step from the shadows before he can find me cowering. His eyes widen, a mixture of relief and exhaustion and…hope? So raw it pierces me.
Neither of us speaks.
I set the suitcase down gently. His gaze drops to it, then back to me, more haunted than I’ve ever seen it. ‘I thought you’d be long gone by now.’ He glances down at his phone. ‘I was waiting to hear how far you’d decided you need to be away from me this time.’
The lump grows in my throat. ‘I know,’ I whisper. ‘It…it took me longer than I thought to pack.’ A short, hard laugh escapes my throat. ‘I keep packing the past like it can travel with me. Maybe I should spare myself the burden of hauling ghosts and the past around.’
He swallows hard. ‘I booked the jet because I thought…if distance is what you need—’
‘What I need…’ I interrupt, pulse racing, ‘…is truth. No more power plays. No more withholding. I need to know you see me—my family’s story, my dreams—as more than leverage. I need to know that you…feel something. For me. Just me.’
He steps closer, anguish flickering across his face. ‘I don’t just see you, Cilla. You’re all I see and it terrifies me because I only know how to fight for goals, then set them free. I’m not used to… I don’t know how to cherish the things that remain. The things that claw their way into my soul.’
Silence stretches. The jasmine scent thickens, mingling with the salt of my unshed tears.
‘If we stay,’ I say slowly, ‘it has to be a new script. Signed by both of us.’
‘Co-written,’ he murmurs hoarsely.
‘Co-directed,’ I add, a wobbly smile teasing my lips.
His answering smile is faint, trembling at the corners—like the sun breaking through harmattan haze. ‘Then rewrite it with me.’
For the first time I let myself believe we might. But belief isn’t enough. Action must follow.
The baby kicks. A decision knocks quietly into place inside my heart. Maybe legacy isn’t what you inherit. Maybe it’s what you choose to build together after the wreckage.
I extend my hand. He takes it, his thumb stroking the pulse at my wrist.
The internal debate quiets, soothed by possibility. Tomorrow could break us all over again. But tonight I choose the risk. I choose him. I choose us.
And as he drapes his hoodie back around my shoulders, I realise something staggering. For the first time, justice and love don’t feel mutually exclusive. They feel—miraculously—like the same fight.