Chapter Twenty-Nine Imani
If heaven had an ocean view, I’m pretty certain that it would look like this.
From our floating bungalow, the water stretches out in a hundred shades of blue, pale as glass near the shore, darkening into something so deep and rich the further it goes out, that it looks almost unreal.
Even the waves move slower here, curling lazily beneath the deck as though time itself has decided to take a break and enjoy the beauty that is the Seychelles.
I step outside and the warm, salty, tropical air hits me.
Our private deck floats right above the water, complete with an infinity pool that looks like it’s melting into the ocean.
The other bungalows are spaced far apart, so it’s genuinely quiet except for the lazy lap of the waves and the occasional cackle of some island bird off in the distance.
We’ve been here for three days already, and we’ve been making the most of it like we’re on borrowed time. Technically, I guess we are.
In the mornings, we have breakfast on the deck: fresh papaya, pineapple slices dripping with juice, croissants still warm from the oven.
By afternoon, we’re out exploring one of the local villages and the surrounding areas.
I take Asher on hikes along trails framed by wild hibiscus and palm trees that look older than time.
No maps for us, we just follow the scent of sea salt and frangipani until we find hidden beaches no one else seems to know about except a handful of locals fishing or barbecuing on the golden sand.
We’ve visited a spice garden, where the air smells like cinnamon and vanilla, and the scent sticks to our clothes long after we leave.
We’ve taken a boat ride to the tiny island of La Digue, rented bikes and spent the afternoon exploring, riding past pastel-coloured houses and children playing barefoot in the street.
We get caught in a flash tropical storm and we spend an hour camping out under a palm tree, soaked, laughing, and stealing kisses with the rain drumming overhead like a heartbeat.
We have dinner with Marie to discuss her eco-lodge and Asher doesn’t mind in the slightest when Marie and I spend the entire evening chatting about plans for potential tourism packages.
He just sits back and lets us brainstorm, a soft smile plastered across his face whenever I glance up in his direction.
For the first time in a very long time, my dream feels tangible and it’s because of him.
If I think too hard about the fact that soon we’ll have to fly back home to London and to the mess waiting for us there, my chest goes tight. So instead, I just lean against the railing and watch the sunlight scatter across the water, pretending for one more moment that this is my everyday life.
‘Asher?’ I call over my shoulder.
He’s inside the bungalow, humming off-key to a song I can’t quite catch.
A moment later, he appears in the doorway, barefoot, shirtless, holding two glasses of freshly squeezed mango juice.
His hair’s still damp from the shower, curling against his temple, and just the sight of him makes my stomach flip.
I wonder if I’ll ever stop reacting to him like this.
Aside from sightseeing and exploring, we’ve spent a, quite frankly, ridiculous amount of time in bed together.
It’s strange to think about how intimately I know him now, compared to that first meeting months ago.
Back then, I only knew his name, but now I know every low, rough noise he makes when I touch him just right.
The way his breath catches when I claw my nails gently down his back.
The needy, broken sounds he tries, and fails, to stifle in my neck when he’s losing control.
I’ve mapped every inch of his body with my hands and mouth.
I know the constellation of freckles under his jaw, the exact spot on his hip that makes him tense and gasp (and where he has a poorly done stick and poke tattoo of a cactus), the way his eyes go slightly unfocused when he’s trying not to come too soon.
The way he looks at me, afterwards, like I’ve remade the world just for him.
It’s a miracle I’m even vertical right now.
If I’m being honest, the effort of putting on actual clothes and stepping outside instead of crawling straight back into his arms might just be the most willpower I’ve ever demonstrated in my entire life.
And from the way Asher’s looking at me right now, head tilted, eyes lazily roving over my body like he’s imagining peeling me out of my sundress and dragging me back to bed?
I’m not sure my willpower is going to last much longer.
No, I tell myself. It’s our last day and we need to make the most of it.
A traitorous voice in the back of my mind slyly says that spending the day in bed with Asher, his head between my legs, his tongue giving me an encore from this morning’s performance, might just be the best way to spend our last few hours here, but I ignore it. Just about.
‘I’m thinking Curieuse Island this afternoon?’ I say as he approaches and hands me a glass.
He hums in agreement, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he takes a sip from his own glass. ‘That’s the one with the giant tortoises, right?’
‘Mhmm,’ I say, leaning against the railing. ‘They live forever practically. Over a hundred years old. They’ve seen everything – storms, tourists, probably a few bad love stories – and they’re still just there. Living peacefully and completely unbothered.’ I let out a wistful sigh.
He grins. ‘You’re jealous of a tortoise.’
‘Maybe a little,’ I admit. ‘They’ve got it figured out.’
He laughs quietly, and the sound rolls through the warm air, easy and familiar. It’s impossible not to smile with him. Then my phone buzzes suddenly on the nearby table, pulling me out of the moment. I glance at it and instantly feel my stomach sink.
DAD.
My good mood dissolves in an instant.
I stare at the call then, without hesitation, I hit ignore. The sound cuts off. Silence fills the air again.
Asher looks at me sideways. ‘You’re not going to answer?’
‘No.’ The word comes out colder than I intend. I exhale and try again. ‘I know what he wants.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He’s going to tell me it’s time,’ I say, staring out at the horizon. ‘That the merger’s moving ahead, that I need to stop stalling and agree to marry you.’
Asher glances away. After a moment, he says quietly, ‘Do you ever want to get married?’
I freeze. Of all the questions I thought he might ask to follow up, I wasn’t expecting that.
The question lingers in the air. I take a breath and let the sound of the waves fill the silence before I answer.
‘I do,’ I say finally. ‘But I want it to be my choice. My terms. If we start like this, with them forcing it on us like this, it’ll always feel tainted. ’
Asher hums in agreement, his lips twitching upwards into a wry smile. ‘Do you know what’s funny?’
I shake my head.
Asher takes a step closer towards me and braces his palms on either side of me against the railing, caging me in. I reflexively lean against him and let out a soft sigh. ‘If our fathers hadn’t forced this on us, I kind of think we might’ve got here on our own.’
‘You think so?’
Asher grins, then spins me round so we’re standing chest to chest. He tips my chin upwards so I can meet his gaze, and I can’t help but lean into his touch. ‘I do. There’s clearly something here. Something between us.’
I pretend to look confused. ‘Is there? Hadn’t noticed.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘I’d be happy to give you a repeat of this morning if you need something to jog your memory.’
My cheeks burn at the memory of Asher’s mouth on me, the slow, ruthless way he fucked me against the tangled sheets just hours ago. I can still feel the echo of him right where I’m aching for more. I lick my lips, and his eyes track the movement like a predator, lazy smile gone razor-sharp.
He moves in, crowding my space until I’m hemmed in by nothing but him and the ocean and the possibility that I might let him wreck me a dozen more times before this day is over.
But then, all at once, his expression changes.
The hunger is still there, but something else muscles its way to the surface. He looks almost… shy?
‘I have something to tell you,’ he says.
‘Something bad?’
He laughs softly. ‘No. Never. Something a little embarrassing.’
I tilt my head and wait.
Asher’s smile turns bashful. ‘We’ve met before. I don’t know if you remember.’
I frown, not quite understanding what he’s getting at, and then—‘Oh, yeah. At university, right? Like once at a party?’
He nods. ‘It was just the one time, but I guess you could say I had a thing for you.’
I blink at him. ‘Are you—Are you saying you had a crush on me?’
‘A little one,’ Asher laughs. ‘You were nice to me and even though I didn’t know you at all back then, there was something about you that I…
’ He cuts himself off and shakes his head almost ruefully.
When he speaks again, his voice is low and quiet in a way that feels private, even out here with nothing but sun and ocean and maybe a few eavesdropping tortoises in a five-mile radius.
‘I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.
I know circumstances aren’t ideal, but I really think we could make something incredible out of this.
Even if it started out wrong. We could make it right. We could make it ours.’
‘I—’ I croak out. ‘What are you saying?’
He takes a breath, like he’s bracing for impact.
‘I’m saying we don’t let them define this for us.
If we have to play along and get engaged for the sake of their deal, fine – we do it.
But that doesn’t have to be the real thing.
Not for us. We’ll treat it like what it is: an arrangement.
And then, someday, when you’re ready, when it feels right for you, I’ll ask you again.
Just us. I’ll propose for real, and that can be the one we actually care about. ’