35. Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Five
Geles, Gauntlets + a Silver Shadow Bribe
Aspen
The encounter with Luca’s mother was my worst nightmare coming to life.
It wasn't just the way she spoke or the clinical way she’d appraised my clothes, it was the flash of genuine offense when I’d faltered at the scent of her specialty.
It’s clear that a slight against the food is a slight against the woman who made it, and I can already feel the target forming on my back.
I didn’t even get the chance to bow the way Luca showed me!
I’ve seen this script play out time and time again.
It’s a toxic tug-of-war where the woman in a man’s life is always the rope.
If his mother’s grip on him is even half as tight as the one my own mother tries to keep over me and my brothers, I’m not sure I have the strength to survive the fallout.
You can never truly love a man out of the grip of his mother, and if Luca is ever forced to choose between the legacy of his family and the “unconventional” woman he found in a Vegas pod, I’m terrified I already know whose heart will be left on the floor.
But the moment I step into the guest suite, the quiet dread is instantly drowned out by a sensory explosion.
The bedroom is a hive of activity, smelling of burned hair, expensive perfume, and the metallic tang of hot curling irons.
There are makeup artists hunched over vanity kits, mounds of vibrant sequins spilling off every surface, and people darting in and out with a frantic, joyful energy that makes my anxiety feel entirely out of place.
I sit in the center of the storm, feeling like a doll being prepped for an exhibit. Luca’s sisters, Chidi and Chioma, are hovering over me, their fingers working with rhythmic speed as they begin to wrap my headpiece.
“Don’t hold your breath, Aspen,” Chidi laughs, tugging the stiff, shimmering fabric across my forehead.
“I know it feels like it’s cutting off your circulation, but it has to be tight to feel regal.
This is actually a very small-scale look.
For a wedding, we’d have you in something twice this size. ”
“Small scale?” I squeak, trying to keep my neck still. “There are a hundred people in the backyard and enough food to feed an army.”
“This is just a birthday,” Chioma adds, pinning a final fold of the gold cloth. “Wait until one of us gets married. Then you’ll see the real chaos.”
Her words pull at a loose thread in my heart. Looking at the sheer scale of this “small” celebration and the way the house vibrates with the laughter of three generations, the way every auntie and uncle has shown up to pour their love into a single afternoon. It all hits me in a way I don’t expect.
We didn't give them this. We didn't give Luca’s family, or even my own, the chance to make a fuss. We didn’t give them the opportunity to pray over us, or to weave our two lives together with the ceremony this kind of legacy demands.
I’ve been so busy protecting my boundaries and running from my mother’s control that I never stopped to consider what we actually stole from them.
In an effort to keep our marriage private, we’d inadvertently treated it like a secret to be hidden rather than a union to be celebrated.
Looking at the vibrant, interconnected web of the Chidubem family, I realize for the first time that our Vegas wedding didn't just feel like a rebellion because of how or why it happened. It was a disservice to the two women who, for better or worse, had spent their lives waiting for this moment. Waited to see everything they’d poured into us honored as we began the journey of doing the same for a family of our own.
I wonder how Luca feels about it all. I wonder if, beneath the pride he claims to feel when he looks at me, there is a stinging sense of guilt for what he’s kept from them. It makes me more than a little uneasy, because he’s different here. It’s subtle, but it’s everywhere.
He’s traded his sleek, tailored suits and athletic gear for traditional attire—a long, loose-fitting tunic and trousers in the same forest green as my lace.
It drapes off his broad shoulders in a way that makes him look less like a star striker and more like a man who was born to lead.
And his voice...his accent is doing this endearing, melodic dance, slipping into inflections and slang that only seem to emerge when he’s talking to an Auntie or joking with Gogo.
It’s like watching a new layer of him settle into place, and I can’t decide if I’m falling in love with this version or if I’m just intimidated by how much of him I still don't know.
“Done,” Chidi announces, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “You look like you belong, sister.”
I stand up, the weight of the headwrap forcing me into an upright, regal elegance. I catch my reflection and the breath freezes in my lungs. The forest green and gold lace against my skin is striking. The intricate patterns make me feel shielded, yet somehow more exposed than if I were naked.
I look at Chidi. “Thank you so much. It’s gorgeous.”
“She didn’t have to do much,” Chioma says with a wink. “Our brother definitely married up!”
We all break into laughter, the tension in my shoulders finally beginning to relax. “I’m not sure your mother feels the same way,” I confess, the sheepishness creeping into my voice.
Chioma sucks her teeth, a rhythmic sound that reminds me so much of my own friends back home that I almost double over. “Our mother is old school, but she will warm to you. If not, so what? You can do things for her son that she cannot!”
“Chioma! Shut up before someone hears you!” Chidi hisses, though she’s grinning. “You’ll have to excuse our baby sister. She went to a coed boarding school, and she’s been a hot mess since she’s been back home.”
“Whatever! Boarding school has nothing to do with it.” Chioma yells. “You act like no one here understands why God told men to leave their mother’s breasts, and cleave to their wives’. There is only so much a mother can do!”
“Ew! Chioma!”
“I second that ew,” I laugh. “But...valid point.”
The girls actually make me feel a little better.
I’m honestly shocked that no one has brought up the whole reality TV disaster, yet.
They talk about their mom with this kind of “don't mind her” attitude, like her being a force of nature is just something you learn to live with.
But I can't help but feel like it's different for them.
Mrs. Chidubem has to love Chioma and Chidinma. She birthed them. I’m just the girl from the “television” who didn't know how to act around her specialty dish. The stakes for me feel a hell of a lot higher than they do for her daughters.
I excuse myself to find Luca, my heels clicking softly against the hardwood of the upstairs hallway. As I approach the landing, I hear voices—hushed, rapid-fire Igbo mixed with sharp English. I freeze.
Luca and his mother are standing near the top of the stairs.
“You brought her into this house unprepared, Uzoma,” she whispers, though the bite in her tone carries perfectly. “She does not know the customs. She does not know how we do things. Then I keep seeing you and her all over the television. You make us look like people who have forgotten ourselves.”
Luca is quiet at first, his head bowed slightly. My heart sinks. The silence feels like a surrender, and for a second, I’m that woman he left broken-hearted all over again, watching a man shrink under the pressure of real life. Of our reality.
I hear a deep voice step up from behind me. “Just let them have it out. It’s good for them,” the voice says, and I turn to see someone tall, dark, with an uncanny resemblance to Luca.
He holds out his hand, his rich Nigerian accent booming. “Abraham Chidubem. Luca’s father,” he says, before bowing his head to kiss my hand. Guess that runs in the family, too.
“Aspen. Luca’s—”
“His wife, I hear.”
“Yes, sir.”
He steps back. “Let me look at you. Beautiful. You are a queen. With a gele to match,” he says, and I decide to do the bow that I practiced for him.
“Thank you.”
We both turn our heads, hearing the hushed voices rise.
Then, Luca straightens. He doesn't just move. He towers.
“Mummy, enough,” he says, his voice hushed but clipped. “Part of us moving to London, and then to America, was the necessity of learning new ways. That is the beauty of the life you gave us—the freedom to explore and discover ourselves in our surroundings.”
“It was about exposure, Uzoma,” she counters sharply. “Not submersion.”
“You don’t get to decide how a person responds when you introduce them to a new environment,” he snaps back, his tone hardening. “Why would you insist on ruining this for Aspen? Why would you let your son’s wife believe she is unworthy of the chance to learn who we are?”
His mother starts to interject, but he holds up a hand, silencing her.
“Aspen is my wife. I am sorry for the ‘spectacle’ of our marriage, but you will just have to accept it. All of it.” He pauses, a glint of mischief suddenly cutting through the tension. “Especially if you want the Rolls Royce I bought for your birthday.”
My mother-in-law’s entire demeanor shifts in a heartbeat. “Uzo! A Rolls Royce? Just like Beyonce and Jay-Z’s?” she squeals, her regal composure dissolving into pure excitement.
“Not quite. But it’s still nice.”
Luca pulls a set of keys from his pocket, dangling them just out of reach. “It’s parked right out front. Silver Shadow. Just like you wanted.”
She reaches for the keys, but he pulls them back for one more second, his expression turning deathly serious.
“But understand this, Mummy,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “My devotion to Aspen...it isn’t for the cameras. It isn't for the press. It is real. She’s my queen. She has my heart. Treat her as such, or the car goes away, along with me.”
She nods quickly, too enamored by the keys to argue, and scampers toward the stairs like a schoolgirl. Luca exhales a long, heavy breath, turning toward the hallway. When his eyes meet mine, the hardness vanishes, replaced by a warmth so fierce it leaves me breathless.
He doesn't have to ask if I heard. He just opens his arms, and I realize I’m not the rope in a tug-of-war. I’m the prize he’s already won.
We all stream out of the house behind her, following the sound of her laughter into the cool evening air.
The driveway lights are on, and honestly, the car sitting there looks less like a vehicle and more like a piece of art.
Luca really outdid himself. It’s a Rolls Royce Wraith, and even if you don’t know a thing about cars, you can tell this one is special.
The two-tone paint is what catches your eye first. A crisp, bright white on the bottom with a deep, liquid black running along the hood and roof that makes the whole thing look incredibly sleek. It’s just like Luca—polished and expensive, but with a definite edge that keeps you on your toes.
His mother approaches it like she’s walking toward a miracle, her hand pressed to her mouth to still her trembling lips. When she finally touches the cool white door handle, she looks back at us, her eyes beaming with an unadulterated excitement that makes the whole family smile.
“Gramma! Can we go for a ride? Now? Can you take us, Gramma?!” The grandchildren are already swarming, their high-pitched requests echoing across the driveway.
Luca is practically glowing, watching her.
His mother turns from the children, her expression softening only when her gaze lands on her son.
It bypasses me entirely, and I brace myself for another “cold” interaction.
But instead of stepping into the car, she throws her arms around Luca, laughing as she hugs him fiercely.
She leans back, murmuring something private to him, before she extends her other arm.
I’m surprised when she doesn't pull back. She reaches past Luca’s shoulder and gives my hand a quick, warm, meaningful squeeze.
She lets go of us both and finally climbs into the driver's seat.
Once his mother is speeding around the cul-de-sac, Luca leads me out toward the patio, where the music has shifted into a high-tempo Afrobeat rhythm.
The energy is infectious. People are sliding across the make-shift dance floor on the grass, their bodies moving in a fluid, grounded way that looks like second nature.
“Watch my feet,” Luca whispers, pulling me closer to the edge of the dance floor. He starts to move, a subtle shift of his weight, his shoulders shimmying in a way that’s both playful and incredibly masculine. “It’s all in the hips and the heart, love. Just follow me.”
He shows me the basic steps, laughing when I nearly trip over my own hem, his hands never leaving my waist. But then, the music swells, and a shout goes up from the crowd.
“Uzo! Aspen! Oya!”
The circle opens up like a blooming flower, and my heart leaps into my throat as the Uncles start clapping in a heavy, rhythmic thunder that matches the drums. Luca looks at me, a silent question in his eyes—a final check to see if I’m ready to step into the light and be his wife in front of everyone in his life who matters.
I take a breath, clutching his hand, and let him lead me into the center of the floor.
As we begin to move, the air suddenly fills with a fluttering rain. I blink, realizing it isn’t confetti. It’s money. Dozens of hands reach out, pressing crisp bills against our foreheads and shoulders before letting them drift to the floor in a growing carpet of green.
“They’re spraying us,” Luca shouts over the music, his grin blinding as he pulls me closer. “It’s called money spraying. It’s how we show our joy. Every bill is a blessing for our future, a way to say they support us.”
I laugh, letting the tension and the past go, as an Auntie steps forward and tucks a twenty into the fold of my headpiece, whispering a blessing against my cheek. The rhythm of the Afrobeat takes over, grounding me in the heat and the noise.
In the middle of this beautiful, expensive rain, surrounded by the family I was so afraid of, I realize I’m not just a secret anymore. I am his queen.
With a gold gele to match.