36. Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Six
Seeds, Sovereignty + a First-Class Finish
Aspen
The Excelsior Air lounge is the very definition of luxury travel. When Luca isn't flying on the team jet, he gets every perk available with this airline. Private alcoves, top-shelf spirits, and a level of quiet that feels a world away from the terminal.
I’m slumped in a buttery leather chair, watching a BSN highlights reel on the mounted TV.
On the screen, my husband is a ball of kinetic energy; the headline scrolling beneath him reads: Luca Chidubem: The Predator on the Pitch returns.
Beside me, the man himself is nursing a water, looking entirely too relaxed for someone who just survived an over-the-top gala disguised as his mother’s birthday party.
My mind is still reeling from the final hours of the celebration.
It wasn’t just a party. It was a marathon of generosity and genuine hugs.
Even from his mother. It seemed like every guest had arrived with actual buckets of money, because the “spraying” didn't stop with us.
When his mother took the floor for her solo dance, she was virtually buried in a blizzard of bills.
By the time we made our exit, Luca and I had walked away with over two thousand dollars in “blessings” tucked into our clothes and pockets.
When I tried to hand it back to him, he just pushed my hand away with a wink.
“Consider it a seed. Use it for your business. The Chidubem family believes in investing in what grows.”
The meaning of those bills in my purse feels like more than just currency.
It’s a glaring contrast to the way my own family operates.
While the Chidubems seem to have an ancestral instinct to water anything with the potential to bloom, my parents have spent years pruning my dreams before they could even take root.
To them, a venture isn't legitimate unless it’s been stamped with the approval of the masses. Also known as ‘the white gaze.’
It doesn’t matter that my projections are soaring or that I’m building something with my own two hands. If it isn't “prestigious” by their narrow, assimilated standards, it’s invisible.
My mother is likely still waiting for me to fail, waiting for the “hobby” to fold so I can finally crawl back to the life she curated for me.
But as I look at the man sitting beside me, I realize she’s forgotten one thing.
I’m a Chidubem now—and in this family, we specialize in growing the very things others said were impossible.
I’d actually reached out to my mother this morning. The call was brief and brittle, squeezed in just before we left for the airport. Something about the intensity of the last few days made me feel the sudden, nagging need to hear her voice.
I finally told her I wasn’t going to Martha’s Vineyard.
I made it clear that it wasn't out of shame or embarrassment, but because I needed the space to be able to walk into a room with my husband and not worry about the firing squad. Which will likely require a few rounds with my therapist before I’m fully able to do that.
I’m self-aware enough to know that the way I “set my boundaries” lately hasn't exactly been healthy.
I told her we needed to talk—really talk—and agreed to meet her once I got back home.
For the first time in years, her voice didn’t carry that instructional edge I’ve come to expect from her.
She actually sounded...open to me. Or maybe it was just her exhaustion with it all.
As I sit here in the quiet of the lounge, I wonder if I can actually trust the softening in her tone, or if it’s just another calculated move to pull me back into the fold.
I shift in the buttery leather chair. Luca is watching the screen, but I can tell his mind isn't on the highlights. He’s tracing the rim of his water glass with a thumb, a small, private smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Aspen?” he says, still looking down and into his glass.
I turn toward him, catching the way the dim lounge light hits the sharp, unapologetic line of his jaw. “Yeah?”
“I was thinking,” he says, leaning in until the scent of his cologne settles over me. He tilts his head, a playful, boyish glint in his eyes that usually precedes a goal. “Would you consider staying with me? Forever?”
The question is light, wrapped in a layer of teasing, but I can see the flicker of something vulnerable beneath the surface. It’s the look of a man who has played every high-stakes match in the world but has finally found the one trophy he’s terrified to lose.
I wonder if he’d still want forever with me if he met my mother, or if he’d realize her personality is a pre-existing condition no one can stabilize.
I offer him a coy, sidelong smile. “I don't know, Uzo. Forever is a long time. My schedule is pretty packed so I’ll have to see if I can fit you in.”
He chuckles, “Hurry up, Ms. Mysterious. I’m a very impatient man when it comes to ‘forever’ with you.”
“I’ll think about it,” I whisper, leaning my head against his shoulder. “You forget I’ve met your parents, but you have yet to read mine. What if—”
He leans over and kisses me, capturing my words and my heart in one decisive move. “With you, there are no questions. No second-guesses. No contingencies. I want you forever. No matter what.”
I can’t help but grin, wide, and say, “Okay.”
His expression shifts, the playfulness dropping away into something more tactical.
“Now that it’s settled, would you consider doing that profile Eros Beaumont asked about?
Tatum is breathing down my neck. She thinks it’s the only way to pivot the narrative and show the world that what we have isn't just some PR fluke or a lucky deflection.”
I look at him, thinking about the way he just stood up to his mother for me, and I almost feel safe saying yes. Almost.
“I have a condition,” I say, my voice firming up.
He raises a brow, his focus entirely on me. “Anything.”
“If we officially outlast the SightUnseen season—if we make it past the finale without our vitals flatlining or the world imploding—I’ll do the profile. But,” I hold up a finger, “that means I get a real wedding. I want the full traditional Nigerian ceremony and the white wedding.”
He raises a brow, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I see Chioma has already been in your ear.”
I grin sheepishly. “She made the dancing and the clothes sound so fun! If we're going to be a spectacle, we might as well do it right.”
He smiles, reaching over to squeeze my hand, his thumb grazing my knuckles in a way that feels like a seal on a contract. “Game on.”
***
An hour later, we’re settled into the oversized pods of first class. I’ve traded the lace and gold for charcoal yoga pants and a tank top, my body aching in that good, exhausted way.
“How long is the flight?” Luca asks as the cabin lights dim for takeoff.
“Just a couple of hours,” I murmur, reaching for the plush throw blanket I always bring because the recycled air turns me into an icicle.
“Perfect,” he says.
Before I can tuck the blanket around my legs, he’s doing it for me, draping it over my lap like a shield. But his hands don't stop at the edges. I gasp as I feel his palm slide flat against the flare of my hip, his fingers disappearing beneath the waistband of my yoga pants.
“Luca, what are you doing?” I hiss, glancing toward the galley where the flight attendant is prepping the cart.
“I’ll have a vodka soda, please,” he says, his voice conversational, even as his fingers find the lace of my underwear and move past it.
I choke on my own breath. “Why are you telling me your drink order?”
“Because when the attendant comes by, you’re going to give her my order.” One finger goes in.
“Ah! Shit!” I whisper.
“And yours, too. Make sure you tell her your drink as well.”
My legs twitch, a spark of electricity shooting straight to my core as he begins to work me, literally, from the inside out.. “Seriously. You want me to…oh shit…while your hand is... while you’re doing …fuck.” Two fingers.
“Yes. Repeat my drink order to me again?”
“You asshole,” I whisper, my head falling back against the headrest as he finds the spot that makes my thoughts go hazy.
“You love it,” he snaps back. “But that’s not it. That’s not what I ordered, my love.”
I suck in a breath. “Vodka—”
“Can I get you two started with a drink?” she asks, leaning in slightly.
Luca’s hand moves—a sharp, intentional flick that sends a jolt through me so violent I almost lift off the seat. I grip the armrests, my knuckles white, trying to keep my facial muscles from betraying the riot happening under the blanket.
“I—uh,” I start, my voice an octave higher than usual. Luca doesn't stop. He speeds up, his touch becoming the most tantalizing source of friction and he has me teetering on the very edge. “We’ll have...a vodka soda. For him.”
The attendant nods, her pen hovering over her pad. “And for you, ma’am?”
Luca’s fingers curve, hooking deep, and I feel the first wave of the internal earthquake start to roll. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can feel is him, claiming me at thirty thousand feet while the world goes on as usual around us.
“A... a club soda,” I manage to choke out, my eyes fluttering shut as the climax hits me with the force of a tidal wave. I bury a moan in the crook of my shoulder, my body trembling under the heavy weight of the blanket.
“Coming right up,” she says, blissfully unaware of the wreckage she’s leaving behind and she moves on to the next passenger.
As she disappears back toward the galley, Luca leans over, his lips brushing my ear. He doesn't move his hand yet, letting me pulse against him as I come down.
“Good job, wife,” he whispers, a dark, triumphant vibration in his chest. “I think I’m going to like being married to you.”