Chapter One #2
He wouldn’t be a Biney if he hadn’t done enough homework to know something happened between me and his wife’s cousin four years ago.
And even if he’d somehow missed that, he’d spotted the tension between the two of us at his premiere last year.
Enough to have asked me about it. He was told to mind his own damn business.
So I lean back, voice smooth as glass, allowing this to play out. For now. ‘What makes you think I won’t just walk away right now?’
Ashon’s smile is smug. ‘Because I know you won’t be able to resist stamping yourself all over this project.
Or do you want the story to be that Theodore Biney—visionary, playboy, genius—choked the second a Rockson stood in the room?
’ He leaves it there, like a challenge he doesn’t expect me to resist.
‘Watch it, cousin. You’re on very thin ice,’ I mutter, letting that frost show in my gaze.
His widening smile informs me he thinks he’s won. I let him have the victory. For now. Because I want him gone so I can focus on the woman who has my every cell jangling like it’s been electrified.
‘Here’s my idea. Six weeks to come up with a joint concept for how to blend the cultural wing into your overall design,’ Ashon goes on, easy, like he hasn’t just tossed raw meat between a wolf and a woman who knows how to say no.
‘A working model. Budget envelope preliminary. Phasing strategy. I want a mini-festival of ideas for the board at the end, with international donors salivating.’
Tessa’s gaze stays on Ashon as she continues to ignore me.
‘You called me because you want a cultural campus within your studio that’s not just pretty walls for pretty films. You called him because you want something flashy to splash on a magazine cover.
But you forget, I work with cultural charities within communities dedicated to preserving the past for future generations.
Humble people with grass roots. Not overinflated egos. ’
I allow myself a cool smile. ‘If you’re really building a community, why are you so obsessed with my ego?
’ I say lightly, even as something unpleasant twists in my gut.
‘Unless you’re afraid it might get the job done better than your principles.
Maybe overlook the flaws if the end goal is worth it.
Or isn’t your cause as important as you say? ’
Her eyes finally flick to me, sharp and unflinching. ‘The last time I saw your ego, it destroyed any illusion I had that you were capable of decency.’
My cousin’s eyes light up with far too much glee. ‘Is it worth stressing the need for professionalism here?’
‘I am professional,’ Tessa snaps, her eyes never leaving mine. ‘Which is why my first condition is simple. No press until the vision is aligned. No vanity pieces. No leaks.’
‘I agree,’ I say, and I mean it. ‘I don’t want anyone touching this before it knows what it is.’
She tilts her head one degree to the left—a show of wary curiosity. ‘You mean you don’t want anyone touching anything before you’ve controlled it.’
‘Sometimes control is the only way to honour what you’re building.’
‘Sometimes control is what ruins it.’
Ashon claps his hands once, the sound bright and far too cheerful. ‘I love this energy.’
‘Of course you do,’ I mutter.
He ignores me and flicks on the wall monitor.
The floor plan I’ve been refining for three nights lights up in white and pale blue.
A campus shaped like a question answered.
Clustered pavilions nestled into shade, a central spine that behaves like a breezeway, courtyards angled for cross-ventilation, roofs that harvest water into hidden cisterns and solar fields sited discreetly but efficiently.
I’ve threaded adinkra through the plan—not as decoration, but as structure. Not the easy symbols everyone recognises, but the quieter ones that speak of endurance and humility and wisdom earned.
Tessa doesn’t move but I watch her take it in piece by piece, ignoring the sudden nerves. I attempt to see my work through her eyes but I can’t. My vision is mine alone. Always has been, always will be.
‘Are you married to all this?’ she asks eventually.
‘Doesn’t matter whether I am or not but yes, I’m married to every line I draw.
The land wants to be read. So, I’ve been reading it and I’m better suited to doing that than anyone in this room.
Discipline and creativity are two sides of the same coin.
Structure is what allows beauty to thrive.
That’s not arrogance or ego. It’s a fact. ’
She steps closer to the screen. ‘Your central spine is beautiful,’ she says thoughtfully.
It’s not a compliment, it’s an observation and yet…
something wild and electric kicks in my chest, reminding me of that moment when she shed her clothes and stood in the firestorm of her own beauty.
‘But it makes everything revolve around a single axis. People’s lives don’t revolve around your axis. ’
Electricity recedes, replaced by a layer of memory I don’t loathe. ‘It’s not my axis. It’s a wind corridor.’
‘And a visual theatre. Which is fine—if you’re staging spectacles. If you’re staging lived experience, you need more than a corridor that whispers behold.’
I look at Ashon. ‘You said she was good.’
He smirks. ‘I said she was lethal.’
Tessa gestures, a carving motion, uncaring she’s being discussed.
Complimented even. And, damn it, as much as I despise the hard-to-get of it all, something wilder ramps up inside me.
I want to ruffle her edges just that little bit harder.
Make her take notice the way I tried and failed to do four years ago.
Does she even remember every second of it like I do?
‘Break this here,’ she says, indicating the spine where it meets the western courtyard.
‘Interrupt the procession. Give them a choice. Bypass the main plaza to the smaller cultural and learning gardens. If we’re serious about history documentary training, we need low-ego spaces.
Places students can lose the self-consciousness that a grand avenue produces. ’
I feel a reluctant, unwelcome, unavoidable warmth under my ribs. She sees it. The thing that makes a building a body. The thing I hide from clients who only want glitter. She’s touching it with words like she built it with me. It’s infuriating. It’s addictive.
I tap the table, pull up a pen and annotate the drawing as she talks.
‘We can carve a passage that threads between the library stacks,’ I say softly, half to myself. ‘Green canopy above. Timber screens. Quiet roughness.’
‘Fewer straight lines,’ she adds. ‘At least in the zones where we don’t want performance.’
‘Curves cost,’ Ashon says, like a good producer.
‘So do mistakes,’ she replies without looking at him.
‘Noted,’ he says, amused.
We go back and forth like that for twenty minutes.
Not because we’re friends or even enemies, but because good work insists on the best. She refuses my hard-edged insistence with intriguing ease and I refuse her tendency to design with more heart than wallet.
Between us, a shape begins to appear that neither of us could have imagined alone.
It is the most exhilarating punishment I’ve endured in years.
When the screen fragments back to the home display, I’m a little…disarmed.
Ashon sees it too, because he looks pleased—which is dangerous for me.
‘So is that a yes to a collaboration?’ Ashon asks.
‘It’s hardly a challenge, cousin,’ I taunt back. ‘I’ll use the war room downstairs. Full access and any staff I need? I’ll have a first-look charrette in ten days.’
‘A charrette?’ Tessa asks.
‘Yes, a concept workshop.’
Her beautiful lips purse. ‘I know what a charrette is but I’m questioning your timeline.’
Ashon smiles. ‘I’d say you should know better than to question him but I’m guessing from the vibes that you two already know each other better than most. I mean, I’ve had my suspicions but…’ He trails off, looking expectantly between us.
Her lips tighten further as I slide a death-stare toward my cousin, who merely smirks.
‘Ten days is great,’ she replies.
I nod briskly. ‘After that, we’ll bring in construction leads and start sequencing, weather permitting.’
Ashon’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, then rises, heading for the door. ‘My beloved calls. Excuse me a minute. I’ll leave you two to iron out the small print.’ He leaves with his phone glued to his ear, his voice near-reverent as he speaks to his wife.
It’s all very sickening. Enough to make me pivot in my seat, fill my vision with the woman who watches me warily from across the room.
‘First things first. I will not be indulging in “remember when’s” with you,’ she says.
The corner of my mouth quirks, even as faint regret stabs me for only glancing at, then deleting that text from her four years ago. But no, the past needed to remain in the past. I didn’t do baggage of any kind then and I still don’t. ‘You haven’t been invited to, princess.’
Vivid eyes narrow while glaring at me. ‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Oh no, I thought we were freely handing out labels?’
‘Business, Mr Biney. That’s all I’m interested in discussing with you.’
‘Perfect. Then you’ll be ready for a site visit tomorrow? Six a.m. sharp. We’ll take my helicopter and be back by lunchtime. Time enough for you to pack.’
‘Pack?’ she asks. ‘What for?’
‘I have a project to inspect in Lisbon early next week. It should take three or four days at most. You’re coming with me. We’ll kill many birds with one stone.’
‘Like hell I am. I’m not your personal assistant.
’ She shifts her weight like she’s grounding herself for an argument.
‘There’s no reason why we can’t collaborate over video-conference.
In fact, I find it extremely efficient. Besides, I have an engagement tonight that won’t finish until midnight,’ she adds.
‘So I can’t be out there with you tomorrow at dawn. ’
‘What engagement?’ I ask, much sharper than I intended.