Chapter Seven
Tessa
Cape Town—One Month Later
I’VE ENJOYED THE last month more than I’ll ever admit aloud.
More than I want to admit to myself.
And one of the many ‘danger ahead’ warnings I’ve ignored? I’ve all but moved into Theo’s Accra penthouse.
It wasn’t planned. Not entirely.
But after he spent one night in my rented flat and declared it ‘a shoebox dressed up as a crime scene,’ I lost the argument.
He’d stood at the foot of my double bed after casting several disparaging glances around him, disdain dripping from every syllable as he asked, ‘Why would you subject yourself—and me—to this medieval torture when I can give you something actually fit for human habitation?’
I didn’t bother to tell him I didn’t much care where I slept as long as it was halfway comfortable. Or that I could afford a much better place if I were so inclined.
He’d been determined to move me into his space. And I was inclined to let him.
So yes, I’ve spent most of my nights at his place. In a bed so vast and indulgent it swallows me whole. With Theo sprawling like a king beside me, smug in the knowledge that he’s won another battle in our seemingly endless war of wills.
But the clock hasn’t stopped ticking.
The IVF clinic emailed me for the third time last week. And what felt like a molasses-slow process suddenly feels like greased lightning.
The news that they’ve matched me with several potential candidates who fit my criteria of optimal health and high IQ left with me a weird little hollow in my chest. I should be poring over donor profiles, choosing the man who will never know his child but whose genes might help me create the family I ache for.
The kind of upbringing I never got the chance to have.
The kind Cilla had with her parents. The kind I was denied when I lost my baby.
Instead, the next two emails sit unopened.
Because deep down, where I don’t let anyone look, my wounds still hurt.
My mother died when I was too young to remember her laugh or any semblance of her guidance. I never knew what made her happy or sad.
Instead, I grew up with a father who never remarried, who raised me on his own with a quiet steadiness that became my blueprint.
He taught me discipline, compassion, resilience.
And, while being an only child of a heartbroken single parent was a lonely existence, I’ve told myself repeatedly that if he could do it alone, surely I can too.
That my childhood dream of being part of a big, noisy and loving family was possible. That I have what it takes.
Hindsight being a cunning beast, I kick myself for wasting that dream on Giles.
But, in those weeks, four years ago, once I got over the shock of knowing I was carrying Theo’s baby, those dreams had sprouted anew. Until that too was snatched from me when I miscarried.
But the silver lining of an otherwise harrowing outcome was turning diagnosis, determination and dream into reality.
And yet, sometimes, when I watch Cilla, glowing and confident, her belly rounding with new life, I falter. Being near her these past weeks has bolstered me in ways I didn’t expect. She makes it all seem possible. Manageable. Even beautiful.
But the questions still remain and perhaps will always remain. As I’m beginning to question whether I really do have what it takes.
Is that why I’ve been dragging my feet? Ignoring the clinic’s messages, delaying the inevitable?
Or…is it something else. Someone else?
I tell myself it isn’t because of Theo. But the lie tastes raw and sour.
I can’t stop remembering the way he hauled me out of Ashon’s dining room, claiming me without apology. The way he made me laugh when I wanted to fight, made me ache when I swore I wouldn’t. The way he looks at me in his penthouse as if I already belong there, with him.
But, just to keep me on my toes, to remind me what’s at stake should I be considering anything foolish, another memory rears up to gut me.
The words I’d overheard him saying to Ashon that night a month ago when I lingered in the hallway for reasons I don’t even remember now.
Theo’s dry, dismissive voice, mocking the very idea of joining the ‘domestic bliss brigade.’
It wrenched at something within me then, so hard that it frightened me. It was something I struggled, but finally succeeded, to cover up.
Because I forced myself to remember who I am.
Why I decided to do this on my own.
Giles shattered my trust, yet Theo never made me any promises, so I have no one to blame but myself for letting him wreck me with words that should have meant nothing.
So now I press my hands against my knees, steadying myself as the chauffeur whisks us from Cape Town’s airport towards our hotel.
From the corner of my eye, my lover—until the sand runs out of the hourglass anyway—works steadily on his tablet.
Outside the window, Table Mountain rises in its flat majesty against the sky, beautiful and uncompromising.
A reminder that strength isn’t negotiable.
And strength is what I need most right now.
The hotel is a jewel box of glass and steel, every angle catching the late-afternoon sun and scattering it like molten gold across the bay.
Theo checks us in with his usual efficiency, one hand on the small of my back as if he owns the very air around me. I let him, even though my heart is already wobbling, the clock ticking so loud inside my head I half expect the concierge to hear it.
Upstairs, the suite is sprawling and indulgent—floor-to-ceiling windows, champagne already on ice and a bed so wide it could host a small diplomatic summit.
Theo drops his jacket across a chair, loosens his tie, then turns those devastating eyes on me.
He grabs me by the wide tan belt securing my saffron coloured sundress, unbuckling it with a lazy, domineering assuredness that turns the blood in my veins to sex-drugged treacle.
‘Shall we work off the jet lag now or order room service I can eat off your body before I feast on your every pleasure point?’ he says.
Now is the time to push him away.
Now is the time to stay strong.
But I’m weak where he’s concerned. Always have been. So when I wordlessly sink to my knees before him, my lips and tongue working him until his curses rasp through the quiet, it isn’t selflessness—it’s strategy.
It’s distraction. For him and for me. A means to retreat, without words, from a far too intoxicating existence I’ve created for myself. An existence I know is only an illusion.
And he knows it, too. Because when I’m done knocking the stuffing out of his control, his eyes narrow as I rise, wiping the corner of my mouth, satisfaction curling through me even as guilt nips and I hasten to find my voice before he flattens me.
‘That was a much better exercise, was it not?’
He stares at me for a molten second. ‘You think you can shut me up with your mouth?’ His tone is silken, dangerous.
‘Worked, didn’t it?’ I toss back, reaching for flippancy. ‘Besides, as much the other options appeal,’ I half-turn away from his intelligent eyes, affecting a slow shrug even as my inside churn and race, ‘I’m struggling a little with… PMS. Not exactly feeling my best right now.’
His jaw tightens, suspicion flickering in his gaze. ‘PMS doesn’t usually stop you from letting me inside you.’
Heat scorches my cheeks, not from arousal but shame. He’s right. And yet I lift my chin, too proud to admit I’m lying through my teeth. ‘Maybe I just wanted to give for once, not take. Is that so hard to believe?’
He studies me, long enough that the air between us crackles. ‘It’s hard to believe you’d ever settle for crumbs when you deserve the whole feast,’ he says finally, quietly but firmly.
I want to scream, then why won’t you give it to me? But the words stay locked in my chest. Because how can I ask for more when I’m meant to be working him out of my system? When the very idea of domestic bliss is anathema to him?
I watch him stalk to the minibar, then return minutes later with an assortment of comfort offerings—a steaming cup of herbal tea, a tiny dish of dark chocolate, a plush robe he drapes over my shoulders once he goes through the motions of undressing me, all while his gaze digs into me.
The tenderness guts me, tugging at strings I don’t want pulled.
Because I’m not suffering from PMS. Not even close.
I’m in my fertile window. I should be at the IVF clinic already, beginning what I promised myself I’d do before my thirtieth birthday.
Instead, I’m here, basking in Theo’s indomitable attention. Letting myself believe, for a dangerous moment, that this could be enough for me, when I know deep in my bones it is not.
Between one heartbeat and the next, I’m lying down on fluffy pillows, tea in one hand, remote in the other.
‘Rest,’ he orders softly, brushing a kiss against my temple. ‘Or order room service. I was going to push some things around, but I think I’ll keep my appointments. I’ll be back in a few hours.’
‘Theo—’ I begin, not even sure what I mean to say. Don’t go. Don’t be kind. Don’t make this harder than it already is.
He presses a finger gently to my lips. ‘Sleep, queen. Or at least pretend to until I get back.’
He saunters away without looking back and the door clicks shut behind him.
I don’t rest. I don’t even breathe properly.
By the time the suite is silent again, I’m on my feet, dressed with my bag in hand, my resolve stitched tight around the hollow in my chest.
Minutes later, I’m sliding into a waiting car, the clinic address already keyed into my phone.
Reality isn’t knocking any more.
It’s here. And I’d be a fool to refuse it.
The taxi lets me out outside the nondescript doors of the equally nondescript building.
There are no flashing lights to say your life is about to change here.
Maybe it’s by design. Maybe they never even thought about it because the work that goes on inside is much more serious than the frivolous architectural intentions that shape skylines.
A laugh bubbles in my throat—bitter, shaky.