Chapter Nine
Tessa
THE POOL GLITTERS like a jewel under the Cape Town sun, its surface as calm as my pulse is frantic. I sit cross-legged in a lounge chair, laptop balanced on my thighs, pretending to review proposals for Obibini’s cultural wing. But the second the email pings, my throat tightens.
Subject: IVF Consultation—Please Confirm.
The words sear across the screen, too stark, too loud. My finger hovers over the trackpad as though I can erase them by sheer force of will.
On the lounger next to me, Theo lounges like sex personified. Bare chest, a linen shirt open to the waist, designer sunglasses masking his eyes.
And it’s those damn shades that undo me. Because I can’t tell if he’s watching.
If he saw.
I force my face into neutral, click the email away, slide into another document. My smile would fool a stranger. But Theo Biney? He’s no stranger.
The silence stretches. Then, in that deceptively casual tone of his, he says, ‘You’re very intent on that screen, queen. Should I be jealous?’
My pulse skitters. ‘Of what? My spreadsheets?’
One brow rises above the rim of his sunglasses. He doesn’t answer, just takes a slow sip of something amber and expensive, his jaw flexing as if he’s biting back a dozen things.
This isn’t normal. None of it. A man like him, knowing his lover is about to impregnate herself with another man’s sperm? It’s unheard of. Unthinkable. And yet here we are—playing chicken with plans neither of us dares to voice.
I shut the laptop, snapping it closed harder than necessary. ‘I have meetings tomorrow.’
‘Mm.’ His agreement is low, noncommittal. ‘What kind of meetings?’
‘Professional. And yes, personal too.’
‘Of course.’ He doesn’t press, but the weight of his silence like is a vice.
I stand abruptly, the heat of his gaze—or maybe the sun—scorching my skin. ‘You’re staring.’
He takes off the sunglasses then, folds them with deliberate care and sets them on the table beside him. His eyes, those relentless, cocoa-dark eyes, find mine. Hold. Strip. ‘Yes. I am.’
The air between us crackles. I turn to flee inside, but his voice catches me mid-step.
‘Wherever you’re going tomorrow,’ he says, velvet lined with steel, ‘I’ll come with you.’
I spin back, heart thudding against my ribs. ‘You will not.’
The faintest curve of his mouth—dangerous, inevitable. ‘I will. Unless there’s a reason you don’t want me there?’
The pool shimmers across from us, deceptively calm.
My insides are anything but. Because this is no longer just about sex or power or even past wounds. This is a man stepping directly into the minefield I swore I’d navigate alone.
And, God help me, part of me wants him to.
Panic prickles beneath my skin at the strength of that thought.
The idea of Theo sitting in that sterile clinic, watching me select files, asking questions, owning space that should be mine alone—it feels like being backed against a wall with nowhere to run.
‘What are you playing at?’ I ask suspiciously.
He doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs, lazily, like a king indulging a subject. ‘Nothing. Unless you’re hiding something?’
The casual barb slices. Too precise, too clean.
I know he saw it land because his expression flickers, almost softening.
A beat later he leans forward, catches my hand, lifts it.
The brush of his lips over my knuckles is light, almost courtly, but the weight of his gaze behind the gesture is anything but.
As is the singe of his touch that sparks everything inside me to searing life.
‘Everything’s out in the open now,’ he murmurs, words both a promise and a challenge. ‘No reason why I can’t be there. To support. You went through one experience near enough alone. Why go through that again when there’s no need?’
Support.
The word slides into me with the strangest ache.
Because I know—God, I know—there’s more beneath his insistence, an underlying intent I can’t yet define.
But the idea of not walking into that clinic alone, of not having to shoulder the silence by myself…
it soothes something raw and near-desolate inside me I hadn’t fully acknowledged.
So I nod, even when I should do the opposite. Slow, deliberate, as if hoping something, some thunderclap, will arrive in time to stop the word that spills free. ‘Fine.’
I hold his gaze, waiting. Wanting to see his reaction. But his damn sunglasses are firmly in place, those impenetrable lenses reflecting nothing but sky and water and my bewildered expression.
‘Good,’ he says simply.
My laptop pings again. The confirmation email waiting. I type out my response, setting the appointment for the next day. The whole time, I feel him watching. Unblinking and unmoving. A graceful, deadly predator biding his time.
The second I hit send, he rises.
In one fluid motion, he plucks the laptop from my lap, sets it aside, then curls his hands around my waist and pulls me to my feet.
‘Theo—’ I start, but the word fractures when he slides the straps of my bikini down, the cool air kissing my bare skin a heartbeat before the heat of his body covers mine.
‘Enough thinking,’ he insists as he tugs me towards the edge of the pool.
A splash, the shock of cold water. Then I’m caged against the slick infinity wall, the Atlantic crashing far below, the sun blazing over us.
His mouth claims mine, hungry, uncompromising and his hands roam, sure and devastating. I wrap my legs around him and surrender to the reckless heat, the wildness of being taken where anyone with binoculars could see.
When the release tears through me, I scream his name into the open air, my body shuddering in his arms.
It’s only afterwards, clinging to him in the water, that I realise.
He never once took off his sunglasses. Even as he consumed me. Even as he made me lose myself.
And if that isn’t a metaphor for what’s to come, I don’t know what is.
The town car rolls to a stop, sleek black against the drab concrete of the clinic’s exterior.
Theo slides out first, immaculate in a navy three-piece suit that clings to his broad frame like it was tailored on his body, not a mannequin.
His tie is gone, discarded after my meeting with the cultural minister, but his shirt collar is unbuttoned just enough to flash the decadent strength of his chest and throat.
Sunglasses shield his eyes, but nothing can soften the edge of his presence. I take it, though my stomach twists tighter than the knot in my scarf.
He mutters something under his breath as he stares at the clinic, but it’s pointed enough for me to catch. ‘Functional, soulless. A box with doors. For God’s sake.’
A huff escapes me before I can stop it.
His sunglasses catch the morning glare as his head turns. ‘What’s funny?’
‘Nothing.’ I wave him away, smoothing down the belted wrap dress I chose this morning—a dusky green silk that makes me feel more composed than I am.
A string of freshwater pearls rests against my collarbone, chosen deliberately to project calm competence.
My heels click softly against the pavement as I follow him in. ‘Just you, being…you.’
He doesn’t press, but the tension coils between us all the same.
Inside, the sterile lobby smells faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish.
Five minutes later, we’re barely seated in the consultation room before Theo takes over like he owns the place.
Firing questions at the bewildered consultant about success rates, genetic screening, heritage matching, psychological profiling—one after another, until the poor man blinks like a deer in headlights.
At last, the consultant clears his throat. ‘Forgive me, Miss Rockson, but…is this your partner?’
‘No,’ I blurt, heat rushing to my cheeks.
‘A relevant party, all the same,’ Theo counters at the exact same time, his tone ironclad, his expression unreadable behind the shades.
Not yes, but a claim all the same.
The consultant blinks again, then wisely lets it drop. We’re shown into a private room with files neatly stacked. Twelve candidates this time, including the three I’d short-listed on my last visit.
I reach for the first, only to have Theo lean in, read the first few lines of the profile and sneer.
‘Too academic. You’ll end up with a child who questions everything to death.’
‘Maybe I want that?’ I reply, but I’m already pushing the file aside, jaw tight. Another.
He scoffs again. ‘Says here he’s broken his wrists twice and his ankle once. Not enough bone density. Weak.’
Another.
‘Look at this dental chart. You want your kid saddled with braces before they can walk?’
One by one, he dismantles them all with relentless, surgical derision. Until finally I snap, slamming the folder shut. ‘Enough. Stop. You’re not helping.’
His smile is stiff, unrepentant. ‘I’ll get you some water.’
I sit there, pulse thrumming, torn between fury and despair. Another round of indecision churns my stomach. A week. That’s all I have left to choose if I want to be inseminated on schedule. And still, I can’t decide.
I return to the last three profiles, wishing the clinic didn’t have a no-photograph policy. Then I grimace. Because looks aren’t everything. Hell, they should be the last factor as long as a healthy baby is guaranteed.
And maybe that the baby’s looks resemble Theo Biney?
Argggh!
I rise, needing air. Stepping out into the hallway outside, I pass a water cooler station and frown.
Then turn down another corridor. Only to halt mid-step.
Because there, just a few steps away, is Theo—shaking hands with the clinic’s director. The man’s smile is suspiciously wide, his nod just a fraction too deferential.
My gut drops.
‘What was that about?’ I demand as Theo strolls back towards me, all casual grace and no water.
‘Nothing dramatic.’ His tone is mild, his expression cool. ‘I was giving him some architectural pointers.’
I arch a brow. ‘Pointers?’
‘No need for the experience to start off dreary when it can be so much more…’ He gestures around with a vague sweep. ‘More.’
‘And you think a pleasing building will do that?’