Chapter Eleven
Tessa
IF I’D THOUGHT confirmation would bring relief, I was wrong.
Two weeks after the news, inexorably and indelibly, the word pregnant has rewritten me, rewired me. And yet in the same breath, it feels like Theo has…disappeared.
Not physically. His scent still lingers in the hallways, in the living room, the kitchen. On the cufflinks that gleam where he drops them on the console table when he returns from work, on his glass that sits half-finished on the coffee table.
But emotionally, he’s pulled back, as though some invisible cord has snapped. And that shakes me and hurts more than I care to admit.
I told myself I’d only stay in his penthouse temporarily—until I found something less dreary than my shoebox flat. With Cilla’s mother now in Ghana for the baby’s impending arrival, the guest house is no longer an option.
At dinner one night last week, Theo barely managed to look smug when he announced it was no problem at all to have my things moved here.
And then he simply…made room. Gave me a space to use as an office.
He’s made me feel nothing short of welcome even in his absence.
It’s terrifying to realise how much I’ve grown used to it. How deeply I’ve fallen. How the thought of severing whatever this is between us, of amputating him from my life, feels like losing a limb.
And yet…
Even when he’s gone, Theo still manages to take care of me.
His private doctor, now mine, arriving to examine me before handing me a laundry list of expectations for expectant mothers.
His butler brings me breakfast in bed, trays arranged with almost ceremonial precision—eggs, fruit, warm rolls and a neat row of prenatal vitamins, never missed.
Small gestures, but they gut me. They remind me of South Africa, the way he spoiled me, charmed me, pampered me until I couldn’t tell if it was strategy or tenderness.
But…as much as it sears me deep inside, it’s been two weeks since I saw those lines. Two weeks of this strange silence and increased absences. Of barely seeing the man who hasn’t touched me since South Africa and yet hasn’t dismissed me from his life.
The rollercoaster of it all finally drives me to snapping point.
I can’t take it anymore.
So I make the call.
‘I think it’s time I start looking for a place of my own,’ I tell Cilla, fingers tracing the suede seam of the luxury couch I’m perched on in the living room. ‘Apartment or house, I don’t really care. I just need something decent. Will you come with me?’
Her warm assent steadies me. Until I hang up and realise I’m not alone.
‘The hell do you mean, looking for a place of your own?’
I whirl. Theo stands in the doorway, suit jacket half-off, eyes dark, fury banked so low it alarms me more than an explosion would have.
‘Just what I said,’ I say evenly, though my pulse stutters. ‘I can’t live here for ever.’
His jaw clenches. ‘You have the better part of eight months to prepare for the baby’s arrival. Why the sudden hurry?’
‘Because there’s no time like the present,’ I shoot back, chin high even as my chest squeezes. ‘And let’s be honest, you don’t really want me here. You’re hardly here yourself.’
Something flickers across his face. Not denial but not agreement either. Just something unreadable that slices me open with its ambiguity.
He looks away and fastens his cufflink with adept precision. ‘I have to go to New York. I’ll be gone for ten days. You’ll have the place to yourself.’
The words land like an axe splitting wood. Clean, brutal and final.
I nod because I can’t do anything else. ‘Fine.’
For a heartbeat, the air between us hums, shuffling between hot and cold, primal and civil and unrelenting. Like standing in the eye of a storm and knowing the walls of wind are closing in.
Then he strides past me, rigid and towering, cologne and heat trailing like loving ghosts, and the door shuts behind him.
Leaving me alone in his penthouse, bewildered and wondering how I ever thought I’d be strong enough for this.
I tell myself it’s fine that Theo’s gone.
That his absence gives me room to breathe for the first time in weeks.
That the stark space he left behind doesn’t echo with his whole and unapologetic presence. But it’s a lie I admit even before the first full day ends.
Because the truth is, I feel his presence everywhere.
Even though he’s called every evening since he left, voice rich with life and vitality and steel-edged authority.
The calls are always under the pretext of work—updates on the Obibini board, donor meetings, confirming architectural timelines.
But then he slides in questions about me, as if I won’t notice.
What did I eat? What time did I go to bed?
How many hours did I sleep? Did I take my vitamins? Did I drink enough water?
At first, I answer automatically.
Then, on the fourth evening, something cracks. ‘You know more about my day than anyone else,’ I murmur, the words slipping out before I can bite them back. ‘The way you’re acting…you could almost be the father of this baby.’
The silence on the other end is instantaneous. Staggering.
‘Theo?’ I whisper.
A clipped, ‘It’s late. I have to go,’ is all I get. And then the line goes dead.
I sit at his desk long after, staring at the darkened skyline, shivering with an impossible possibility I don’t dare name.
The phone rings again.
My heart lurches and I eagerly reach for it—but it isn’t Theo.
It’s the clinic director from Cape Town.
His warm, professional tone leaves no room for panic.
‘Ms Rockson, your doctor in Accra gave us the update a few days ago and I know our clinician has already been in touch. I just wanted to offer my congratulations personally and to check in. Everything looks very promising.’
I force myself to breathe. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you.’
He runs through a series of routine questions—symptoms, rest, dietary restrictions, almost as if he’s reading from Theo’s playbook. It would be amusing if it wasn’t for the abiding bereft sensation expanding in my chest.
Again, my answers are perfunctory. We’re seconds from hanging up when he adds, almost casually, ‘And please do extend my gratitude to Mr Biney when you speak with him again. Another chance to thank him properly for his very generous donation.’
The words hit like ice water. ‘Donation?’ I repeat faintly.
‘Yes. Quite extraordinary. And of course, his proposal regarding the facility’s refurbishment—we’re thrilled at the guidance from a man of his renown. It’s not every day we receive such largesse, I can tell you that.’
I manage to end the call without betraying the storm inside me.
But when the line goes dead, I sit frozen.
Theo. Donation. Refurbishment.
I should chalk it up to his wealth. His influence. His pride as an architect.
But the timing. The scale. The specificity.
The IVF donor’s profile that uncannily reminded me of him.
I want to ignore it, bury my head in the sand. But this feels too much to be a coincidence.
So I’m not surprised at all when I spend the night tossing, turning, unable to silence the gnawing suspicion. He’s wrapped himself around every part of this, hasn’t he? Wrapped himself around me.
And still, I… I…love him. God help me, I do.
And while a part of me finally sighs at admitting this world-shaking truth to myself, the greater part recoils in the scale of devastation I can scent in the air.
By dawn, exhaustion clings like sweat and I can’t take it any more.
I call the clinic director back the second the clock tells me it’s office hours, my voice tight with nerves.
‘Just one more question,’ I say. ‘About the donor I selected. Did he sign…’ I swallow hard, my throat like sandpaper ‘…did he sign an anonymity clause?’
‘I’m not sure. As you know, the donors are selected via an algorithm. Would you like me to check for you?’
‘Yes, please.’ I hate the tremor in my voice.
I hear keys clacking. Then slowing. Then silence as they stop completely.
‘Hello? Are you still there?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’ The director pauses, clears his throat. And in that pause, the ground beneath me shifts.
Theo
New York was supposed to help.
Ten days away from her—away from the scent of her skin in my sheets, from the sound of her regal footsteps and husky voice floating through my penthouse, from the sight of her hand unconsciously drifting to her still-flat belly—was meant to bring me some perspective. Space. Air.
But there was no air without her.
I sat in boardrooms, fielded calls, sketched towers that would scrape the Manhattan sky, but all I saw was Tessa.
Tessa, the woman who made me feel like a starving man with a feast just out of reach. Tessa, the woman carrying a child.
Possibly my child.
The child I schemed and orchestrated so it could be mine but might well be someone else’s. The child I’m discovering I fiercely want either way. Because…because…
Fuck, because I love its mother.
The woman who often switches between looking at me like she could bear to have me in her life but then in the next moment looks at me as though I were a stranger who might devour her whole.
God help me, I love her.
The word has never existed for me, not in any real sense. But I know it now with a certainty that hollows me out.
I love her.
And it’s unbearable—being this close to the thing you’ve yearned for all your life, and yet feeling devastation with every breath, even when you’re looking right at it. Like being granted the holy grail of life and forbidden to touch it.
I told myself New York would harden me, remind me of who I was before her. But all it did was strip me bare. Four years ago, I’d found the woman I couldn’t breathe without while believing I could hold my breath for eternity.
And now? Now I’m terrified.