Chapter Five Asher
I’m quickly learning that Imani Davies is the kind of person who does everything with a sort of fiery intensity.
We meet, three days after our initial reintroduction at the Vouvalis offices, at a member’s club in Central London.
I’ve never been here before, preferring the Vouvalis Hotel lounges if I ever need a space for entertaining clients, but Imani has me listed as her guest at the front door and I’m waved in after the host scrutinises my ID and then attempts (and fails) to corral me into a membership of my own.
I find Imani nestled in a comfy-looking armchair, a bottle of sparkling water and two glasses on her left, her laptop, covered in what look like passport stamp stickers from every country from Argentina to Zambia, open in front of her. On her right is what I can only describe as a dossier.
She looks up at me over the top of her laptop as I approach, and her lips split into a soft smile I most definitely don’t deserve. I have the sudden urge to commit this to memory, reasoning that this is probably going to be the last time I see that smile, given what I’m about to tell her.
‘Oh good,’ she says, shuffling her laptop and dossier aside as I drop into the seat opposite. ‘I was just starting to wonder if they were giving you any trouble at the door. Drink?’ She nudges the bottle and a tumbler glass in my direction, but I shake my head.
‘There are very few things in this world I hate more than sparkling water.’
She rolls her eyes and laughs. I try not to think about what a shame it is that I’ll never get to hear the sound again.
‘Sparkling water haters are always so dramatic. But, noted. I suppose that’s something your heartbroken ex should know about you, right?
’ She wiggles her brows conspiratorially and guilt settles uncomfortably in my gut.
I need to get this over with.
I need to tell her that I can’t agree to her plan and that we just need to accept that our fathers are going to do what they want to do.
But then I remember the way she looked at me three days ago – the clear disappointment that flashed over her face when she assumed, correctly I suppose, that I was nothing more than a doormat – and I can’t do it.
The words get stuck in my throat and I realise that I want to savour this moment, this pocket of time where Imani Davies doesn’t hate me, for just a little while longer.
‘Right,’ I say, forcing a grin onto my face that I hope looks natural.
Imani matches my attempt at nonchalance with an easy smile of her own. ‘Great. Okay, let’s talk strategy.’
Without waiting for my response – which is probably for the best, considering that the only thing that comes to mind is a strangled Uhh?
– Imani flips open the dossier with a flourish.
The front cover hits the table with a THWACK and the pages inside spill out in an avalanche of sticky notes, printouts and lined paper with a semi-coherent looping scrawl over it.
‘So,’ Imani continues, apparently oblivious to the stunned look on my face as she flicks through the dossier, ‘I figured a good place to start would be our respective backgrounds. Childhood, hobbies, family, friends, stuff like that. Nothing too deep, just enough that if anyone asks any questions, it’ll be easy to keep up the facade that we actually know each other and used to date.
How does that sound?’ She looks up at me, thumb and forefinger lifting up a page where I can spy the words:
ASHER [MIDDLE NAME????] VOUVALIS
AGE: 27/28 [probably]
BIRTHDAY: ???????
I clear my throat and let out the strangled Uhh from earlier.
Imani isn’t deterred. She ploughs on as if I don’t look like a deer in headlights in front of her. ‘Don’t look so scared,’ she laughs. ‘I swear I’m not a stalker.’
I raise a brow and look pointedly at the dossier.
She lets out another bell-like peal of laughter and it takes me back to that party nearly ten years ago.
‘Okay,’ she concedes with a wry grin, ‘I’m not a very good stalker.
You, Asher Middle-Name-Still-Unrevealed-Vouvalis, are a very hard guy to find out anything about.
No defunct MySpace page from fifteen years ago, no Facebook profile with a hundred photo albums filled with every single photo you ever took with a digital camera, no cringy comments from the account you unfortunately made with your real name when you were twelve.
Sadly, I’m speaking from experience.’ She flashes me an embarrassed smile.
‘But it’s fine, that’s what this meeting is for: filling in the blanks. ’
She pulls out two sheets of paper, keeps the one with my name on it and slides the other one over to me.
IMANI MAYA DAVIES
AGE: 28
BIRTHDAY: August 12th 1997
I scan through the page and learn that she graduated with a First-Class Honours in Business and Management from the same Russell Group university as me, that she’s fluent in French, is a qualified lifeguard, is allergic to pineapple, names a Sloane Chavan (a name that rings a very faint bell but I can’t figure out why) as her best friend, and her favourite food is her grandfather’s roasted seabass.
And that’s just all the information I glean from a twenty-second glance.
The page is double-sided.
My respective one is empty.
I put the paper down and decide I’ve indulged enough in Imani’s kindness. Enough is enough. I need to end this now, before Imani gets too into this and we head past the point of no return. Although, worryingly, it does feel like she’s already there.
‘Don’t you think this is a bit… much?’ I gesture towards the dossier and pile of paper in front of me. ‘You’re really… you’re really going all in on this.’
Imani cocks her head to the side slightly, the beginnings of a frown starting to appear. ‘Well, yeah? I mean, what’s the point of doing something if you don’t throw your entire self into it?’
She says it like it’s simply a matter of fact, and it kills the retort I had lined up on the tip of my tongue.
Maybe she has a point.
Circumstances in life have forced me to become the kind of person who takes the safe route.
Who waits for things to fall into place to avoid rocking the boat.
Who slots himself into the preordained spaces made for him without so much as a second thought.
But there’s something about Imani’s focus, the way she dives in headfirst without hesitation, that makes me realise there’s a difference between doing and simply letting the world turn around you.
The different between existing and living.
I realise, with a pang, that I’m not sure if my life up till now can be considered well lived. I’ve been nothing but a passive participant in my own life for the better part of twenty-eight years.
‘And I needed a distraction,’ she continues, completely oblivious to the mental warfare going on in my own mind. ‘From… well, never mind.’ She shakes her head and waves a nonchalant hand. ‘Anyway, if we’re going to do this, we might as well do it properly, no?’
I hate how dry my mouth is right now. Hate how slick with sweat my palms are and how hard my heart is thudding against my ribcage.
Imani Davies should not be eliciting these kinds of feelings from me. I barely know her. Her happiness means nothing to me. I owe her absolutely nothing.
And yet.
‘What if we don’t do this?’ I finally manage to rasp out.
Imani freezes. ‘Uh?’
‘I’ve had some time to think,’ I say, surreptitiously wiping my hands against my thigh. ‘And I don’t think this plan is going to work.’
A shadow of disappointment flashes across Imani’s face. My heart twists.
‘Alright,’ she says slowly, voice clipped. ‘What’s your plan then?’
She’s misunderstood; gone ahead and mistaken me for a man rather than a doormat.
I swallow down the newly formed lump in my throat and force the words out. ‘I don’t have a plan.’
‘Well then,’ she says, and there’s not a single trace of the lightness from earlier in her voice now. Not even a hint of that lovely smile. ‘Let’s stick with my one unless you can think of something—’
‘I’m not going to go against my father.’ I say it so quickly, the words come out as a garbled mess.
Imani stiffens and I watch as any remnant of goodwill she has towards me evaporates.
‘Excuse me? What do you mean you’re not going to go against him?
’ she asks. ‘Because it sounds like you’re saying t bring hat you want to…
That you want…’ She can’t even herself to finish the sentence.
Instead, she just frantically gestures between us, eyes wide with alarm.
‘I don’t want to marry you,’ I say quickly, before her imagination can run wild. ‘I mean, I’m not trying to offend you or anything, but—’
Imani waves an impatient hand. ‘Don’t worry about offending me, just explain yourself.’
I swallow. Just explain yourself. How do I explain twenty-odd years of neglect and the father-shaped hole in my life to her without sounding like a pathetic mess?
Imani’s gaze is still fixed on me. ‘Asher,’ she says, voice low, steady. ‘Please tell me you’re not seriously considering going through with this.’
I rake a hand through my hair and sigh. ‘It’s not that simple.’
‘It is,’ she insists. ‘You say no. You tell your father you’re not going to let him use your life like some bargaining chip in a corporate deal. End of story.’
I let out a hollow laugh. ‘Just because it’s easy for you, doesn’t—’
‘It’s not easy for me,’ she snaps, eyes flashing. ‘That’s why I’m here trying to find a solution to this. I thought we were on the same page here.’
Her conviction burns so bright it almost hurts to look at her. She’s armed with nothing but the unshakable belief that sheer willpower can rewrite the world around her. I envy it. I used to think I could be like that, too.
I lean back in my chair, my fingers drumming restlessly against my knee. ‘It’s different for me,’ I say, somewhat defensively.
Imani’s brow quirks slightly. She’s clearly unconvinced. ‘Different how?’
I hesitate. I could lie. Could feed her some vague excuse about the business, or my image, or my family’s legacy.
I could use the same buzzwords my father loves to throw around to get what he wants.
But the truth is simmering just beneath the surface, and as much as I want to keep it buried, Imani’s gaze is unflinching.
I owe her that at least, don’t I? But how do I explain that I’ve spent my entire life working to earn my father’s love and acceptance, and have always come up short?
How do I explain that if I fail this, like I’ve seemingly failed every other task he’s thrown my way, that this might just be it.
That this is my last chance to prove I’m worth something to him?
How do I explain that, when I don’t even know why I want to prove it to him in the first place but that his approval is like a lifeline I’ve been chasing my entire life?
I decide to settle on a version of the truth.
‘If I don’t go ahead with this, my father will make my life very difficult.’
Imani snorts, crosses her arms tightly over her chest and fixes with me a cutting glare. ‘Just to be clear,’ she says slowly, ‘you’d rather actually marry me, a complete stranger, than pretend we’re toxic exes for a few weeks?’
When she puts it like that, I sound like an idiot.
‘You make it sound simple.’
‘It is simple,’ she insists. ‘We’ve already been over this, Asher.
’ She holds up her hand and starts counting off her fingers.
‘We pretend we dated. We pretend it ended badly and we can’t stand to be in the same room as each other.
Our fathers panic, realise merging their companies through a doomed marriage is a PR nightmare, and they call it off. No wedding. No deal. Simple.’
I open my mouth to argue, but she barrels on, her words gaining momentum with every breath.
She taps her dossier. ‘I’ve already mapped it out: public appearances, controlled leaks to the right people, a few ‘accidental’ run-ins that end in disaster.
We’ll stage a few fights, throw in a couple of awkward photos, and BOOM.
’ She snaps her fingers. ‘Engagement over. Merger derailed. Fathers suitably chagrined. I don’t see what the problem is here. ’
The thing is that her plan relies entirely on our fathers having an ounce of shame between them.
And while hers might, mine most definitely does not.
The Vouvalis name has survived scandals, lawsuits, even a bribery investigation.
A few public arguments aren’t going to scare my father off a multimillion-pound deal with Peregrine if that’s what he’s set his sights on.
‘Come on, Asher,’ she pleads with me. Her eyes are wide and she’s looking at me like I’m her lifeline.
‘Please,’ she says quietly, the word threaded through with a kind of desperation that makes my chest ache.
‘You can’t actually want this. You can’t honestly be okay with marrying someone you don’t even know just because your father told you to do it. ’
I don’t answer her straight away. Mostly because I can’t.
But also, because if I open my mouth, I’ll have to admit the truth – that I don’t want this, but I don’t see a way around it either.
Imani doesn’t understand what it’s like to grow up with a father like mine.
To spend years trying to earn something as small and fragile as approval, only to be met with disdain each time.
To realise that love in the Vouvalis household is conditional on your usefulness.
‘I just don’t think it’ll work,’ I manage finally. ‘The plan, I mean.’
‘It will,’ she says immediately. ‘You just have to trust me.’ She looks so sure of herself – shoulders squared, eyes clear, lips pressed into a determined line – that for a moment I want to believe her.
I want to believe that a few staged arguments and some photo ops could actually undo decades of my father’s ambition.
But I know better.
My father doesn’t back down from bad press or public drama. He thrives on it. And when this plan of hers starts to crumble, as it inevitably will, he’ll find a way to twist it into something useful for him. He always does.
Still, I can’t bring myself to say any of that aloud.
I know that if I tell her the truth, that she’s wasting her time, that this plan is doomed from the start, I’ll see that spark in her eyes snuff out, and I don’t think I could stand it.
Not when she’s looking at me like I’m still capable of impressing her.
I make my decision then and there.
I’ll go along with her plan, and when everything inevitably comes crashing down on us and we end up right where my father wants us, maybe she won’t blame me. Maybe she’ll think we both tried, but it just wasn’t enough.
Maybe she won’t hate me.
I exhale a slow, shaky breath and say, ‘It’s Lincoln.’
Imani jerks back slightly. ‘Huh?’
‘My middle name. And I’m twenty-eight. Birthday is 16th February.’
Realisation dawns on her face and I’m treated to her smile again. ‘You’re in, then? For real this time?’
I nod. ‘I’m in.’