I lifted my hand and gestured toward his face. “Now please clean yourself. I would prefer my nephew not be handled by a man who still has cocaine on his nose.”
I turned toward the door, took one last slow look around the room, and then stepped into the hallway where my men waited.
As the door clicked closed behind me, I felt no need to look back.
The judge would do exactly what I asked. He had no choice.
And tomorrow, I would have my nephew home.
EBONI KEEP IN NZURI HALL
The following day…
I’d spent the afternoon making sure Preslan was well cared for, and now the sun was settling across the windows of my second kitchen, warming the room with a soft gold that made everything feel calmer than it should have.
He was nine months old now, and he had grown into the most beautiful child. His curls were thick and soft and shaped like tiny dark spirals that framed his forehead. His skin carried a warm golden brown glow that reminded me of honey on warm bread. His eyelashes were long enough to sweep the top of his cheeks when he blinked, and there was something peaceful about the way he watched the world even when he did not understand it yet.
He sat in his little feeder seat, kicking his feet gently while I guided the spoon toward his mouth. He ate without fussing, opening wide as if he trusted the world completely. I loved that about him. I loved the innocence he carried. I loved how he leaned toward me when he grew sleepy and how his fingers curled around mine like I was the only anchor he had.
His little hums filled the kitchen while I wiped his mouth and offered him another spoonful. The staff kept their distance because they knew this time was mine. They also knew better than to whisper about anything they saw in this corner of the mansion. This part of the house belonged to me. No one entered without my approval, and no one asked questions they were not prepared to handle.
As I fed him, my thoughts drifted back to the night he was born. It was not a memory I ever tried to revisit, but today it came without warning. I remembered the moment I held him for the first time and how I had every intention of handing him to someone else. I had convinced myself that the safest plan was to have him raised far from the chaos his mother created. Yet the moment I lifted him from Treasure’s arms and saw those eyes blinking up at me, something inside me softened in a way I did not expect.
I had held many babies before, including my beautiful grandchildren, but I had never held one that made me feel like my own, other than Pressure. I never knew how powerful thatsensation could be until the weight of this tiny child rested against my chest. I told myself it was temporary. I told myself logic would guide me, but the longer I cradled him and breathed in that new baby scent that only exists for a few precious months, the more something old and bruised inside me began to stir.
I had miscarried five times during my marriage to Kojo. Five losses that carved holes I learned to hide behind meetings, empire building and the kind of confidence that made people forget I ever suffered at all. Each time I thought I would carry a child to full term, I imagined what it would feel like to have a little one fall asleep in my arms. Each time my body failed me, I found another way to bury the disappointment beneath another project, another business deal or another extension of control.
I used to imagine what life would have looked like if even one of those pregnancies had made it past the first trimester. Kojo and I always planned for a big family, and I carried those dreams close to my heart in the early years of our marriage. We wanted at least five children, a full house, little ones running through the halls, laughter echoing off the walls, and a future built on more than just the empire we created.
But each pregnancy ended the same way. Each time I felt a spark of hope, it slipped right out of my reach before I could even prepare myself. By the time I became pregnant with Pressure, I could barely breathe from the fear of losing him. I carried him with both hands in my stomach every night, praying he would stay with me. I barely slept. I barely spoke. I clung to him as if holding on tight enough would keep him alive.
When he was finally born, healthy and beautiful and loud enough to let the world know he had arrived, I held him against my chest for hours because I could not convince myself he was really here. Yet as much as I adored him, I could never bring myself to try again. I told the world I was focused on my businesses and my duties, but the truth was far more painful. Iwas afraid my body would fail me again. I was afraid I would give Kojo another reason to look at me with quiet disappointment even though he never said a word to make me feel that way. I was afraid that another loss would shatter whatever pieces of me I had managed to put back together. So life moved forward with only one child in our home, and I buried the desire for more somewhere deep inside myself. I convinced everyone around me that I was whole, yet there was always a part of me that felt unfinished.
I had kept those memories tucked behind the part of my mind where I kept the darkest moments of my life. I learned how to smile through it, how to stand tall even when my stomach felt hollow, and how to reassure my husband that I was fine even when my heart felt like it had shattered piece by piece.
Holding Preslan had awakened pieces of me I thought I had buried forever. The ache, the longing and the quiet questions I used to ask myself about whether my bloodline was strong enough or whether I had been chosen to carry legacies that my body refused to protect.
I placed the empty bowl aside and lifted him from his seat. He rested his cheek against my shoulder with a tiny sigh that made me close my eyes for a moment. I rubbed his back and let my cheek rest against his curls as his arms wrapped around my neck.
“You are my calm,” I whispered into the soft hair on his head.
The nanny approached quietly, her steps light. She carried the towel and the little bathing pan we used to wash him in this room. I gave a small nod and she prepared everything without a single word. I lowered him gently into the warm water and held him steady while the nanny washed him. He splashed and giggled, and I allowed myself to smile because joy was rare these days and I wanted to enjoy every bit of it.
Once he was clean, the nanny wrapped him in a soft cotton towel and dried him carefully. She dressed him in a fresh outfit that smelled of lavender and warm fabric, then handed him back to me. He curled into my arms again, already drifting toward sleep.
I carried him toward the rocking chair near the window and settled into it. His body fit against me as if he had always belonged here. His tiny fingers closed around the front of my dress and held on with surprising strength. I rocked gently, listening to his breath while his eyelids grew heavier.
I kissed the top of his head and let my fingers brush his cheek. The room was quiet and calm and filled with the soft clicking sound of the rocking chair. That was how Kojo found us.
I heard the door open but did not turn right away. I felt him before I saw him because Kojo always carried a presence that shifted the air around him. When he stepped into the room, the light from the hallway touched his face, and I looked up to see him watching me with those dark, steady eyes that had anchored me for decades.
He walked toward me slowly, not wanting to disturb the baby. When he reached me, he leaned down and kissed my lips. The kiss was warm and full of the kind of love only a husband could give after surviving storms with his wife.
He kneeled beside the rocking chair and placed one hand on my knee and the other on the baby’s back. He looked at him for a long moment, then lifted his gaze to me.
“Abeni,” he said, his voice deep and cautionary, “we need to talk about this.”
I stroked Preslan’s hair with one hand and met my husband’s eyes. “I know.”
