But instead of stepping into the car, she throws her arms around Luca, laughing as she hugs him fiercely. She leans back, murmuring something private to him, before she extends her other arm. I’m surprised when she doesn't pull back. She reaches past Luca’s shoulder and gives my hand a quick, warm, meaningful squeeze. She lets go of us both and finally climbs into the driver's seat.
Once his mother is speeding around the cul-de-sac, Luca leads me out toward the patio, where the music has shifted into a high-tempo Afrobeat rhythm. The energy is infectious. People are sliding across the make-shift dance floor on the grass, their bodies moving in a fluid, grounded way that looks like second nature.
“Watch my feet,” Luca whispers, pulling me closer to the edge of the dance floor. He starts to move, a subtle shift of his weight, his shoulders shimmying in a way that’s both playful and incredibly masculine. “It’s all in the hips and the heart, love. Just follow me.”
He shows me the basic steps, laughing when I nearly trip over my own hem, his hands never leaving my waist. But then, the music swells, and a shout goes up from the crowd.
“Uzo! Aspen! Oya!”
The circle opens up like a blooming flower, and my heart leaps into my throat as the Uncles start clapping in a heavy, rhythmic thunder that matches the drums. Luca looks at me, a silent question in his eyes—a final check to see if I’m ready to step into the light and be his wife in front of everyone in his life who matters.
I take a breath, clutching his hand, and let him lead me into the center of the floor.
As we begin to move, the air suddenly fills with a fluttering rain. I blink, realizing it isn’t confetti. It’s money. Dozens of hands reach out, pressing crisp bills against our foreheads and shoulders before letting them drift to the floor in a growing carpet of green.
“They’re spraying us,” Luca shouts over the music, his grin blinding as he pulls me closer. “It’s called money spraying. It’s how we show our joy. Every bill is a blessing for our future, a way to say they support us.”
I laugh, letting the tension and the past go, as an Auntie steps forward and tucks a twenty into the fold of my headpiece, whispering a blessing against my cheek. The rhythm of the Afrobeat takes over, grounding me in the heat and the noise.
In the middle of this beautiful, expensive rain, surrounded by the family I was so afraid of, I realize I’m not just a secret anymore. I am his queen.
With a gold gele to match.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Seeds, Sovereignty + a First-Class Finish
Aspen
The Excelsior Air lounge is the very definition of luxury travel. When Luca isn't flying on the team jet, he gets every perk available with this airline. Private alcoves, top-shelf spirits, and a level of quiet that feels a world away from the terminal.
I’m slumped in a buttery leather chair, watching a BSN highlights reel on the mounted TV. On the screen, my husband is a ball of kinetic energy; the headline scrolling beneath him reads: Luca Chidubem: The Predator on the Pitch returns. Beside me, the man himself is nursing a water, looking entirely too relaxed for someone who just survived an over-the-top gala disguised as his mother’s birthday party.
My mind is still reeling from the final hours of the celebration. It wasn’t just a party. It was a marathon of generosity and genuine hugs. Even from his mother. It seemed like every guest had arrived with actual buckets of money, because the “spraying” didn't stop with us. When his mother took the floor for her solo dance, she was virtually buried in a blizzard of bills.
By the time we made our exit, Luca and I had walked away with over two thousand dollars in “blessings” tucked into our clothes and pockets. When I tried to hand it back to him, he just pushed my hand away with a wink. “Consider it a seed. Use it for your business. The Chidubem family believes in investing in what grows.”
The meaning of those bills in my purse feels like more than just currency. It’s a glaring contrast to the way my own family operates. While the Chidubems seem to have an ancestral instinct to water anything with the potential to bloom, my parents have spent years pruning my dreams before they could even take root. To them, a venture isn't legitimate unless it’s been stamped with the approval of the masses. Also known as ‘the white gaze.’
It doesn’t matter that my projections are soaring or that I’m building something with my own two hands. If it isn't “prestigious” by their narrow, assimilated standards, it’s invisible.
My mother is likely still waiting for me to fail, waiting for the “hobby” to fold so I can finally crawl back to the life she curated for me. But as I look at the man sitting beside me, I realize she’s forgotten one thing. I’m a Chidubem now—and in this family, we specialize in growing the very things others said were impossible.
I’d actually reached out to my mother this morning. The call was brief and brittle, squeezed in just before we left for the airport. Something about the intensity of the last few days made me feel the sudden, nagging need to hear her voice.
I finally told her I wasn’t going to Martha’s Vineyard. I made it clear that it wasn't out of shame or embarrassment, but because I needed the space to be able to walk into a room with my husband and not worry about the firing squad. Which will likely require a few rounds with my therapist before I’m fully ableto do that. I’m self-aware enough to know that the way I “set my boundaries” lately hasn't exactly been healthy. I told her we needed to talk—really talk—and agreed to meet her once I got back home.
For the first time in years, her voice didn’t carry that instructional edge I’ve come to expect from her. She actually sounded...open to me. Or maybe it was just her exhaustion with it all. As I sit here in the quiet of the lounge, I wonder if I can actually trust the softening in her tone, or if it’s just another calculated move to pull me back into the fold.
I shift in the buttery leather chair. Luca is watching the screen, but I can tell his mind isn't on the highlights. He’s tracing the rim of his water glass with a thumb, a small, private smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Aspen?” he says, still looking down and into his glass.
I turn toward him, catching the way the dim lounge light hits the sharp, unapologetic line of his jaw. “Yeah?”
“I was thinking,” he says, leaning in until the scent of his cologne settles over me. He tilts his head, a playful, boyish glint in his eyes that usually precedes a goal. “Would you consider staying with me? Forever?”
The question is light, wrapped in a layer of teasing, but I can see the flicker of something vulnerable beneath the surface. It’s the look of a man who has played every high-stakes match in the world but has finally found the one trophy he’s terrified to lose.
