Usually, it’s fluff. But then Luca’s face fills the screen.
He looks different in this clip. It must have been filmed a few days ago during one of his physical therapy sessions. He looks nervous, his usual polished confidence replaced by a dazed, weary expression.
“My family...” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. The interviewer asks him about the upcoming birthday gala. “They have these expectations. High ones. In my culture, you don’t just marry a woman; you marry her into a legacy. There’s a standard of... regality. A way things are done.”
He sighs, and for the first time, I see a flicker of doubt in his eyes that he hasn't shown me.
“I love Aspen,” he says, and my heart leaps, only to plummet a second later. “But I’m not sure what they’ll think of her. She’s...unconventional in my mother’s eyes. She’s fire and sass and American independence. My mother expects a certain kind of daughter-in-law. I’m worried that when the two worlds collide, the explosion might take us both out.”
The room feels like it’s suddenly lost all its oxygen. Unconventional. Worried. The very fears Eslin had poked at while we were in Tatum’s office were now staring back at me in 4K resolution. He wasn't just worried about his mother. He was worried about me fitting in. and now I’m suddenly worried if I’m enough for the “legacy.”
I reach for the remote and click the TV off. The silence that follows is deafening.
A moment later, I hear his footsteps returning to the room. I quickly adjust my posture, pulling the duvet up to my chest and staring at the blank screen.
“Did the power go out?” Luca asks, entering the room with a faint smile.
“No,” I say, my voice sounding tight even to my own ears. “I just... I’ve had enough of the drama for one night. I’m tired.”
He climbs back onto the bed, sensing the shift in the air immediately. He reaches out to touch my face, his fingers warm and familiar. “You okay, my love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I look at him. Behind closed doors, when it’s just us, it feels like he’d move heaven and earth for me. But judging by the look I just saw on his face, he also seems terrified to introduce me to his mother. I want to scream. I want to ask him if I’m an embarrassment or a prize.
But Eslin’s voice echoes in my head,“Give him the chance to be who he says he is.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing a small smile as I lay my head back on his chest. “Just thinking about the fitting tomorrow. I want to make sure I look the part.”
“You’ll be perfect,” he whispers, kissing the top of my head.
I close my eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart. I want to believe him. I need to believe him. But as I drift toward sleep, I can't help but wonder if I’m preparing for a party or a funeral for the woman I thought I was starting to become.
His.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jollof, Jet-Lag + the Judgemental Aunties
Luca
Something is off.
The sound of the rental car’s engine is the only thing filling the silence as we wind through the manicured streets of Upper Marlboro. Beside me, Aspen is staring out the window, her hand resting idly in her lap. Last night, she seemed genuinely excited to meet my family, but the light in her eyes has been dimmed since the moment we touched down at BWI.
I can feel the shift, and it scares the hell out of me. The only thought looping through my mind is that she’s changed hers. That she’s finally having second thoughts about wanting me now that I’ve finally found my footing in all of this.
We were fine last night. More than fine. We were tangled together in a way that felt like a permanent grounding. But the moment the television clicked off, a wall went up. It isn’t a cold wall. She still answers my questions and offers me those small, polite smiles. But it’s a wall nonetheless.
“You're quiet, my love,” I say, reaching over to cover her hand with mine. “Is the jet lag hitting you, or are the nerves finally winning?”
She doesn't look at me, her gaze fixed on the passing colonial-style mansions. “Neither. I’m just taking it all in. It’s beautiful out here.”
“Aspen.” I squeeze her hand gently. “Talk to me.”
She squeezes my hand. “I’m fine.”
The lie tastes like ash, but I don't push. Not yet. I know my wife well enough to know that when she retreats this far into herself, she’s bracing for something. And the last thing I need to be is an additional burden. I need her to know that she can depend on me. Even if that means being with her when she’s quiet. Sitting with her while she takes up silent space.
The atmosphere shifts as we pull into my parents’ neighborhood. This isn’t just any upscale community. It’s a high-end village paying homage to the Nigerian diaspora. Where everyone is family. The houses are grand, sprawling estates with circular driveways, but the life between them is what truly defines the territory. You can smell it before you see it—the smoky, spicy aroma of jollof rice and grilled goat meat wafting through the air, completely overriding the scent of freshly cut grass and privilege.
