Kofi Agyeman.
I did not know the exact moment my body started responding again.
I only knew it happened when she touched me.
Not like a doctor. Not like a nurse. Not with urgency or pity.
Just… Akosua.
Her fingers rested gently on my arm, light but steady, as if she were reminding my body of something it had long forgotten how to remember.
Life.
For weeks—maybe months—everything inside me had felt heavy. Breathing felt like work. Thinking felt like punishment. Even opening my eyes had felt like a burden I could not carry anymore.
But the moment I saw her standing there, calm and strong, something inside my chest shifted.
The machines beside me beeped softly, then a little faster.
I heard my mother gasp somewhere behind me.
But I wasn't focused on them.
I was focused on her face.
I was afraid to blink. Afraid she would disappear the way she did eight months ago—quietly, without warning, leaving emptiness behind.
"You came," I whispered, my throat tight.
"I'm here," Akosua said softly.
Her voice.
God.
It slid into me like warmth after a long, cruel cold.
She sat beside me, careful with the wires, careful with my weakness, and brushed her thumb slowly over my wrist. That simple touch sent a strange calm through my body.
I felt it move inward. Into my chest. Into my lungs.
My breathing eased.
My heart slowed.
She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against my arm.
Not rushed. Not desperate. Just love.
Something cracked inside me.
I hadn't realized how starved I was for her—not just her presence, but her peace.
"You don't get to leave yet," she whispered close to my ear. "Not after everything you still owe me."
A weak sound escaped my chest.
Almost a laugh.
The nurse near the door straightened suddenly. My mother stepped closer, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Akosua smiled at me and brushed my hair back gently, the way she used to when I worked too late into the night.
"Do you remember how stubborn you are?" she teased softly. "You don't quit. You don't collapse. You fight."
I swallowed.
"Only when you're around," I managed to say.
Her eyes softened.
"Your empire didn't die, Kofi," she whispered. "It's just been waiting for you to stand again."
Something inside my chest lifted.
Hope. Real hope.
She kissed my cheek lightly this time. "And you still owe me an apology," she added with a small smile. "For thinking you could survive without me."
My fingers tightened around hers.
Then she laughed quietly.
"You should hear the things men say to me these days."
That got my attention.
"Men?" I asked weakly.
She raised a brow playfully. "Business partners. Investors. Kings with polished smiles and empty promises."
My chest tightened—not in pain this time.
In fear.
"And my company," she continued gently, "it's grown. Bigger than before. Stronger. I sign deals in cities you used to dominate."
I searched her face.
"But none of them are you," she said quietly. "None of them ever will be."
The machines beeped faster.
The nurse rushed forward. "His vitals are improving," she said in disbelief.
My mother covered her mouth. Tears ran freely down her face.
Thirty minutes.
That was all it took.
Thirty minutes of Akosua.
The fog in my head lifted. The ache in my chest eased. Food suddenly sounded… possible. Life suddenly felt reachable.
Even Princess Adjoa's presence—standing quietly by the wall—felt distant. Wrong. Empty.
I barely noticed her anymore.
Within the hour, the doctors returned, whispering among themselves, checking screens again and again.
"This is remarkable," one said. "His emotional state has stabilized significantly."
My mother turned to Akosua as though she was witnessing a miracle.
"You saved him," she whispered.
Akosua shook her head gently. "No. He chose to live."
The decision came quickly.
"He can be discharged," the doctor said carefully. "With rest. And emotional stability."
When we stepped outside the hospital later, Akosua stopped.
"I can't stay," she said softly.
My heart dropped.
"Not tonight," she continued. "You need rest. Real rest."
I nodded, even though it hurt. "Thank you… for coming."
She met my eyes. "Take care of yourself, Kofi."
Then she turned and walked away.
And for the first time, I did not feel abandoned.
I felt… determined.
Later that evening, after the house had settled and the noise faded, my mother sat beside me in the living room.
She looked tired. Older. Vulnerable in a way I had rarely seen.
"You scared me today," she said quietly.
"I scared myself," I replied.
She hesitated. "Akosua… she has taken over your heart completely."
I nodded. "She always did."
The Queen sighed deeply. "Do you know what position this puts me in?"
I looked at her, tense, waiting.
"I stood before the princess's father," she continued, voice heavy. "Before the king. I told him you and his daughter were meant to be. That marriage was certain. That their family should prepare."
Guilt twisted inside me.
"I don't know how to face them now," she admitted. "I don't know how to explain that everything has changed."
I sat up straighter.
"Introduction or no introduction," I said firmly.
"King or no king… I am done with the princess."
My mother's eyes widened.
"Kofi—"
"I can't heal while living a lie," I continued. "And I won't marry someone my heart rejects. I need space. I need clarity. And I need Akosua."
Silence fell between us. Heavy. Full of history, regret, and truth.
The Queen looked down, gathering her courage. "She will not accept this easily," she said softly.
"I know," I said. "But pretending… lying… it kills me more than anything else."
She nodded slowly, tears glistening. Her hands shook slightly. "I only wish I could make it easier for her… for the princess's family. But I cannot change hearts or destinies."
I placed my hand over hers. "Mother… I am done. Without question. Without hesitation. Akosua or no one."
Soft footsteps.
A presence.
Princess Adjoa stood at the doorway.
Smiling.
She had heard everything.
Her eyes were calm, almost calculating. That smile told me one thing clearly—
The war was far from over.