Akosua.
The first thing I did was touch him.
Not urgently.
Not dramatically.
Just my fingers resting gently on his arm, as though reminding his body of something it had forgotten.
Warmth.
Kofi's skin was warm beneath my palm, but his strength felt distant—like a flame flickering in the wind, fighting not to go out. His eyes were open now, fixed on my face with a fragile intensity, as if he was afraid that if he blinked, I might vanish again.
"I'm here," I whispered, leaning closer. "I won't leave."
His lips trembled.
Not from pain.
From emotion.
The machines beside him beeped softly—measured, careful—like even they were holding their breath.
I sat slowly on the edge of the bed, ignoring the wires, the needles, the sterile authority of the hospital room. None of it mattered. There was only him. Only us.
I brushed my thumb gently over his wrist, feeling his pulse beneath my skin. Weak—but present.
Alive.
Then I leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his arm.
Not rushed.
Not forced.
Just love.
His chest rose deeper this time.
I felt the change before I saw it.
"Kofi," I murmured, my voice breaking as tears filled my eyes. "Do you remember how stubborn you are? How you never quit—even when the whole world stood against you?"
His fingers twitched under mine.
Hope stirred.
"You don't get to give up now," I continued softly. "Not after everything we built. Not after everything we survived."
The nurse near the door straightened, her professional calm cracking into surprise.
I leaned closer, my lips brushing his ear, my breath warm against his skin. "Your empire didn't fall," I whispered. "It's only resting. Waiting for its king to stand again."
A tear slid from the corner of his eye.
My heart shattered and healed all at once.
I kissed his cheek—slowly, tenderly—then lingered there, my forehead resting against his temple. "You still owe me an apology," I whispered, a small smile breaking through my tears. "For thinking you could survive without me."
A faint sound escaped his throat.
Almost a laugh.
The monitor beeped faster.
Gasps filled the room.
His mother turned sharply, her eyes widening. "Did you see that?"
I brushed my fingers through his hair, the way I used to—memorized, familiar. "You see?" I whispered to him. "Even your heart knows I'm trouble."
His lips curved weakly. "You… always were."
The words were soft. Barely audible.
But they carried eight months of silence.
I laughed quietly, tears slipping freely now. "You should hear the things men say to me these days," I teased gently. "Business partners. Investors. Men who think power makes them worthy."
His brow furrowed faintly.
Jealousy.
Good.
"They love my smile," I went on softly. "My mind. The way I walk into boardrooms and make grown men listen."
His fingers tightened around mine.
I leaned closer, my voice dropping. "And my company? It's grown, Kofi. Bigger than projections. Stronger than before. I sign deals in cities you once ruled."
His eyes searched my face—not for pride.
For reassurance.
"But none of them are you," I said quietly, pressing my palm to his chest. "None of them ever touched my soul. None of them ever owned my heart."
His breathing evened out.
Steadier. Stronger.
The nurse stepped forward, staring at the monitor in disbelief. "His vitals are improving," she said softly. "This is… remarkable."
His mother covered her mouth, tears spilling freely now.
Thirty minutes.
That was all it took.
Thirty minutes of touch.
Of truth.
Of love that had refused to die—even when pride tried to kill it.
Within an hour, the doctors returned—confused, cautious, amazed.
"His condition has stabilized significantly," one said. "The depressive symptoms have lifted. He's responding emotionally."
The Queen turned to me.
Not as a ruler.
As a grateful mother.
Princess Adjoa stood silently in the corner.
Her practiced smile had cracked.
Her eyes burned—sharp, calculating—as she watched Kofi slowly sit up, color returning to his face, strength creeping back into his voice.
All because of me.
Within another hour, the decision was made.
"He can be discharged," the doctor said. "With rest. And support."
Kofi turned to me immediately, his fingers still clinging to mine. "Come home with me," he said quietly. "Just for today."
I hesitated.
Then nodded. "Just today."
Relief softened his face.
When we arrived at the house, the gates opened slowly.
The door opened too.
Princess Adjoa stood there.
Perfect posture.
Perfect smile.
"Welcome home," she said sweetly.
But her eyes told a different story.
That night, as I sat beside Kofi in the quiet of his room, my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
You just declared war.
And I will fight you with my last blood.
My breath caught.
From the corner of the room, Princess Adjoa watched me.
Smiling.
And I knew—
This was no longer about love alone.
It was about survival.