The Amburdale estate looked more like a fortress than a home—stone walls that gleamed like steel under sunlight, heavy double doors that swallowed sound, and corridors that stretched on endlessly, empty and echoing.
When CeCe first arrived, he laughed softly to himself. "Of course," he murmured, looking up at the massive structure. "Even his house has a superiority complex."
The servants bowed as he passed, but there was a cautiousness in their eyes—curiosity laced with quiet judgment. To them, he was the scandalous omega the media couldn't stop talking about. The one who had managed to ensnare the golden Alpha heir through political manipulation and old money's desperation.
Only Dave walked beside him in silence, stoic as ever.
"Big place for one man," CeCe said, his voice lilting as they moved through the marble foyer. "Tell me, do you think he ever hears himself echo in here?"
Dave's lips twitched. "Wouldn't know, sir. The master keeps to himself."
"Mm." CeCe brushed a strand of platinum hair behind his ear. "You don't have to call me 'sir.' It makes me sound ancient."
"What should I call you, then?"
CeCe smiled sideways at him. "CeCe. Everyone calls me that."
"Everyone?"
"Well, everyone who's seen me naked."
Dave froze, shoulders going rigid. CeCe's laugh—light, musical, wicked—broke the still air of the hall.
"I'm joking," he said, stepping ahead of him. "Mostly."
---
The days that followed were strange.
Liam Amburdale—his new husband in name only—was an Alpha of routine. He left before dawn for the company and returned long after nightfall, sometimes still in his suit, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened but never undone. He hardly spoke during dinner, if he even attended.
CeCe, who had grown used to attention—hungry, shameless, and constant—found himself living with a man who looked at him only long enough to be polite.
At first, it was almost amusing. Liam Amburdale, the golden heir of one of the oldest Alpha bloodlines in America, treated him with the same distant civility one might give to a houseguest—courteous, reserved, and painfully detached. He didn't stare, didn't leer, didn't even hesitate when CeCe brushed too close in the halls.
And CeCe tested it. God, did he test it.
He would drift into the dining room late, wearing loose silk pajamas that slipped dangerously low on his hips, hair tousled and lips still damp from sleep. Liam would look up from his morning paper, offer a quiet "Good morning, CeCe," and return to reading as though marble statues had more power to tempt him.
He would lounge across the sofa in the study, knees drawn up, his sheer shirt sliding down one shoulder as he scrolled through his phone—barely glancing up when Liam entered, though every part of him screamed for the Alpha's gaze.
Nothing. Not a flicker.
It was infuriating.
CeCe had built his world on reactions—on the way people's eyes lingered, the way they flushed, the way power bent subtly toward beauty. He knew how to use it, how to weaponize charm into control. But Liam? He treated CeCe like an equal. Or worse, like someone unworthy of interest.
He didn't like it.
He didn't like the calm in Liam's voice when he spoke. He didn't like the quiet discipline that ruled the man's every movement, as though even desire had to obey his command. He didn't like the way his own heartbeat sped up every time Liam passed him without a glance, leaving only the faint trace of sandalwood and rain in his wake.
Most of all—he didn't like that he cared.
That somewhere between his teasing smiles and deliberate provocations, CeCe found himself wondering what could possibly make a man like that look away.
Was it disinterest? Disgust? Discipline?
He began to notice more: the way Liam's fingers tightened around his glass when CeCe leaned too close; the subtle shift in his throat when CeCe laughed too softly near his ear; the brief, betrayed glance that flickered in those molten gold eyes before he looked away again.
CeCe saw it—and for the first time in his life, he wanted to earn someone's attention instead of demand it.
He wanted to know why Liam didn't look at him.
And, more dangerously, what would happen if he finally did.
He wanted to know why.
---
One morning, CeCe wandered into Liam's private study uninvited. He found the Alpha standing by the window, sunlight streaking through his hair, the faintest shadow of exhaustion on his face.
"You're up early," Liam said without turning.
"I live here now," CeCe replied, sauntering closer. "Figured I should at least learn where you hide all day."
Liam exhaled quietly. "It's not hiding. It's work."
"Mm, yes. The great and mighty Amburdale Company," CeCe murmured, trailing a finger over the mahogany desk. "Do you ever stop working, Liam?"
"Not often."
"Do you ever breathe?"
That earned him a faint smirk. "Not when you're talking."
CeCe smiled, leaning his hip against the desk. "You're cute when you try to be clever."
"I'm not trying," Liam said, finally turning toward him. "CeCe… you don't have to entertain me. I know this arrangement wasn't your choice."
"Oh, it was," CeCe said brightly. "I made sure of it. After all, I got your bodyguard out of it."
Liam's brow arched slightly. "So that's all it took?"
"Don't sound jealous," CeCe teased. "You'll wrinkle that pretty face."
But when Liam didn't rise to the bait, CeCe sighed dramatically. "You're impossible to flirt with."
"Then stop trying."
"I can't," CeCe said, smiling sweetly. "You're married to me now. It's a moral obligation."
Liam didn't respond—he simply gathered a file from the desk and moved toward the door.
Before he left, CeCe called after him, voice softer this time. "You know, for a man who married me, you look at me like I'm someone else."
Liam froze.
CeCe tilted his head. "Didn't think I'd notice, did you? That little flicker in your eyes every time you see me?"
"…You look like someone I knew," Liam admitted at last, his tone low. "From a long time ago."
CeCe's lips curved, slow and feline. "Ah. The mysterious first love. Let me guess—he had green eyes too?"
"Yes."
"And blond hair?"
"Yes."
CeCe stepped closer, closing the distance between them until he could smell the faint trace of Liam's cologne—fresh cedar, rain, and restraint.
"What was his name?" CeCe whispered.
Liam's gaze dropped to the floor. "…Kevin. Kevin Maxwell."
"Oh! KiKi, from high school!" CeCe said softly, tasting the name. "Cute."
Liam's jaw tensed and for once his eyes shrank subtly from surprise. When Cece saw this, he couldn't help but tease.
"No way! You forgot we went to the same high school! Oh that's too priceless."
Liam quickly regained his composure as he continued.
"Yes, well… he moved abroad after graduation. We lost contact."
"And you never got over him."
Liam's silence was answer enough.
CeCe leaned in until his breath touched Liam's ear. "Then I suppose I should take it as a compliment," he murmured, voice like silk. "Marrying the imitation of your first love."
"CeCe—"
"Oh, don't look so serious." CeCe straightened, smiling again. "If you wanted a ghost, darling, you should've hired a medium. I'm much more interesting alive."
And with that, he turned on his heel and walked out, humming lightly.
Liam exhaled, slow and quiet, the sound mingling with the faint whisper of the morning breeze that drifted in through the open balcony doors. Sunlight spilled across his desk, gilding the edges of the room in pale gold. CeCe's perfume—something expensive and electric—still lingered in the air, mingled with the faint citrus of morning tea and the scent of freshly polished wood.
But something in Liam's chest shifted.
For the first time, he saw beyond the platinum hair and sharp tongue—beyond the deliberate provocation and armor of charm. When CeCe had stood there in front of him, arms folded, chin tilted in that signature blend of defiance and poise, Liam had thought he was looking at a ghost.
The resemblance to Kiki had struck him like a blow when they first met—same pale skin, same golden light in their hair when the sun hit it just right. But the illusion shattered the moment CeCe spoke. There was no softness in his words, no tremor of uncertainty. His voice carried heat, wit, danger. Every syllable cut through the air like silk over steel.
Kiki had been gentle—a man whose presence was like warm honey, quiet and giving, content to live in the shadows. His laughter never rose above a murmur. His hands had trembled when they touched. His eyes, dark green and deep, had always held that faint glimmer of apology, as if existing itself was too bold an act.
CeCe was nothing like that.
He laughed too loudly. He moved like he owned the space around him. His eyes—bright, unnervingly alive—didn't apologize for a single thing. When Liam had finally, cautiously admitted that yes, there was a resemblance, CeCe had only smiled and shrugged then walked out.
Just like that—without drama, without a parting shot. Just the soft sound of his boots fading down the hall, leaving Liam alone in the flood of sunlight and silence.
Now, staring at the door CeCe had closed behind him, Liam felt the weight of his own restraint settle like lead. He had meant to keep distance, to draw clean lines between past and present, duty and emotion. But CeCe didn't fit into the tidy boxes Liam built for the world.
He wasn't Kiki.
And maybe that was a good thing.
Because Kiki had been love wrapped in fear—something fragile and easily broken. CeCe was fire. CeCe burned. He demanded attention, refused to be pitied or protected. He was chaos where Kiki had been calm, lightning where Kiki was rain.
Liam rubbed a hand over his face, dragging in another slow breath as sunlight crept higher across the floor.
Maybe what unsettled him wasn't that CeCe looked like Kiki—
Maybe it was that CeCe made him feel again.
And this time, it wasn't tender or safe.
It was dangerous.
And it was already too late to stop.
---
The days stretched into weeks.
Liam continued to leave early and return late. His days belonged to the company, to boardrooms and mergers and all the inherited weight of the Amburdale name. By the time he returned each night, the mansion was quiet again—order restored, candles extinguished, CeCe's perfume just a faint trace in the halls.
But during the day, the house was no longer silent.
CeCe had filled it with life.
The once-stifled air now hummed with sound—the low thrum of music from the parlor, the clatter of porcelain, and, most of all, CeCe's laughter. It rang off the marble floors and echoed through the stairwells, irreverent and contagious. Servants who once walked in hushed steps now found themselves grinning despite strict training, their days punctuated by the unpredictable rhythm of CeCe's moods.
"Darling, if I have to eat another gray breakfast, I'll perish," CeCe announced one morning, sweeping into the kitchen barefoot, robe half open and hair glinting like sunlight. "Toast is supposed to be golden, not a war crime."
The cook—an older Beta named Mrs. Thorne—nearly dropped her ladle. "M-Mr. Amburdale, sir, I—"
"CeCe," he corrected sweetly, leaning over the counter to peek into a pan. "You'll make me sound like my grandfather-in-law otherwise. Add a bit of honey to that, won't you? I like my mornings decadent."
Mrs. Thorne stammered something about recipes and propriety, but she still reached for the honey.
By afternoon, he had claimed the sunroom as his domain. The wide glass windows spilled light onto his chosen throne—a plush chaise draped with throws in scandalous shades of rose and gold. He would lounge there for hours, surrounded by half-read books, a tray of pastries, and the occasional visitor—a trembling servant with tea, or one of Liam's assistants sent to drop off an apology gift and a message of Liam not returning for dinner.
"Put it there," CeCe would say, gesturing vaguely at a side table as he scrolled through his phone. Then, without looking up, "Tell Liam I'm doing wonderfully without him. No need to rush home on my account."
"Y-yes, sir," the poor assistant would mumble before fleeing, red-faced.
CeCe always smirked after, eyes glittering with mischief. "So easy to scandalize," he'd murmur to himself, "and they call me dramatic."
Even the old butler, Hensley—a man who had served the Amburdales for forty years without once cracking a smile—wasn't immune. One afternoon, he found CeCe sprawled across the grand piano in the drawing room, humming lazily and playing single, haunting notes with one hand.
"Mr. Ambur—ah, CeCe," Hensley corrected himself mid-bow. "The piano is a valuable heirloom, not a chaise."
CeCe tilted his head, feigning innocence. "But it's in my house now, isn't it?"
"It's Master Liam's—"
"Oh, he doesn't even sit on it," CeCe purred, fingers trailing a note that lingered like a sigh. "I'm just making sure it doesn't die of neglect."
The butler coughed discreetly. "Very good, sir."
By evening, the mansion felt different. The rigid perfection that had once defined the Amburdale estate softened beneath CeCe's touch. Vases overflowed with fresh flowers he'd demanded from town. The guest wing smelled faintly of wine and laughter. There was always a record playing somewhere—a sultry jazz tune, or something old and romantic that clashed gloriously with the house's severity.
And though Liam still left early and returned late, something subtle began to shift. He started to notice the scent of coffee in the halls when he came home, the faint glow of lamps CeCe had forgotten to turn off, and once, a stray silk robe draped over the back of his armchair—left behind like a mark, or a challenge.
CeCe had filled the house not just with sound, but with himself—his color, his chaos, his warmth.
And for the first time in years, the Amburdale mansion felt alive.
Dave González—his new shadow—found himself dragged into CeCe's orbit more and more.
They walked the gardens together.
It had started as a casual offer from Dave—"You should get some air, sir."—and somehow became a ritual. Every afternoon, when the light turned soft and the sun dipped low over the marble fountain, CeCe would emerge from the terrace doors in something outrageous: wide-brimmed hats, silk scarves that trailed behind him like banners, and trousers far too fine for dirt paths. He always walked a step ahead, talking as though the world had waited all day just to hear him.
"And honestly," CeCe said one day, flicking his wrist toward a row of white hydrangeas, "these flowers are positively tragic. Look at them. All that effort just to be so boring. White. Perfect. Predictable." He glanced over his shoulder, lips curling. "Remind you of anyone?"
Dave, as usual, didn't take the bait. "They're Liam's mother's favorite," he said simply, his tone even.
CeCe made a show of sighing. "Of course they are. Sentimental and dull—what a combination."
The breeze teased the edge of his scarf, carrying the scent of blooming roses and CeCe's faint cologne—something expensive, citrus and spice. Dave followed a few steps behind, his hands tucked in his pockets, posture relaxed in that quiet, unreadable way of his. He was built like the earth itself—solid, grounded, with the kind of strength that didn't need to announce itself.
CeCe, by contrast, was all motion and light. His words tumbled one over another, a stream of wit and complaint and color. He talked about fashion houses and scandals, about ridiculous etiquette rules at dinners, about how he was tempted to repaint the east parlor himself because "beige is the color of surrender."
Dave would hum in acknowledgment, or murmur, "That so?" in his low, gravel-edged voice, and somehow that was enough to keep CeCe going.
But sometimes—just sometimes—CeCe caught him smiling.
It always happened in the smallest moments.
When CeCe crouched to pet a stray cat that had taken residence near the fountain and muttered, "Finally, someone around here who appreciates good company," Dave's mouth twitched, the faintest hint of amusement breaking his composure.
When CeCe tried—tried—to pick a rose without pricking himself and hissed a curse far too crude for someone dressed like a prince, Dave's shoulders shook once, almost imperceptibly, before he cleared his throat and offered, "You should let me do that."
And when CeCe got carried away talking about fashion—how one could communicate power through color, or rebellion through cut—and turned to find Dave actually listening, truly listening, that was when he saw it: the faint upturn at the corner of his lips, small and real.
It disarmed him every time.
"Did you just smile?" CeCe asked once, mock outrage softening into something tender.
Dave didn't look at him. "Maybe."
CeCe's grin grew. "Well, well. The stoic finally cracks."
"Don't get used to it."
"Oh, too late," CeCe teased, walking backward now, facing him, sunlight catching the platinum in his hair. "I'm making it my life's mission to get another one."
Dave shook his head but couldn't quite hide the second smile that followed—quiet, fleeting, and impossibly rare.
And CeCe, for reasons he couldn't name, felt something loosen inside him.
Something warm.
Something dangerous.
Because for the first time since Liam had left, CeCe realized the mansion wasn't lonely anymore.
"You know," CeCe said later that afternoon, lying across a chaise near the glass doors, "you're terrible company for someone so tall. You should laugh more."
"I laugh plenty," Dave replied, glancing down at him.
"Then it must be internal," CeCe said, twirling a lock of his hair. "Do you ever do anything fun?"
"Protecting you is my job. That's plenty."
CeCe smirked. "You make it sound like I'm in danger."
"With you," Dave said, his expression softening, "it's hard to tell."
That made CeCe pause. For once, he didn't know how to tease back.
---
The servants began whispering.
At first, it was harmless—hushed conversations over freshly polished silver, quiet murmurs exchanged between the maids as they folded linens. They whispered about how different things felt now. How Mr. Amburdale's estate—once so silent you could hear a pin drop in the corridors—now breathed again.
"He says good morning to everyone," one maid whispered while arranging flowers in the hall. "And he remembers our names. No one's ever done that before."
"And did you see how he thanked Mrs. Thorne after breakfast?" another replied, eyes wide. "Actually thanked her. I thought she'd faint!"
Even Hensley, the old butler who'd been in service longer than most of them had been alive, found himself quietly approving of the change. "The young master may be… unconventional," he said in his low, gravelly voice, "but he's brought light into this house. Best not to question what the dark can't provide."
But the whispers didn't stop there. They grew softer, more conspiratorial, trading curiosity for fascination.
Because CeCe and Dave were rarely seen apart anymore.
They walked the gardens together, took tea beneath the wisteria arch, and shared quiet smiles that said more than words. The maids began to notice how Dave's expression—once unreadable—softened whenever CeCe entered the room, and how CeCe, in turn, seemed calmer around him, less performative, more real.
"I swear, if you didn't know better…" a young footman murmured one afternoon while setting out china.
"Don't," Hensley cut in sharply, his tone enough to silence the room. "Whatever you think you see, you didn't."
After that, the gossip quieted—but never vanished. It lived in the corners of smiles and sidelong glances, in the knowing hum of the kitchen when CeCe's laughter drifted down from the gardens.
The mansion, once cold as stone, had become alive.
The echo of CeCe's laughter chased away the silence that used to rule its halls. The gardens smelled faintly of his perfume—citrus, spice, and something unnameably sweet—and the servants claimed that even the roses bloomed brighter since his arrival. The kitchens buzzed again with life, filled with chatter, clinking dishes, and the occasional burst of music when CeCe insisted on "helping" prepare dessert.
And through it all, Dave remained steady at his side—his quiet, grounding presence tempering CeCe's whirlwind energy. When CeCe teased, Dave steadied. When CeCe flared, Dave soothed. Together, they brought a strange kind of balance to the house: light and shadow, chaos and calm.
Even Liam began to notice.
When he returned home from his long days at the company, he would pause at the threshold, sensing the change before he even stepped inside. There were flowers now—real ones—in the entryway, and the faint echo of laughter somewhere deep within the halls. The air smelled of warmth and spice, not dust and old stone. The mansion, which had always been his fortress of order and silence, now pulsed with something unfamiliar.
It felt… like a home.
Liam didn't quite know what to make of that—of the way CeCe's presence had transformed not only the space but the people within it. For the first time, he found himself wondering what he had built this house to protect—his legacy, or his loneliness.
He came home one evening to find the two of them in the parlor—CeCe on the floor with a half-finished puzzle spread before him, Dave sitting cross-legged across from him, expression patient but amused.
CeCe looked up as Liam entered, eyes catching the warm light. "Welcome home, husband," he said lightly, though there was no venom in it this time.
Liam hesitated. "You're… doing a puzzle."
CeCe smiled faintly. "I'm domestic now. Be afraid."
Dave hid a smile behind his hand.
For the first time, Liam laughed—quietly, but genuinely.
And in that moment, CeCe's teasing faltered. Because that sound—low, unguarded, real—made something inside him ache.
---
That night, as CeCe lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he whispered into the quiet, "You're not so bad, Liam Amburdale. Not bad at all."
For the first time, CeCe began to wonder what it would feel like…
to be looked at for himself.
Not as a scandal.
Not as a substitute.
Not as a perfect jade—
but as something flawed, and loved anyway.
And that thought, more than any contract or headline, scared him.