The first sign of change was so small that Liam almost missed it.
It was a Sunday morning—the one day a week he allowed himself to wake late—and when he came down to the dining room, he didn't find silence. He found laughter.
Light, ringing, utterly foreign laughter that didn't belong in the Amburdale estate.
He paused in the doorway.
CeCe sat at the long oak breakfast table, barefoot, hair falling in messy waves around his face. He was eating strawberries straight from a crystal bowl, laughing as the cook, Mrs. Thorne, scolded him half-heartedly for stealing fruit before the meal was ready.
Across the room, Dave was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, trying to look disapproving. But there was a faint curve to his mouth—almost a smile.
CeCe noticed Liam first. "Good morning, husband," he said sweetly, popping a strawberry between his lips. "You're up early for someone who works like a machine."
Liam blinked. "It's ten."
"Exactly," CeCe said, licking juice from his thumb. "Practically dawn."
Mrs. Thorne chuckled, hiding it behind her hand. The room felt alive. The kind of alive Liam hadn't realized he missed until this moment.
He cleared his throat. "I see you've… made yourself at home."
CeCe smiled, eyes glinting. "Someone had to. You treat this house like an office."
Dave shifted his weight, murmuring, "He's not wrong, sir."
Liam shot him a look. "I didn't ask for your opinion, González."
"Yes, sir."
CeCe tilted his head, amused. "Don't be too harsh on him. He's my favorite conversational partner here."
"Is he," Liam said, his tone too casual.
"Mm." CeCe grinned, biting into another strawberry. "Unlike you, he talks back."
Liam didn't reply, but something in his chest tightened unexpectedly. He turned away before CeCe could see the flicker of emotion in his eyes.
---
The days that followed fell into a rhythm—steady, domestic, deceptively peaceful.
Liam left before sunrise most mornings, briefcase in hand, his scent of cedar and restraint fading with the hum of the car as it rolled down the long drive. The moment the gates closed behind him, the mansion exhaled.
And CeCe filled it with warmth.
He had a way of moving through the house like light—touching everything, changing the temperature of a room just by existing in it. Where once the halls had been so quiet that every footstep echoed, now they pulsed with the small sounds of living: laughter, conversation, the soft clatter of china and silver.
Servants who used to speak only in whispers now chatted freely as they worked. The kitchen, once a temple of hushed precision, had become a lively kingdom of aromas and noise. CeCe would stroll in barefoot, sleeves rolled up, stealing strawberries from the counter as he leaned against the marble island.
"Mrs. Thorne, you've been hiding the good honey again," he'd tease, voice lilting as he dipped a spoon into the jar.
"Because you finished the last one in a day, sir," she'd reply, swatting at him with a towel—but her smile always betrayed her affection.
CeCe remembered everyone's names—and used them often. He knew the maid Clara's favorite perfume (lavender), and that the gardener's bad knee always ached before it rained. He remembered the butler Hensley's favorite brand of black tea and had a tin imported without being asked. When a stable hand's birthday arrived, CeCe had the kitchen bake a cake, insisting they all sing—even Dave, who had tried, and failed, to stay in the background.
He'd spend afternoons in the garden with old Mr. Gallaway, the head gardener, kneeling in the dirt with no regard for his spotless clothes. "You see this one?" Gallaway would say, pointing at a patch of dahlias. "Planted these the year Master Liam was born."
CeCe would smile, chin propped in one gloved hand. "And yet I think they prefer me. Look how they're blooming just to impress."
The old man chuckled, shaking his head. "You're trouble, you are."
"I've been told," CeCe said lightly, brushing soil from his knees. "But at least I'm charming about it."
He even joined the maids one rainy afternoon to polish the silver. "I used to be very good at shining things," he claimed with mock solemnity, rubbing at a candelabra. When the polish splattered across his cheek, he only laughed, eyes crinkling in genuine amusement.
"Mr. CeCe, you're making a mess!" one of the girls giggled.
"Darling," he said, winking, "if I'm not making a mess, am I even living?"
By the end of the week, his laughter had become as much a part of the mansion as the ticking of the grandfather clock or the scent of roses drifting in from the gardens.
And through it all, Dave was there. Always nearby. Always watching.
At first, it was duty. He was Liam's man—his protector, his shadow. He told himself that was all this was: responsibility. But it became harder to lie to himself when his eyes began to linger too long.
When CeCe laughed, Dave found himself looking at the curve of his mouth. When CeCe tossed his hair back in the sun, Dave's pulse ticked just a little faster. He started noticing things he shouldn't—the faint smudge of ink on CeCe's wrist from writing letters, the way his voice softened when he spoke to the servants, the bare whisper of his perfume on the stairs long after he'd gone to bed.
He began anticipating CeCe's moods—fetching tea before CeCe asked, appearing at his side just as he sighed about the heat. He told himself it was efficiency. It was habit. But when CeCe brushed against him in passing and murmured, "Careful, Dave. You're starting to spoil me," Dave's composure cracked just enough for CeCe to notice.
The days blurred together in that quiet, dangerous comfort.
Liam still left early and returned late.
CeCe still filled the mansion with warmth.
And Dave—steady, silent, disciplined Dave—was no longer certain which of them he was protecting anymore: Liam's household… or his own heart.
One afternoon, CeCe noticed.
"You look at me like you're solving a puzzle," CeCe said softly as they stood by the rose bushes.
Dave blinked, startled. "Do I?"
"Mmhmm." CeCe leaned closer, inhaling the scent of the blooming red roses. "What are you trying to figure out, Dave? Whether I'm trouble?"
"I already know that," Dave said dryly.
CeCe laughed. "Then what, darling? Whether I'm worth it?"
Dave looked down at him. The sunlight caught in CeCe's hair, turning it almost silver. His green eyes were softer now—not the teasing sharpness of a flirt, but something gentler.
"I don't think you're what people say you are," Dave said quietly. "You're not… broken."
CeCe froze. The word broken hung in the air like a ghost.
He forced a smile. "Be careful, Dave. If you start saying things like that, I might fall for you."
"Don't," Dave murmured. "It'd make my job harder."
CeCe smiled, but his heart gave a small, traitorous flutter.
That evening, Liam returned earlier than usual. The sun was still out, and he found CeCe and Dave sitting in the garden beneath the willow tree, a picnic basket between them on a table.
CeCe was laughing again, head tilted back, the light catching his lashes. Dave sat close, not touching but near, listening to whatever story CeCe was telling.
For reasons Liam didn't want to name, he stopped walking.
He didn't interrupt. Didn't speak. Just watched from a distance, something slow and unfamiliar coiling in his chest.
Jealousy.
It came on quietly, like a chill in the room that hadn't been there a moment ago. Liam stood in the doorway of the sunroom, half-shadowed by the morning light spilling through the glass panes. From there, he could see everything—the small tea table by the open windows, CeCe draped lazily in a soft cream color, hair catching the sunlight like spun silver, and Dave, sitting beside him, head slightly bowed as he poured tea with the kind of care most men reserved for prayer.
CeCe laughed at something—soft, unguarded, the kind of sound Liam had never heard from him. It wasn't his usual flirtatious, teasing laughter; it was real. A low, musical hum that wrapped itself around the room and sank into the spaces between breaths.
Liam felt it, that warmth that wasn't meant for him.
He'd left for the office early, as always, but had forgotten a folder of financial reports. When he came back, expecting the house to be as quiet and warm as he left it, he was met instead with this—a scene that didn't belong to him. CeCe in the sunlight, the servants laughing in the kitchen, Dave moving like he'd always belonged by CeCe's side.
He should've walked away. He almost did. But his feet refused to move.
He just stood there, in the hall, the faint clink of porcelain teasing his ears.
"Careful, Dave," CeCe said, smiling as the man refilled his cup. "You always pour it just right. I might start thinking you were trained to please."
Dave's lips twitched—almost a smile. "I'm trained to serve."
"Hmm," CeCe murmured, eyes glinting. "That's even better."
Liam's jaw tightened.
He shouldn't have cared. The marriage was contractual, political—a neat solution to a debt between families and a bonus for Cece looking very much like his own lost first love. He'd told himself that since day one. CeCe had been a symbol, a compromise. An arrangement. Nothing more.
And yet.
As he watched Dave's steady hands pour the tea, as CeCe's laughter filled the garden like music, Liam's control began to crack in quiet, imperceptible ways. The way his pulse spiked. The way his eyes followed the movement of CeCe's hand as he brushed a lock of hair from his face. The way something dark and hot curled in his chest at the sight of Dave standing so close, so calm, so trusted.
It shouldn't have mattered.
CeCe was beautiful, yes, but he was also reckless—too bright, too alive for a man like Liam. He wasn't gentle, wasn't predictable. He didn't obey rules; he rewrote them. He'd painted the Amburdale estate with laughter and perfume and life—and Liam had told himself that was fine. That it was good.
But standing there, watching another man be the center of CeCe's world, that careful reasoning fell apart.
Because for the first time, Liam realized that the house wasn't just changing.
He was.
The silence around him thickened, pressing against his ribs. His eyes stayed fixed on them—on the way Dave's fingers brushed the edge of CeCe's cup, on the way CeCe's lashes lowered when he smiled.
Liam's hand curled slowly into a fist. His nails bit into his palm.
The sound of laughter drifted again—gentle, warm, intimate.
Liam turned away, expression unreadable, and walked back down the hall with measured, deliberate steps.
But even as he left, that feeling stayed with him, twisting low in his chest like a brand he couldn't shake.
Jealousy. Cold. Unwelcome.
And yet—he couldn't deny how alive it made him feel.
Later that night, when he passed CeCe in the hall, he couldn't stop himself.
"You seem to enjoy my bodyguard's company quite a bit," Liam said, his tone sharp under its calmness.
CeCe smiled, unfazed. "Jealous, darling?"
Liam frowned. "I'm not—"
"Oh, relax," CeCe interrupted. "You're adorable when you're trying to be stoic."
"I'm not jealous," Liam said firmly.
CeCe stepped closer, close enough that Liam could smell the faint trace of jasmine on his skin. "You should be," he whispered.
And before Liam could respond, CeCe brushed past him, his laughter low and melodic as he disappeared down the hall.
But that night, CeCe couldn't sleep.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking of Dave's voice—steady and warm—and Liam's gaze, cold but lingering.
What am I doing? he wondered.
He'd been with countless people before. He'd flirted, teased, seduced, but this felt different. Dave didn't want anything from him—didn't see him as a trophy. And Liam… Liam looked at him like he was trying not to care, and failing miserably.
For the first time in years, CeCe felt something frighteningly close to peace—and he didn't know what to do with it.
---
The following week, the servants began to notice the subtle changes too—tiny, quiet shifts that rippled through the Amburdale mansion like the first stirrings of spring thaw.
It began with breakfast.
CeCe, who once slept late and rose with all the indifference of someone allergic to mornings, started waking early—sometimes even before the sun had fully crested over the gardens. He'd pad barefoot down the grand staircase, silk robe trailing behind him, hair still mussed from sleep, and wander straight into the kitchen as though he'd lived there his whole life.
The staff had been startled the first time it happened. Mrs. Thorne nearly dropped a pan when she saw him appear in the doorway, stretching and smiling like a cat in sunlight.
"Morning," he greeted, voice husky from sleep, eyes bright. "Tell me you've got coffee. I'm useless without it."
There had been laughter—real laughter. Not the nervous, restrained kind the servants used around the masters of the house, but the warm, startled kind that felt like breathing after holding one's breath too long.
Soon, it became routine.
Every morning, CeCe would join the kitchen staff, perched on the counter or at the long prep table, sipping coffee as the smells of toast and herbs filled the air. He'd chat easily, asking after families, birthdays, and weekend plans. He learned everyone's names—really learned them—and used them often, with a familiarity that made people smile despite themselves.
"Clara, darling, those pastries could start a war—they're that good," he said one morning, biting into a flaky croissant.
The maid blushed to her ears. "You're too kind, Mr.—"
"CeCe," he interrupted with a wink. "Mr. makes me sound like I run the company. Let's keep things charming, not tragic."
And there was Dave, always nearby.
He rarely said much, but his presence filled the room like quiet strength. He'd stand near the door or lean against the counter, occasionally pouring himself a cup of tea, always keeping one eye on CeCe without ever making it obvious. Yet even his silence had softened. He laughed more easily now—low, rumbling, rare. The younger maids, who once feared his stoicism, now exchanged shy glances when he smiled.
And CeCe made him smile often.
Once, while the kitchen was bustling, CeCe held up a cracked egg shell and said, "It's poetic, really. The fragile outer shell of society's expectations—broken by my culinary genius."
Dave, who was drying a glass behind him, shook his head, muttering, "You're incorrigible."
CeCe turned, eyes gleaming. "That's a fancy word for adorable, isn't it?"
That made Dave laugh—a soft, genuine laugh that startled everyone. Two maids at the back of the kitchen actually gasped, one clutching the other's arm.
"Did he just laugh?" she whispered.
"He did," the other replied, wide-eyed. "At him."
By midweek, the change in the mansion was impossible to ignore. The cold marble halls that once echoed only with the ticking of the grandfather clock now buzzed faintly with music—CeCe had convinced Hensley to let him play records again, soft jazz drifting through the corridors like a heartbeat. The servants began moving with ease rather than fear. There were smiles, quiet jokes, and the scent of fresh bread baking in the afternoons.
Even the gardens seemed different. The winter-bleached beds were bursting with new color; CeCe had spent an entire morning with the gardener rearranging the flowerbeds, declaring that "the roses need drama—life's too short for symmetry."
And as the sunlight filtered through the mansion's tall windows, illuminating the gold accents and soft fabrics CeCe had chosen to "brighten things up," the old house no longer looked haunted. It looked lived in.
One of the younger maids paused while dusting the staircase railing, watching through the glass as CeCe and Dave crossed the garden below—CeCe laughing about something, Dave carrying a tray of tea.
She nudged her companion and whispered, voice reverent, "The Master's new spouse brings spring with him."
Her friend smiled faintly, still watching. "And warmth. Don't forget the warmth."
And she wasn't wrong.
The Amburdale estate—once a monument to discipline and restraint—now pulsed with something entirely new. It was in the air, the laughter, the light.
And though Liam might not have admitted it aloud, even he could feel it.
Every time he stepped through the front door now, the chill that once greeted him was gone. The house that had been silent for years was alive again—because CeCe had given it a heart.
---
One rainy evening, Liam returned home soaked and exhausted. He found CeCe waiting by the window, hair loose, wearing one of his oversized pajama shirts that hung off his shoulders like silk.
"You're home early," CeCe said softly, turning from the glass.
"Traffic was bad."
CeCe smirked. "You? Stuck in traffic? I thought you'd buy the road before waiting on it."
Liam chuckled despite himself. "You're impossible."
"And yet," CeCe murmured, stepping closer, "you keep coming home to me."
The distance between them shrank. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but quiet rain and unspoken tension. CeCe tilted his head up, lips curving.
"You still see him, don't you?" he whispered. "That boy from before—KiKi."
Liam hesitated. "Sometimes."
CeCe smiled faintly. "Then let me make it easier. I'll stop reminding you of him."
"You can't," Liam said softly. "But I don't think I want you to anymore."
Something in his tone made CeCe's chest tighten. For a brief second, he wanted to reach out—to touch, to understand. But before he could, Dave appeared in the doorway.
"Mr. Amburdale," he said. "Your father called."
Liam nodded stiffly and brushed past, the spell broken.
CeCe watched him go, then turned toward Dave, who stood waiting, gaze steady.
"Tell me something, Dave," CeCe said quietly. "What happens when an Omega falls for someone who isn't supposed to want him back?"
Dave's expression flickered—just for a moment. "Then he's in trouble."
CeCe smiled sadly. "Then I suppose I'm doomed."
---
In the days that followed, the air between all three of them shifted—subtle at first, like a change in weather, but growing heavier with each sunrise. It was a tide no one could stop, something quiet and inevitable, reshaping the rhythms of their days.
The mansion had grown warm, yes—but beneath that warmth now ran a new current: tension, longing, confusion.
Liam began noticing things he shouldn't.
He caught himself pausing in doorways, listening to the echo of CeCe's laughter spilling through the halls, sharp and musical. He told himself it was irritation, that he simply wanted quiet, but his heartbeat always betrayed him. He started timing his mornings differently—lingering just long enough in the dining room to catch a glimpse of CeCe sipping coffee with the staff, hair still tousled, a faint smile softening his usual arrogance.
He began seeing him everywhere.
In the garden, humming softly as he read, legs crossed and face tilted toward the sun.
In the hall, barefoot and distracted, leaving faint trails of scent and warmth in his wake.
In his mind, long after Liam had left for the office, the sound of CeCe's laugh still lingered, infuriatingly clear.
It unsettled him—the realization that the quiet he'd once cherished now felt unbearable when CeCe wasn't in it. He caught himself staring at the doorway at dinner, half-expecting CeCe to appear even when he didn't. His hand would tighten around his glass, jaw clenching, pretending he wasn't waiting.
And when he saw CeCe and Dave together—sharing soft laughter over tea, their heads tilted close—it gnawed at him, slow and sharp. He told himself it was propriety, that appearances mattered. But when Dave smiled at CeCe in that quiet, tender way, Liam felt something twist deep in his chest.
He didn't know when the house had stopped belonging solely to him.
Dave, meanwhile, was changing in ways he didn't understand.
He'd always prided himself on discipline, on his ability to serve without emotion, to protect without attachment. But CeCe had unraveled that composure thread by thread. Every smile, every careless brush of CeCe's hand against his arm made it harder to breathe.
He caught himself looking too long—memorizing the way CeCe's lips parted when he was thinking, the way his voice softened when he asked about the servants, the way he filled every room with light simply by being in it.
Dave had been trained to defend.
Now, he was defending something far more fragile—his own heart.
He told himself it was wrong. That this was his employer's spouse. That it was only admiration, or duty, or something harmless that would fade. But when CeCe's fingers brushed his while passing a teacup, the jolt that went through him was anything but harmless.
He started avoiding certain moments—stepping back when CeCe laughed too warmly, leaving the room when Liam entered, trying to put space where his heart demanded closeness. But CeCe had a way of erasing distance without even trying.
A glance. A teasing remark. A sigh that lingered too long.
And Dave's resolve would crack all over again.
And CeCe…
CeCe continued to laugh, to tease, to flirt as if nothing had changed. He kept up the performance, all charm and mischief, because he knew how to survive when things grew complicated—by pretending.
But the nights betrayed him.
When the laughter faded and the house fell silent, he'd lie awake in the soft darkness of his room, staring up at the ceiling, the faint scent of lilies drifting in from the garden.
That was when the mask slipped.
He would think of Liam—of his cool gold eyes, the sharpness of his jaw, the way he spoke CeCe's name only when he had to, clipped and controlled. He hated how much that restraint fascinated him. How every rare look from Liam, brief and accidental, felt like sunlight breaking through clouds.
And then he'd think of Dave—the way his voice turned warm and rough when he said "goodnight," the steady kindness in his gaze, the rare moments when CeCe caught him smiling as if CeCe were something precious instead of troublesome.
Liam burned like denial. Dave ached like safety.
And CeCe couldn't decide which haunted him more.
He'd turn over in bed, pulling the blanket closer, and whisper into the dark:
"God, I'm so tired of pretending."
But pretending was all he knew.
So when morning came, CeCe rose again—painted his lips with a smirk, fixed his hair until it gleamed like silk, and stepped into the halls of the Amburdale mansion as though nothing inside him had come undone.
And so it went: three people caught in the slow, quiet pull of something that looked nothing like love but felt too much like it to deny.