When Liam Amburdale told CeCe he'd be leaving the country for business, he did it the same way he did everything else—with precision. His voice was calm, his tone clipped, his expression unreadable. Even his suitcase, black leather with polished brass clasps, stood perfectly upright beside him at the base of the grand staircase, as disciplined and deliberate as its owner.
The morning light streamed through the high windows, catching dust motes that drifted lazily in the air. Outside, the car waited in the circular drive, engine idling, the driver standing at attention beside it. The house—CeCe's house now, in all but name—felt suddenly too large, too empty.
"It will be a few months," Liam said, adjusting the cuff of his tailored coat as if to keep his hands busy. "Company expansion in the European branch. I'll call when I can."
CeCe stood a few steps above him on the staircase, barefoot and draped in a pale silk robe that shimmered like water. His hair was slightly disheveled, still damp from a late shower, and his expression was somewhere between languid and amused.
"Months?" he repeated, tilting his head. "Darling, we've barely had time to play house, and you're already running away."
Liam's jaw tightened ever so slightly. "It's not running. It's work."
CeCe leaned against the banister, his robe falling open just enough to reveal a smooth collarbone and the delicate curve of his throat. "That's what they all say," he murmured, his voice low, almost teasing—but the faint edge beneath it didn't go unnoticed.
Liam looked up at him, sunlight glinting in his cool gold eyes. He took a step closer, the echo of his shoes sharp against the marble. "I'll be back before you know it."
CeCe gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Don't make promises," he said, his tone lilting but laced with something that stung. "You're terrible at keeping them."
Liam wanted to reply—to explain, to soften the moment—but duty was a heavy hand on his shoulder. The car was waiting. The world didn't pause for longing. So instead, he nodded once, briskly, the motion almost mechanical. "Goodbye, CeCe."
The way he said it—quiet, formal, without a trace of intimacy—made CeCe's smile freeze on his lips.
Liam turned, his coat catching the light as he crossed the marble floor. The front doors opened with a low groan, letting in a gust of cold morning air that tugged faintly at CeCe's robe. Then, with the soft click of polished shoes and the muted thud of the door closing, he was gone.
For a long moment, CeCe didn't move.
He climbed another step, drawn almost unconsciously toward the wide landing where the morning sun poured through the tall windows. The glass was cold beneath his fingertips as he pressed his palm to it, watching through the thin veil of condensation.
Outside, the black car rolled down the gravel drive, sunlight gleaming off the hood. CeCe waited—just waited—to see if Liam would look back.
He didn't.
CeCe's breath fogged the glass. He let out a soft, bitter laugh that carried the ache of someone too used to being left behind.
"Figures," he muttered.
Behind him, there was the faintest shift of air—quiet, respectful, familiar. Dave stood in the doorway, hands clasped neatly behind his back, his posture as steady as ever. The morning light caught the edges of his uniform, the faint line of muscle at his jaw, the unreadable calm in his eyes.
"Seems it's just us now, Dave," CeCe said without turning, his reflection faint and ghostly in the glass.
Dave's voice came low and sure, like the earth itself. "Yes, sir."
CeCe's lips curved faintly, though his eyes remained fixed on the empty drive. "Good. I prefer your company anyway."
The words were half a tease, half a confession, and somewhere in between them hung the echo of something neither dared to name.
Outside, the last hum of the departing car faded into silence.
Inside, the mansion—no longer cold but not yet home—seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what would happen now that Liam Amburdale was gone.
---
The first week without Liam was quiet.
The silence wasn't new to the Amburdale mansion—it had been its natural state before CeCe—but now it felt heavier, wrong somehow, like laughter had been plucked from the air. The staff moved more softly, as though they sensed something fragile in the air. CeCe, to his credit, refused to let the quiet swallow him.
He filled the halls with perfume and music, spent mornings in the sunroom with his tea and fashion magazines, afternoons shopping in town, and evenings hosting impromptu "tea parties" with the servants who had grown to adore him. His laughter still rang out like wind chimes, sweet and defiant, but when the echoes faded, the quiet returned sharper than before.
The second week was lonely.
CeCe began to slow down—just a little. His jokes came softer, his laughter delayed, his mornings lingered longer by the window. Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he'd pause in the middle of a hallway as though listening for something that wasn't there.
He wrote letters late at night—one after another—folding them neatly but never sealing the envelopes. Each one began differently, some with wit and others with frustration, but all ended the same: You didn't even say goodbye properly.
He told himself it didn't matter. That he didn't need Liam Amburdale's attention, that he was happier without the man's cool eyes and careful silences.
But every time the phone rang, his heart betrayed him.
He'd glance at it with the tiniest flicker of hope before catching himself. When it wasn't Liam—and it never was—he'd give a small, practiced smile and murmur, "Of course not," as though pretending it didn't sting would make it true.
By the fourth week, the silence began to cut deep.
CeCe's perfume lingered a little longer in the rooms he left behind, as though trying to fill the space where Liam's presence used to be. The mansion that had once thrummed with warmth now felt uneven—like the rhythm had gone off-beat.
And through it all, Dave González watched.
He had been there every morning when CeCe drifted into the kitchen, robe loose, voice light but eyes tired. He was there during the afternoons when CeCe sat beneath the wisteria archway, pretending to read but staring off into the distance instead. He was there each evening when CeCe's laughter faded too soon, when the teacups went untouched, when the lights in the house dimmed one by one and left only CeCe's silhouette against the windows.
Duty told Dave to keep his distance. His job was protection—nothing more. He was Liam Amburdale's man, bound by contract, loyalty, and the unspoken law of hierarchy. Betas like him didn't overstep. They didn't covet what belonged to an Alpha. They didn't feel.
But CeCe made that impossible.
He was too alive. Too bright. Too real.
Dave told himself he was only watching out of concern, that it was natural to ensure CeCe didn't wander too far alone, didn't drink too much wine, didn't fall asleep in the garden again when the air turned cold. But when he caught himself watching the soft movement of CeCe's lips as he spoke, or the way his robe would slip from one shoulder in the evening light, he realized he wasn't guarding just CeCe's safety anymore. He was guarding his own unraveling heart.
And God, it terrified him.
He'd never known beauty could hurt. That someone's laughter could lodge itself in your chest and ache there long after it stopped. CeCe was everything Dave wasn't—graceful, untamed, born for attention. He was an Omega, a creature Dave had only ever seen from afar: delicate yet burning with power, magnetic without effort. And for the first time in his life, Dave understood why men destroyed kingdoms for one.
There were nights when he would stand outside CeCe's room, hearing faint movement within—the creak of the floor, the sigh of bedsheets—and he'd have to clench his fists just to keep from knocking. He'd imagine stepping inside, saying something—anything—to ease that loneliness he saw in CeCe's eyes every morning.
But he never did.
Because Liam Amburdale had trusted him. And loyalty, once given, was not his to break.
So when the calls started coming, when Liam's name appeared again and again on the screen of the secured house phone, Dave hesitated for only a moment before pressing block.
When the first email arrived, he flagged it as spam. The next, he rerouted to an archive folder CeCe never used. When the video messages appeared—late at night, raw, and hesitant, the kind of messages only guilt and distance could summon—Dave deleted them before CeCe could ever see.
Each time, his chest tightened, his throat burned. He told himself it was for the best.
Liam had left CeCe lonely. It wasn't his place to bring him hope again, only for it to be shattered later. It wasn't his place to let CeCe know that his Alpha had tried.
No—better he believe the silence was complete. Better he learn to need someone else.
Dave told himself this. Over and over. Every night.
But when CeCe laughed now—soft and lonely, like candlelight in an empty room—Dave's hands would tremble at his sides, and a single, unforgivable thought would whisper through his mind:
'If I were him, I'd never have left you.'
It had started with good intentions—or so Dave told himself.
He'd only meant to intercept the first call.
The house had been still that afternoon—soft golden light spilling across the floors, the air thick with that heavy, lazy quiet that comes after rain. CeCe had finally drifted into sleep on the chaise in the sunroom, wrapped in a thin silk robe, his head resting on a pillow embroidered with the Amburdale crest. His lips were parted slightly, lashes trembling faintly against his cheek as he breathed in soft, even waves.
Dave had been making his usual rounds, checking the perimeter, when the secured line buzzed in the security room. The name that flashed on the screen made his heart stutter—Liam Amburdale.
He hesitated only a second before pressing silence.
CeCe didn't stir. The house remained peaceful. And for a fleeting moment, Dave felt like he'd done something merciful.
But one interception became two. Then three. Then a dozen.
Each time Liam's number appeared, Dave's hand moved automatically. Each message, each video file, each carefully worded email—gone, erased, redirected. He told himself it was for CeCe's sake. That letting Liam's voice back into the house would undo everything—the calm CeCe had finally found, the warmth that had returned to his eyes.
The first week, his chest tightened every time he hit delete. The second week, it became habit. By the third, it was instinct.
And the more CeCe's disappointment grew—the way his smile faded when the phone rang and it wasn't Liam, the quiet sighs he thought no one heard—the more Dave justified it to himself.
"He doesn't deserve him," Dave muttered one night, voice rough in the stillness.
He sat hunched over the security console, surrounded by monitors that cast an icy blue glow across his face. His uniform jacket hung loosely from his shoulders, his sleeves rolled up, a half-empty mug of coffee forgotten beside him. The cursor blinked over Liam's latest message—another unsent plea, timestamped at 3:12 a.m. from somewhere in London.
"Tell CeCe I'm sorry. Tell him I'll be home soon. Please, Dave."
Dave's thumb hovered over the play button, but he never pressed it. Instead, he selected the message, exhaled, and hit delete.
"He left him here alone," he whispered to the empty room, jaw tight. "He doesn't deserve—"
A soft knock at the door cut him off.
"Dave?" CeCe's voice floated through the crack, soft, drowsy. "You awake?"
Dave froze. His pulse jumped. In a single motion, he closed the monitor, dimmed the lights, and straightened his posture. "Yes, sir. Come in."
The door creaked open, and CeCe peeked inside. He was barefoot, hair mussed from sleep, his robe slipping off one shoulder. The faint scent of jasmine and clean linen drifted in with him.
"You're working again," CeCe said, stepping inside, his voice still thick with fatigue. "Do you ever rest?"
"I could ask you the same," Dave replied, a small smile tugging at his lips.
CeCe padded closer, the silk of his robe whispering against his skin as he sat on the edge of the desk. The dim light caught the pale curve of his neck, the delicate pulse there. "It's too quiet without him," he said softly, fingers tracing idle circles on the polished wood. "These damn omega instincts are really troublesome. Without an alpha around, I feel… restless."
Dave looked at him, the words heavy in his chest. "That's natural."
CeCe smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "It's strange, though. I feel better being near you." His gaze lifted, direct and unguarded. "You must be special."
Dave's throat went dry. The room felt smaller suddenly, the air charged. He tried to steady his breathing, to remember the line he couldn't cross. "Then maybe that's a good thing," he managed, his voice quiet.
CeCe studied him for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "You really don't like him, do you?"
Dave hesitated. His instinct was to deny it, to retreat behind professionalism. But CeCe's eyes—clear, curious, searching—demanded honesty.
"I think he takes things for granted," Dave said finally, his voice low, steady but aching.
"Like what?"
Dave met his gaze, the flicker of blue light from the monitor glinting across CeCe's skin. "You," he said softly.
For a heartbeat, silence filled the room. The words hung there, trembling between them like glass.
CeCe's lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. His eyes flicked away, then back again, searching Dave's face for something—fear, regret, meaning.
"Go get some sleep," Dave murmured after a long moment. His voice was gentle now, almost apologetic. He stood and reached out, guiding him toward the door. His hand brushed the small of CeCe's back—warm, protective, careful.
CeCe froze at the touch, his breath catching. The world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact—the steady weight of Dave's palm, the faint scent of soap and coffee clinging to him. He didn't move away.
"…Can I…" CeCe hesitated, voice quiet as a confession. "…stay for a bit?"
Dave looked at him then—really looked. At the way CeCe's robe slipped down his shoulder, at the exhaustion behind the glamour, at the loneliness that had replaced arrogance in those bright eyes.
Something inside him cracked open.
"If that's what you want," he said, barely above a whisper.
CeCe's expression softened. He stepped closer, and Dave—god help him—didn't stop him.
Outside, rain began to fall, tapping softly against the windowpanes. The monitors glowed faintly blue in the dark room as CeCe sat beside him, quiet, his head resting lightly against Dave's shoulder.
Neither spoke.
Dave stared straight ahead, every muscle taut, every heartbeat heavy with guilt and yearning. His hand hovered in the air for a moment before resting gently over CeCe's, just for the briefest second—enough to feel his warmth, enough to know this was a line he could never uncross.
And still, he didn't move.
Because for the first time in his life, Dave González felt like he wasn't guarding an estate.
He was guarding the only thing that made him feel alive.
CeCe's breathing slowed against Dave's shoulder, the rhythm evening out until the soft rise and fall of his chest became the only sound in the room besides the faint hum of the monitors. Outside, rain whispered against the windows, washing the world in silver.
Dave waited, still and careful, afraid even to breathe too loudly. CeCe had fallen asleep—truly asleep this time—his head tilted against Dave's shoulder, platinum hair brushing his neck like silk. The trust in that small gesture undid something deep inside him.
He should have woken him, should have stepped away, should have remembered every line duty drew between them. Instead, Dave sat there for a long while, just listening to the quiet, feeling the faint warmth of the Omega's body beside him.
When CeCe shifted slightly, a low sigh escaped him, and Dave realized how deeply he'd gone under. With a slow, steady exhale, he eased an arm around CeCe's waist and lifted him. CeCe weighed almost nothing—light, graceful, his robe slipping softly through Dave's fingers as he carried him out of the security room and into the hushed corridors.
The mansion was dark except for the lamps that glowed along the walls, pools of amber guiding his path. The scent of rain mixed with CeCe's perfume—something subtle and rich, like white jasmine steeped in warm milk and a trace of citrus peel. It wasn't overpowering; it hovered close, intimate, with an undertone of something wild and clean that caught at the edges of his restraint.
Dave pushed open the door to CeCe's bedroom with his shoulder. The room smelled of silk and night air, the curtains billowing gently in the breeze. He laid CeCe down carefully among the tangle of wine-colored sheets, the pale glow from the window tracing soft lines across his face.
For a long moment, Dave just stood there, looking. CeCe's expression—so often sly or teasing—was open now, almost innocent. His long lashes rested against his skin; his lips, still parted slightly, trembled with the faintest sighs of sleep.
Dave reached down, brushing a stray strand of hair from CeCe's forehead. His fingers hesitated, then lingered just a heartbeat too long. The light caught in CeCe's hair, turning it to threads of silver.
Dave leaned in.
The scent was stronger here, close to the source. Jasmine first, lush and heady, but underneath—honey—softer, almost edible. That faint scent again—his pheromones, though CeCe worked tirelessly to suppress them. It was softer now, almost hidden, but still there beneath the perfume and the rain. Warm honey and jasmine. A little salt from tears he would never shed aloud. It clung to Dave's skin, filled his lungs, and settled somewhere deep in his chest where reason couldn't reach.
It wasn't loud, wasn't the cloying perfume of an omega in full presentation. It was intimate. Private. A secret CeCe didn't know he was telling.
Dave's eyes—icy blue, usually sharp enough to cut—went soft at the edges. He let himself linger, just a breath, just long enough to memorize the way the scent bloomed warmer where CeCe's pulse beat slow beneath his jaw.
He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in one more careful breath, then straightened.
With practiced gentleness, Dave pulled the blanket up to CeCe's shoulders, smoothing it once to ensure no chill could reach him. He turned to leave, but before he reached the door, he looked back one last time.
CeCe slept soundly, the faintest smile ghosting across his lips.
Dave's throat tightened. "Sleep well," he murmured, so quietly it could have been the rain that spoke.
Then he stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him.
The hall swallowed him in darkness once more, but the scent of jasmine and warmth followed him long after he was gone.
Inside, CeCe slept on, dreaming of nothing and everything, the strand of hair Dave had touched still curled against his cheek like a promise.
---
Weeks turned into months.
Time passed differently without Liam—no longer measured in meetings or arrivals, but in small, domestic rhythms that stitched one day into the next. The Amburdale estate no longer thrummed with bright, effortless laughter as it had in those first weeks of CeCe's rebellion against loneliness. Now the change was quieter, gentler, almost sacred in its stillness.
The house had settled into a new kind of life—one built not on noise, but on presence.
Dave became CeCe's shadow—his constant, his anchor, his quiet audience. At first it was subtle: helping with small things, fetching letters, arranging flowers in vases CeCe had forgotten to replace. But soon it became something unspoken yet undeniable.
He was there when CeCe rose each morning, standing discreetly by the window with a cup of tea already waiting—too sweet, with a slice of lemon, just the way CeCe liked it. He was there in the afternoons when CeCe wandered through the gardens barefoot, trailing silk and sunlight, murmuring idle thoughts about the color of roses or the scent of the grass after rain. And he was there in the evenings, when the house grew still and CeCe's laughter faded into long silences that filled the halls like mist.
Dave began to learn CeCe in ways that went beyond duty.
He learned that CeCe hummed when brushing his hair—a low, absent melody that changed depending on his mood. That he preferred reading near the windows because he loved watching the light shift across the glass. That he always left one candle burning by the bedside, claiming it helped "keep the shadows in their place."
He learned, too, that CeCe cried when it rained. Quietly. Without sound. He would sit by the window, chin propped on one knee, staring out at the storm, his expression calm but his lashes wet. Dave had walked in on him once, paused in the doorway, and said nothing. He just stood there until CeCe wiped his eyes, smiled faintly, and said, "Don't look so tragic, Dave. It's just the weather misbehaving again."
After that, Dave would bring him a blanket whenever the rain started. Always without a word. Always just within reach.
And CeCe… began to lean on him.
At first, it was small things. "Dave, where's my scarf?" or "Dave, remind me to write to the seamstress." But as the days blurred into weeks, the dependence grew deeper, more intimate. CeCe started seeking him out—not for help, but for company.
He'd drift into the security room and sit beside Dave without speaking, simply existing in the same quiet. He'd follow him into the kitchen under the pretense of boredom and end up talking for hours while Dave polished the silver. Sometimes, he'd wait until late evening, appearing at Dave's door with a sleepy smile and a soft, almost childlike question: "Are you busy?"
He wasn't, ever, when it came to CeCe.
Their lives began to weave together in quiet, delicate ways. CeCe's robe would hang beside Dave's coat near the door. CeCe's perfume would cling faintly to Dave's sleeves from where he'd steadied him while walking over wet tiles in the garden. Sometimes, Dave would wake in the middle of the night to find that CeCe had fallen asleep in the library again, curled beneath a throw blanket, and he'd lift him carefully—always careful—and carry him back to bed.
And somewhere between those countless small gestures, something in CeCe shifted too.
The flirtation that had once been his armor softened into something truer. His teasing turned gentle. His smiles lingered longer, touched with warmth instead of calculation. And though he still spoke of Liam sometimes—rarely, wistfully—it was no longer with longing. More like someone remembering a dream that had already begun to fade.
The Amburdale mansion, once a monument to hierarchy and restraint, now felt alive again—but in a new way. The air carried the quiet hum of companionship instead of distance, the comfort of footsteps in the hall instead of empty echoes.
And though neither of them dared to say it aloud, they both felt it:
That somewhere between duty and loneliness, something had changed.
CeCe was no longer waiting for Liam.
And Dave was no longer just guarding his employer's spouse.
He was guarding the heart of the house itself—
and, more dangerously, the heart that beat within it.
"Dave," CeCe called one morning, standing in the dressing room mirror. "This clasp won't cooperate."
Dave crossed the room, deft fingers brushing the silk into place. "There."
CeCe smiled faintly. "You're good at this. Did Liam teach you?"
Dave's gaze flickered. "No, CeCe."
"Mm." CeCe's voice softened. "Then I suppose I should keep you."
Dave looked at him in the mirror, meeting those green eyes that seemed to see too much.
"You already have," he said quietly.
CeCe turned then, slow, deliberate, their faces inches apart. "Careful, Dave," he murmured. "You sound like you mean it."
"Maybe I do."
The air thickened, and for a heartbeat, neither of them breathed.
Then CeCe smiled, breaking the tension. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I might start to believe you."
---
Across the ocean, Liam Amburdale stared at his phone for what felt like the hundredth time.
No replies. No acknowledgments. Nothing.
He'd sent messages, emails, even handwritten letters through private couriers. Not a word back.
At first, he thought CeCe was ignoring him out of spite. It would be like him—dramatic, proud, easily wounded.
But as the weeks stretched on, Liam began to wonder if something was wrong.
He'd never realized how much he'd gotten used to CeCe's voice—the teasing, the laughter, the occasional quiet confessions between sharp words.
He missed him.
Worse, he longed for him.
Not as a substitute for KiKi anymore. Not as a convenient beauty. But as CeCe Mor-Ray—infuriating, brilliant, tender beneath his glittering armor.
And Liam began to plan his return.
---
Back at the estate, rain poured in relentless sheets, drumming against the windows like a heartbeat. CeCe sat curled on the couch, a blanket draped over his legs, watching the storm.
Dave entered with a cup of cocoa. "You'll catch cold sitting here."
"I hate the rain," CeCe said softly. "It makes everything feel honest."
Dave set the cup down beside him, then sat in the armchair nearby.
CeCe looked at him for a long moment. "Do you ever wish you were someone else, Dave? Someone… allowed to want things?"
Dave's throat worked. "Sometimes."
"And what do you want?"
"You," he almost said—but stopped himself. Instead, he answered, "To keep you safe."
CeCe smiled faintly. "You always say that."
"Because it's true."
CeCe looked away, the reflection of lightning catching in his eyes. "Then stay. Just for tonight."
"I'm always here," Dave said quietly.
And as thunder rolled in the distance, CeCe leaned back, closing his eyes, whispering, "I know."
---
When Liam finally boarded his flight home months later, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted—something irreversible.
He clutched his phone, wondering what he'd say first.
I missed you?
Why didn't you answer?
I think I'm falling for you?
But across the ocean, CeCe had already stopped waiting for his call.
Because the man standing beside him—the one who never left—had already taken up residence in the quiet parts of his heart.
And though CeCe didn't realize it yet, the most dangerous thing about love wasn't falling.
It was falling for the wrong man… and never wanting to get up.