The morning Liam Amburdale returned, the Amburdale estate didn't feel like his home anymore.
The drive from the airport had been long and silent—gray skies, rain-slick streets, the world outside his tinted windows a blur of motion and memory. But when the car turned through the familiar wrought-iron gates and rolled up the long drive, a strange unease settled in his chest. The mansion loomed just as he remembered—grand, symmetrical, immaculate—but there was something softer in its air now, something alive.
When the car doors shut behind him, the faint scent of city rain gave way to something warmer, gentler. The hush of polished marble, the low glow of morning light filtering through the entryway skylight—and underneath it all, the unmistakable trace of jasmine and honey.
CeCe's scent.
It clung to the air like a whisper, like something intimate that had seeped into the very bones of the house. Liam froze for a moment at the threshold, suitcase in hand, the memory of that scent twisting something deep in his gut.
He hadn't realized until that moment how much he'd missed it.
Or how foreign it felt here, now.
The servants bowed when they saw him, polite but subdued. Their eyes darted quickly toward one another, toward the stairs, as if they shared some unspoken knowledge he wasn't yet privy to.
There were fresh flowers in the vases—wild arrangements, colorful and alive instead of the sterile, symmetrical white lilies that had once defined his taste. The air held the faint warmth of burning candles, the kind that flickered in glass holders scattered along the hall. Even the paintings on the wall had been slightly rearranged, their sharp symmetry broken by the addition of a small, bright canvas—something abstract and defiantly modern.
And there was music.
A piano somewhere upstairs—hesitant, untrained, but played with feeling. Each note stumbled and found its way, tender in its imperfection.
Then came the sound that stopped him cold.
Laughter.
Not loud or wild, but soft—real. It echoed faintly through the corridors, spilling down the staircase like sunlight through water.
Liam followed it before he even realized he was moving. His footsteps echoed against the marble, past the grand staircase, down the hallway lined with newly placed potted ferns and light-colored drapes that softened every edge of the once-rigid house.
The laughter drew him to the sunroom.
It was brighter than he remembered. The tall glass windows framed the rain outside, droplets streaking down in silver threads while the morning light spilled across the floor. The room smelled of tea and flowers and warmth—nothing like the cool austerity he'd left behind.
And there, in the center of it, was CeCe.
He was curled on the couch, tucked into the corner with his knees drawn up slightly, wrapped in a pale blue cashmere sweater and loose white trousers that brushed the tops of his bare feet. His platinum hair had grown longer, falling in soft waves around his face. The sharp, teasing glamour he once wore like armor had gentled into something serene. He held a half-empty cup of tea between his hands, steam curling lazily upward as he laughed at something just said.
And standing a few feet behind him—calm, composed, and heartbreakingly at ease—was Dave.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, forearms bare, the simple movement revealing the quiet strength of a man who no longer hid behind formality. He was arranging books on a nearby shelf, casual in a way Liam had never seen before, like he belonged there. Like he'd always belonged there.
Liam stopped at the doorway, a single droplet of rain sliding from his hair to his collar as his gaze locked on them.
The scene was domestic, ordinary—and yet it struck him like a blow.
CeCe glanced up first, the soft sound of his laughter dying on his lips. His bright eyes widened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he schooled it into composure. He set down his teacup gently, the porcelain clicking faintly against the saucer.
Dave turned next, movement slower, more deliberate. His expression was calm, but his eyes—those clear, icy blue eyes—shifted with a thousand things he didn't say.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The air itself seemed to tighten, holding its breath.
Rain tapped gently against the glass behind them. The piano upstairs stilled mid-note.
Liam stood there, water still clinging to the hem of his coat, his hands curling at his sides. He had imagined this moment countless times on sleepless nights abroad—CeCe greeting him, the warmth of homecoming—but not like this.
Not with the house smelling like him.
Not with Dave standing at CeCe's back like a quiet, unwavering shadow.
Not with laughter still lingering in the air that didn't belong to him.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, even—but strained around the edges.
"I see you've been… keeping busy."
CeCe smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Someone had to keep the house from turning into a mausoleum."
And Dave said nothing—just bowed his head slightly, the gesture more guarded than deferential, as rain continued to fall outside, soft and steady, like applause from a world that no longer cared who deserved whom.
CeCe's smile deepened, light and polite—perfectly practiced.
"Welcome home, darling," he said. "Europe treat you well?"
Liam's chest tightened. "It did. I tried to call."
CeCe tilted his head, expression faintly curious. "Did you?"
"Yes," Liam said slowly, frowning. "You didn't get my messages?"
CeCe's laugh was small, delicate. "Apparently not. I assumed you'd moved on with your life. People do that when they leave, don't they?"
Dave's hands stilled at his sides, but he didn't turn away.
Liam studied CeCe's face, searching for a trace of hurt—some sign of anger—but there was only calm detachment. He couldn't tell whether it was real or rehearsed.
"Well," CeCe said after a moment, rising to his feet, "you're home now. I'll have the staff prepare your favorite meal. Not that you'll eat it—you never do—but it's there if you feel nostalgic."
"CeCe," Liam began, "I—"
"Don't," CeCe said softly. "You'll ruin the mood."
He smiled again, that effortless, golden smile that covered bruises only he could feel. Then he walked past Liam, brushing his shoulder lightly as he left the room.
Liam stood there for a long moment, staring at the space where CeCe had been just moments ago. The faint warmth of laughter still lingered in the air, and for a reason he couldn't name, it made his throat tighten. He smoothed a hand down his tie—a pointless gesture, more for control than comfort—and turned toward the only other person in the room.
"Report," he said, his voice clipped, the tone of a man used to being obeyed. "Everything in order?"
Dave stood straight, hands folded neatly behind his back, his expression carefully neutral. "Yes, sir," he said evenly. "Everything's been… peaceful."
"Good." Liam adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, the gesture polished and automatic. "I'll expect a written summary of CeCe's activities while I was away."
"Yes, sir."
The words came easily, practiced. But each syllable burned in Dave's throat.
Liam started to leave, but then hesitated at the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. "He seems… happy."
Dave's eyes flicked up just long enough to meet his. "He's adjusted," he said quietly.
Liam gave a faint nod, the smallest curve of satisfaction crossing his face, and turned to go. His polished shoes clicked against the marble, fading down the hall until the sound was swallowed by the house.
When the echo finally died, Dave exhaled. The breath came sharp, like it had been trapped in his chest for weeks. His shoulders sagged, only slightly, but enough to betray the iron tension that had coiled through him the entire time Liam had been standing there.
He turned his gaze to the couch where CeCe's teacup still sat—half-full, steam curling lazily in the soft morning light. The faint print of CeCe's lips stained the porcelain edge.
Dave's jaw tightened.
He could still hear Liam's voice, that same commanding ease that reminded him of everything about Alpha society he had been raised to tolerate: the certainty, the entitlement, the belief that the world—and the people in it—would bend when commanded.
Liam Amburdale had done the same with CeCe.
Liam had traded him for CeCe's signature on a marriage certificate. A political deal sealed in ink and indifference. And then, weeks later, he'd simply left. Handed CeCe off like a possession, a contract fulfilled, and boarded a plane without once looking back.
And Dave had been left to pick up the pieces.
Every laugh, every tear, every sleepless night, every glass of wine CeCe drank just to numb the ache of being unwanted—it had been Dave there, not Liam. It had been him who steadied trembling hands and carried him to bed when exhaustion finally broke through CeCe's pride. Him who listened when CeCe whispered the kind of lonely thoughts people only share in the dark.
And now Liam was back, standing in his immaculate suit and polished shoes, pretending as though nothing had changed. Pretending he could reclaim what he had so carelessly abandoned.
Dave's fingers curled slowly at his sides, knuckles whitening.
He wasn't an Alpha. He had no claim. The world had made that clear since the day he was old enough to understand the difference between command and compliance. Betas served. Betas obeyed. Betas stayed in their place.
And yet, deep inside, something had begun to rebel—a quiet, steady pulse of defiance that grew stronger every time Liam spoke to him like a subordinate instead of a man. Every time Liam's eyes passed over CeCe with that detached, assessing look instead of awe.
He'd tell himself it was loyalty. Duty. Protection. But that wasn't the truth anymore.
Because when CeCe smiled at him, when he laughed and leaned close, when he touched Dave's sleeve and whispered something only meant for him—it didn't feel like duty.
It felt like possession.
Like a claim.
Like something primal had taken root inside his chest and was waiting—patient, dangerous—to bloom.
Dave's gaze drifted back to the couch again. He could almost picture CeCe there, laughing softly, hair glinting in the morning light, eyes alight with the kind of warmth that made even the coldest corners of the house feel alive.
Liam didn't deserve that. Didn't deserve him.
And the thought—the sheer, forbidden truth of it—sent a ripple through Dave that was equal parts fury and longing.
He ran a hand over his face, trying to shake it, but the feeling didn't fade. It wouldn't.
From this moment on, he realized, there was no going back.
Not to duty. Not to blind obedience. Not to pretending that CeCe belonged to someone who had traded him like a business asset.
He straightened slowly, jaw set, his icy blue eyes hardening with a new kind of resolve.
Liam Amburdale might still be his Alpha in name,
but when it came to CeCe—
Dave intended to win.
By evening, the house was alive with servants preparing dinner, but the air between CeCe and Liam remained thin and fragile.
They sat across from each other at the dining table—the space between them wide enough for ghosts.
"How was Europe?" CeCe asked politely, cutting his steak into small, unnecessary pieces.
"Productive," Liam said. "We're opening two new subsidiaries."
"Congratulations."
"Thank you."
Silence.
Liam watched him for a moment. CeCe's face was calm, composed—but his body language told another story. The way his fingers tapped idly on the tablecloth. The faint hesitation before every smile. The way his gaze strayed, not toward Liam, but toward the window that looked out into the garden, where Dave was stationed beneath the lamp post, unmoving as a statue.
"Do you still call him your bodyguard?" Liam asked abruptly.
CeCe looked up, eyes narrowing playfully. "Why? Do you want him back?"
"No," Liam said, too quickly. "He seems… effective."
CeCe smirked. "You mean loyal."
Liam didn't respond, but something in his expression softened—uncertainty flickering in the shadows of his usually composed demeanor.
CeCe noticed. He noticed everything.
And though part of him wanted to reach across the table, to bridge the silence, another part of him—the part that had waited through endless lonely nights—refused.
So instead, he lifted his glass, smiled faintly, and said, "To business trips and missed calls."
Liam's brow furrowed. "CeCe—"
The phone rang before he could finish.
The butler entered quietly, murmuring, "Mr. Amburdale, the company is requesting your presence. They said it's urgent."
Liam sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Now?"
"Yes, sir."
CeCe smiled tightly. "Duty calls."
Liam hesitated. "I'll be back."
"Of course you will," CeCe said. His tone was gentle, but his eyes gave nothing away.
Liam lingered another moment, then nodded once and left.
When the front door closed, CeCe exhaled, long and slow.
"Predictable as ever," he murmured.
Hours later, Dave found him in the sitting room, curled on the couch beneath a blanket, flipping lazily through a book he wasn't reading.
"CeCe," Dave said softly, "should I bring tea?"
CeCe didn't look up. "No. Sit."
Dave hesitated, then obeyed, taking the armchair opposite him.
CeCe glanced up at him, the candlelight reflecting emerald in his eyes. "He left again."
"I know."
" Does he always do that?"
"Yes."
"Funny, isn't it?" CeCe said, voice barely above a whisper. "When he's here, I can't reach him. When he's gone, I can't forget him. And yet…" He trailed off, gaze falling to the floor. "You're the one who never leaves."
Dave swallowed. "That's my job."
"No," CeCe said softly. "That's your nature."
For a long time, there was silence between them—thick, heavy, almost comforting.
Finally, CeCe spoke again, quieter. "Dave… what would happen if Liam decided to let you go?"
Dave stiffened. "Why would he?"
CeCe gave a faint, bittersweet smile. "Because he'd notice what's been in front of him all along."
Dave's voice was low, rough. "Then I'd find a way to stay."
CeCe's heart twisted. "Even without pay?"
"Even without air," Dave said before he could stop himself.
CeCe's breath caught. His fingers curled into the blanket.
"…Then I'll make sure he never gets the chance," he said quietly.
---
Over the next few weeks, CeCe's plan began to form in secret.
It started as a flicker of thought—small, defiant, dangerous. But once the idea took root, it refused to die.
He began moving carefully, quietly. The way someone might rearrange pieces on a chessboard while smiling across the table.
During breakfasts with Liam, he laughed and teased, his tone light, his words harmless. But beneath the surface, every question was chosen like a blade disguised as silk.
"So, darling," he'd murmur one morning, stirring sugar into his tea, "what exactly happens when an employee changes assignments? Say, a bodyguard moves from one household to another. Does the contract… follow the employer, or the estate?"
Liam, distracted by the day's agenda, barely looked up. "Depends on who holds the contract," he said absently, not realizing the weight of the answer he'd just given.
CeCe's smile sharpened just slightly. "Of course. I was just curious."
He was always curious, lately.
He asked the butler about staff transfers—whether a spouse of the household could assume managerial rights in the absence of the Alpha. He asked Mrs. Thorne how Liam had handled previous dismissals, pretending it was gossip. He lingered in the library, poring over dusty estate ledgers and legal records until the script blurred before his eyes.
To anyone watching, it looked harmless. A bored young spouse learning the business side of his new life.
But CeCe wasn't bored—he was calculating.
He was building a case, one document, one conversation, one smile at a time. Carefully weaving a way to keep Dave. Legally. Permanently. Under his name, not Liam's.
He couldn't risk Liam finding out what they had become—the quiet closeness that bloomed in the hours between dusk and dawn, the gentle way Dave's hand would linger a moment too long when passing him a cup of tea, the nights when they sat by the window trading stories until sleep pulled CeCe under mid-sentence.
Because if Liam ever saw it—if he ever understood—Dave would be gone by morning.
Transferred. Dismissed. Forgotten.
And the house would fall silent again.
CeCe couldn't bear that. He had spent too many nights learning what loneliness felt like—its shape, its sound, its taste. Dave's presence had filled those hollows, turned the house from a prison into something warm, something human.
So he played his part.
He returned to the social stage with a smile so bright it almost hurt to wear. He flirted with Liam just enough to keep suspicion at bay—soft laughter, the occasional touch on his arm, a murmured compliment when others were watching. He sat beside him at dinners, leaned close at events, and made sure every observer believed in the illusion of harmony.
He charmed the staff into silence with easy affection and casual generosity—little gifts, kind words, a reminder that their loyalty was seen and would be rewarded. Even the head butler, once loyal to Liam to a fault, began addressing him as "Madam CeCe" with an undertone of genuine respect.
And while Liam believed the household had simply adjusted, CeCe was plotting the shape of his own quiet revolution.
Every night, when the house fell still, CeCe would sit at his writing desk beneath the glow of a single lamp, documents spread before him—contracts, financial ledgers, correspondence. Ink stained the edges of his fingers. His pulse thrummed with a heady mix of fear and anticipation.
He wasn't planning espionage. He was planning an inheritance.
He wanted to secure Dave—not as a bodyguard, not even as a servant, but as his. His shadow, his guardian, his constant and maybe one day…something more.
And Dave, ever faithful, ever near, continued to stand beside him with the same quiet devotion that had first undone him.
Dave didn't know. He couldn't know.
That every lingering glance, every shared silence, every slow, careful word CeCe spoke during the day was part of something much larger—a secret vow stitched beneath the surface of his polite smiles.
CeCe's heart had long since stopped belonging to the man who owned the house.
It now belonged to the man who filled it.
---
Across the city, in the gleaming office of Amburdale Industries, Liam stared out at the skyline, a growing ache tightening his chest.
He told himself it was stress. Work. Fatigue.
But when he closed his eyes, all he saw was CeCe—laughing, teasing, looking at him with something like longing.
And what Liam didn't know—what he couldn't know—was that even as he began to fall in love for real, the world he'd left behind was quietly slipping out of his reach.
Because CeCe Mor-Ray had stopped being his perfectly flawed jade.
He was carving himself into something new—something real.
And this time, Liam wasn't the one holding the chisel.