By late autumn, the Amburdale estate had settled into a rhythm that was no longer Liam's.
The change was so complete, so seamless, that even the walls seemed to hum with a different energy—warmer, lighter, alive in a way the house had never been under its true master.
Every corner bore the imprint of CeCe's quiet dominion. The marble floors gleamed softer now, not sterile and cold but polished to reflect candlelight instead of fluorescent glare. The vast windows wore gauzy curtains that caught the afternoon sun and turned it into silk. Even the air smelled different: jasmine, bergamot, and something subtle and human—CeCe's scent, lingering like a promise in every room.
The servants, once trained to move silently under Liam's rigid expectations, had relaxed into CeCe's world of gentle indulgence. They smiled as they worked, humming softly to the tunes CeCe played from the phonograph in the main hall. Mrs. Thorne kept fresh pastries in the oven every morning because "Madam CeCe likes the smell." And that title—Madam CeCe—had caught like wildfire. At first it was whispered, uncertain. Then it became natural. Respectful. Loving.
The old hierarchies that had once ruled the Amburdale home had faded into something far more intimate, something born from CeCe's peculiar magic—the ability to make people feel seen, wanted, important.
And at his side—always—was Dave.
Their rhythm was wordless, instinctive. CeCe could walk into a room, and Dave would already be moving—pouring tea before CeCe asked, adjusting the curtains when the light became too sharp, bringing a shawl to drape around CeCe's shoulders when the autumn chill crept in. It wasn't obedience. It wasn't habit. It was knowing.
CeCe never had to tell him what he needed. Dave just—knew.
When CeCe laughed, Dave's eyes softened before he could stop them. When CeCe sighed, Dave's hands flexed at his sides, fighting the impulse to reach out. When CeCe disappeared into the gardens for too long, Dave always appeared—coat in hand, quiet as a thought—ready to lead him back inside.
It had become something that looked effortless, domestic even, but beneath it ran a current neither dared to name.
The way Dave's fingers brushed CeCe's when handing over a teacup lingered a fraction too long. The way CeCe's gaze followed him sometimes—not flirtatious, but searching, fond—felt like a secret neither of them should have.
They had become inseparable, their lives threaded so closely together that the idea of one without the other seemed wrong. CeCe filled the air with warmth and light; Dave followed quietly, steady and grounding. Where CeCe sparkled, Dave steadied. Where CeCe wavered, Dave anchored.
And CeCe—brilliant, manipulative, heartbreakingly human CeCe—knew exactly what he was doing.
He had turned the house into his stage, and every gesture, every smile, every word was part of his grand performance. The plan he'd crafted in whispers and candlelight was nearing its final shape.
Late at night, when the fire burned low in the sitting room, they would talk. About nothing. About everything. About books, and storms, and the way the sea smelled in winter. Dave would sit close enough that CeCe could feel the heat of him—his quiet strength, his breath when he laughed softly at CeCe's dramatics.
And every time Dave smiled at him with that rare, unguarded warmth, CeCe's heart gave a dangerous flutter.
Because this—this closeness, this comfort, this quiet, impossible tenderness—was exactly what he needed, what he'd been missing his whole life.
To save himself.
To keep him.
To make sure that, no matter what Liam Amburdale believed he still owned, CeCe would never lose Dave.
He would rewrite the rules of the house the same way he had rewritten its air—silently, beautifully, irrevocably.
---
It began with small things: a word here, a whisper there.
At a charity gala hosted by one of Liam's associates, CeCe made sure to arrive dressed in liquid silver silk, his hair tied loosely at his neck, his every gesture soft and deliberate. He spoke to senators, investors, and the wives of old-money Alphas with that same perfect balance of grace and mischief.
"Oh, my husband works far too hard," he said lightly, fingers brushing a champagne flute. "Sometimes I think he's forgotten I even exist. Thank heavens for Dave—my loyal Beta guard. The only man in the house who hasn't abandoned me to boredom."
It was said with a smile, playful, harmless. But the room was full of people who loved to talk.
Within a week, rumors nearly reached Liam's ears: that his spouse and his bodyguard were inseparable. That CeCe was lonely. That perhaps Amburdale should reassign his Beta before the press noticed.
CeCe made sure to intercept those whispers before they reached any further.
He invited Liam to dinner, dressed in soft velvet the color of red wine, eyes lined faintly with kohl. The table was set for two; the lighting low, the wine expensive.
"You've been working too much again," CeCe said, pouring him a glass. "You'll start looking older than your grandfather."
Liam chuckled faintly, loosening his tie. "You're not complaining about my work when it keeps you living like royalty."
"Oh, I love this gilded cage you call a palace," CeCe said sweetly, leaning on one elbow. "But every queen needs her guards. You wouldn't take mine away, would you?"
Liam blinked, the shift in topic subtle but sudden. "Your guard?"
"Dave," CeCe said, as if it were obvious. "He should be reassigned to me permanently since you're always gone, right? It's only proper that his employment contract reflects that."
Liam frowned. "You're saying you want him officially under your employment?"
"Mm." CeCe smiled lazily. "It's a formality, really. You can have him back anytime. But until then, it'll make everything smoother."
Liam studied him, suspicion flickering behind his eyes. "Why does it matter?"
CeCe leaned forward, his voice low. "Because it makes it clear he protects me, not just the Amburdale name."
Liam's lips parted, but before he could question further, CeCe was already pouring more wine. "Drink with me," he said softly. "You're too tense."
"CeCe—"
"Please," CeCe interrupted, smiling just enough to make it disarming. "For me. For once."
Liam sighed and gave in.
By the twentieth glass, his edges had softened. By the thirty-fifth, his tie was gone, his head tilted back against the chair.
CeCe stood, poured himself a smaller glass, and crossed the room, his steps silent. "You really should learn how to pace yourself, darling."
Liam's eyes half-opened, unfocused. "You're… seducing me."
CeCe's smile was a secret. "Only for good reason."
CeCe straddled Liam's lap in the wide leather chair, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of the alpha's hips.
Liam's head rested against the chair back, gold hair mussed, eyes half-lidded with fatigue and the slow drag of wine. His glass had grown too heavy; it tipped in his lax fingers until CeCe plucked it away with a soft tsk.
"Poor darling," CeCe murmured, voice velvet and smoke. He poured a fresh measure from the bottle on the side table, then brought it to his own lips. He didn't swallow. Instead he leaned in, lashes lowering, and sealed his mouth over Liam's.
The kiss was slow, deliberate. Wine flooded Liam's tongue, warm and smooth, laced with the faint sweetness of CeCe's mouth. Liam groaned, a low rumble in his chest, hands coming up to grip CeCe's waist. CeCe pulled back just enough to let a thin ribbon of liquor spill from the corner of Liam's lips, then licked it away with the tip of his tongue.
"Drink," CeCe whispered against his mouth, pouring another sip past his own lips and feeding it to Liam like communion. Liam swallowed, chasing the taste, chasing CeCe. His hands slid lower, thumbs pressing into the hollows above CeCe's hipbones.
CeCe smiled, sweet and wicked, and did it again. And again. Until the bottle was empty and Liam's head lolled, breath slow, the alpha's grip loosening into something almost tender. CeCe brushed a kiss to the corner of Liam's mouth, then to the hinge of his jaw, then to the pulse beneath his ear.
"Fucking finally" he said, voice barely sound. Liam's only answer was a sigh, body sinking deeper into the chair.
CeCe slipped from his lap like water, bare feet silent on the rug. He set the glass aside, smoothed Liam's hair with gentle fingers, and pulled a cashmere throw over the alpha's shoulders. Liam didn't stir.
He brushed his fingers lightly over Liam's shoulder. "Sleep, Liam. The world will still be yours in the morning."
Within minutes, the Alpha's breathing evened out.
CeCe poured the last of his wine down the sink, replaced the glasses, and quietly left the dining room.
Dave was waiting in the hall, silent as always, but his eyes met CeCe's with a look CeCe didn't often see in Betas—something close to reverence.
"Is he asleep?" Dave asked quietly.
CeCe nodded. "He should be out for hours but you know alphas, they always gotta be so difficult to deal with."
They walked together through the quiet halls, their footsteps muffled by carpet, the chandeliers above casting pools of gold across the marble.
When they reached the back garden, CeCe exhaled, letting the cool air hit his lungs. "It feels good out here," he murmured. "You can almost forget who you are."
Dave stood beside him, hands behind his back. "You don't have to forget."
CeCe looked up at him, emerald eyes soft. "You don't know what that means for people like me."
Dave turned slightly toward him. "Then teach me."
For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the space between them alive and fragile.
CeCe reached out first—fingers brushing against Dave's wrist, featherlight. "You really mean to stay, don't you?"
"I told you I would."
CeCe's throat tightened. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'll start to believe you."
This time, it wasn't teasing. It wasn't playful. It was truth, whispered into the night.
Dave took a slow breath. "Then believe me."
CeCe's hand lingered, trembling slightly before he pulled back. "Not here," he said softly. "Not yet."
But every night after that, the pattern continued.
Every evening followed the same choreography.
CeCe would join Liam in the sitting room after dinner, the light low and amber from the fire. The decanter gleamed like captured sunlight on the sideboard. He moved through the space with practiced grace, the soft rustle of silk marking each step, pouring Liam's drink with a tilt of his wrist that made the gesture look intimate rather than dutiful.
"Another?" CeCe would murmur, eyes bright with mischief.
Liam's mouth curved in weary amusement. "You'll ruin me, you know."
"Just keeping you warm," CeCe would say, settling beside him.
Sometimes he perched on the arm of the chair, sometimes—when Liam was too tired to notice—he slid easily onto his lap, light as a whisper, all perfume and proximity. It wasn't passion; it was theater. CeCe's laughter brushed against Liam's ear, soft and practiced, the sound designed to soothe him deeper into comfort, into carelessness. Each refill came with another touch, another word of flattery, another small theft of control.
Liam drank, his shoulders easing, the line of his jaw softening. The scent of whiskey mingled with CeCe's faint jasmine-and-bergamot perfume, filling the room with a haze of warmth and drowsy trust. When the Alpha's head began to droop against the back of the chair, CeCe's smile turned small and secret.
---
At first, CeCe and Dave only talked during their late-night meetings—soft, careful exchanges whispered into the hush of the sleeping mansion.
They would meet in the narrow corridor outside the library or on the long balcony overlooking the gardens, where the scent of night-blooming jasmine drifted through the air and the lamps burned low and golden. CeCe would arrive barefoot, wrapped in one of his loose robes, his hair slightly mussed, eyes gleaming with something halfway between mischief and exhaustion. Dave would be waiting, posture straight but eyes softer than they were in daylight, a quiet constant in a world built on performance.
Their conversations began simply—unassuming threads of words that wove themselves through the quiet hours of the night.
They spoke of books first. CeCe would sit on the edge of the balcony railing, feet bare against the cold marble, and ask if Dave preferred tragedy or romance. Dave had admitted, after some hesitation, that he liked stories about survival—about people who built something out of nothing. CeCe had grinned at that. "So you're the tragic hero type," he teased. Dave had only smiled faintly in response, eyes glinting in the lamplight.
Then the topics drifted to the gardens below, where the moonlight turned the hedges silver. CeCe would ramble about the way the jasmine bloomed too early this year, or how the roses near the west wall looked "moodier" than usual. Dave would nod, listening intently even when he didn't fully understand CeCe's poetic logic. Sometimes he'd offer small, practical suggestions—"We could move the pots closer to the light; they'll take better."—and CeCe would pretend to swoon at his efficiency.
They laughed easily like that, until laughter turned to comfort.
CeCe would ask about the staff, their little quirks, their gossip. Dave, reserved by nature, would share only what he found harmless—the cook's obsession with perfecting her lemon tarts, the gardener's ongoing feud with a particularly stubborn crow. CeCe found it all endlessly fascinating. "You notice everything," he told Dave once. "No wonder I always feel safe when you're near."
That was the first time Dave had looked away to hide the faint color rising in his cheeks.
As the nights grew longer and colder, CeCe's curiosity turned more personal. He would sit cross-legged in the chair opposite Dave, eyes bright with mischief and warmth. "Tell me about your hometown," he'd say. "Was it big? Did you have family there?"
Dave had paused for a long time before answering. "No," he said finally, his voice low but steady. "I grew up in an orphanage. Sold young by my adopted parents. Moved around a lot until I was old enough to join the service corps."
CeCe's teasing smile faded, replaced by something softer. "That explains the discipline," he murmured. "And the quiet."
Dave had shrugged slightly, the gesture almost shy. "Quiet keeps you alive."
CeCe tilted his head, studying him in the dim light. "And now?"
Dave met his gaze. "Now it keeps you safe."
The words hung between them, heavy and unspoken, until CeCe broke it with a small, genuine smile. "You really are hopelessly noble, aren't you?"
Later, when CeCe asked what his favorite food was, Dave hesitated again, as if the question were somehow too intimate. Finally, he said, "Anything you cook."
CeCe blinked. "You've barely seen me cook."
"I've seen enough," Dave replied. "It's not about the food. It's the way you look when you're doing it. You don't just make meals—you make… peace."
CeCe laughed, startled and flattered in equal measure. "That's a new one. I've been called many things, but never peaceful."
Dave's lips twitched in a rare, quiet smile. "You are, sometimes. When you forget you're supposed to be dazzling everyone."
CeCe went quiet then, watching him. The words settled somewhere deep inside him, glowing faintly.
From then on, their nightly conversations deepened. Sometimes CeCe talked about the city he missed—the noise, the lights, the chaos that made him feel alive. Sometimes Dave talked about the stars, about how he learned to navigate by them during training. They filled the silence between them with stories, with laughter, with the kind of stillness that felt shared rather than empty.
And through it all, CeCe found himself learning the unspoken language of Dave's silences—the way his eyes softened when he was listening, the faint curve of his lips when amused, the subtle way his shoulders relaxed when CeCe smiled.
It was quiet. It was simple.
And it was becoming dangerous in its simplicity.
And soon, talk turned to touch.
It started innocently enough. A brush of CeCe's fingers against Dave's arm when he laughed too hard at something small. A moment of shared quiet when CeCe reached to take the mug of tea from Dave's hand and their fingers lingered just a fraction too long.
Then came the laughter—low, intimate, too close to his shoulder. CeCe had always been tactile by nature, but with Dave it was different. He wasn't performing. He wasn't flaunting. It was instinctive, his body moving before his mind could catch up.
And Dave, who had spent his life practicing distance, found himself breaking it without thought. His hand would steady CeCe when he leaned out over the balcony to watch the rain, the pads of his fingers warm against the silk of CeCe's sleeve. CeCe would look back over his shoulder, rainlight glinting in his pale hair, eyes bright with something unspoken.
Each night, the distance between them grew smaller until it ceased to exist.
CeCe began to crave those hours after midnight—the slow unraveling of formality, the quiet laughter that belonged to no one else. He found himself listening for Dave's footsteps in the hall before bed, heart quickening at the faint sound of the floorboards creaking. When their eyes met in the dim glow of the lamps, the rest of the world fell away.
Around Dave, CeCe didn't need to charm, to provoke, to dazzle. He didn't need to weaponize his beauty or soften his words to survive.
Around Dave, he wasn't the "perfect omega" society expected him to be. He wasn't the scandal Liam Amburdale had married to salvage his family's reputation. He wasn't even a spouse in a golden cage.
He was simply CeCe—unadorned, human, fragile, real.
Sometimes Dave would tell him stories in that low, even voice of his—stories about his old training days, the men he'd served before, or the way the stars looked different in his hometown. CeCe would listen, head resting against the cool marble of the balcony rail, the sound of rain a soft percussion behind them.
And sometimes they didn't speak at all. They would just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, the night pressing gently around them.
It was in those silences that CeCe's heart betrayed him most.
Guilt pricked at the edge of his thoughts, a constant, whispering presence. Liam. His husband. The man he had sworn, at least on paper, to honor. The man whose name paid for the roof above their heads and the life he now shared with another.
He told himself that what he and Dave had was harmless. That it was comfort, not betrayal. That it was platonical, not love.
But each night, when Dave's hand brushed his again, CeCe's chest would tighten with something that felt too raw, too honest to name.
And though guilt lingered—sharp and cold as glass—he couldn't bring himself to stop.
Because in those quiet, stolen hours, when the world shrank to the space between them and the rain whispered against the balcony rails, CeCe felt something he hadn't felt in years.
Free.
One night, as lightning flashed far beyond the horizon, CeCe whispered, "You know, I think I'm starting to forget what it felt like to be wanted for the wrong reasons."
Dave looked at him, eyes burning blue in the stormlight. "Then let me remind you what it's like to be wanted for the right ones."
CeCe's breath caught. His heart, long caged behind years of vanity and walls, stumbled and began to beat again.
He didn't reply—he only stepped closer, until his forehead rested against Dave's chest, and his voice came out a fragile murmur.
"Stay, Dave. Don't let this stop."
Dave's arms wrapped around him, careful but certain. "I'm not going anywhere."
And somewhere, deep in the silent house, Liam Amburdale turned in his sleep—dreaming of CeCe, the omega he'd married…and begun to love too late.
---
Liam Amburdale had always thought himself immune to sentiment unless it had to do with Kevin.
He'd built his life on control—neat columns of numbers, measured words, carefully drawn lines between what was his and what wasn't. But in the weeks following his return, that control began to erode in quiet, imperceptible ways.
It started with small things.
He would pass the sunroom and hear CeCe humming softly to himself, a tune that wandered and fell out of key but somehow filled the entire house with warmth. Or he'd catch a glimpse of CeCe reading by the window, legs curled under him, hair unbound and pale as frost in the morning light.
At first, he tried to rationalize it. He told himself it was relief—relief that the marriage had survived his absence, that CeCe had adjusted so gracefully. But when he found himself pausing at the doorway instead of passing by, when his pulse quickened at the sound of CeCe's laughter down the hall, he knew it was something else entirely.
He'd told himself from the beginning that CeCe reminded him of Kiki. The resemblance had been what first disarmed him: the blond hair, the delicate build, the softness around the eyes. But Kiki's blond had been darker—sunlight caught in amber—while CeCe's was closer to silver, shimmering like moonlight against his skin. And Kiki's eyes had been deep green, shadowed, always slightly turned inward, as though the world pained him to look at. CeCe's were pale and bright, sharp as new leaves, daring the world to look at him.
At first, those differences had unsettled Liam. They were a reminder that CeCe wasn't the ghost he thought he'd married.
But lately, he'd stopped comparing them.
Lately, he found himself lingering on those differences. The way CeCe's laughter rang louder, freer. The way his smile carried mischief instead of apology. The way he occupied space—not quietly, not shyly, but like someone who refused to fade, no matter how the world tried to make him smaller.
And Liam, who had spent years surrounding himself with stillness, found himself craving that noise. That light.
One evening, he entered the sitting room expecting silence and found CeCe there instead—Dave, also was there, at the far corner inspecting the bookshelves—sprawled across the sofa in a pale robe, reading a book upside down, his hair falling like liquid silver across his cheek. He looked up when Liam entered, smiling faintly.
"You're home early," CeCe said breathlessly, voice lilting, as if the thought amused him.
"Meetings ended sooner than expected," Liam replied. He crossed the room, setting his briefcase aside. His eyes drifted, unbidden, to the loose fall of fabric around CeCe's shoulder, the soft curve of his collarbone.
"Pity," CeCe murmured, closing his book. "I was enjoying having the house to myself."
It was a tease, but the words struck something in him—a pang of jealousy, of wanting, of something far less defined.
He shouldn't have stayed, but he did.
CeCe and Liam spoke for a while, about nothing of importance—politics, weather, the absurd price of imported tea.
CeCe lounged back against the sofa, one leg tucked beneath him, idly stirring his cup with a silver spoon. "Do you know they raised tariffs again on Darjeeling? I swear, at this rate, I'll have to grow my own tea plants in the garden."
Liam smiled faintly. "You'd turn the estate into a jungle."
"Oh, please," CeCe said, waving a delicate hand, the gesture almost theatrical. "It'd be the most fashionable jungle this side of the Atlantic. Besides, it's not as though you'd notice. You're always locked away in meetings, pretending to care about quarterly reports."
"I do care," Liam replied, though his tone softened. "Someone has to."
CeCe's lips curved into a knowing smirk. "And someone has to make sure this house doesn't die of boredom in your absence. You should thank me for my service."
"I suppose I should."
"'Suppose'? Try again, darling."
Liam exhaled through a laugh he hadn't meant to give. "Thank you, CeCe."
CeCe tilted his head, mock-serious. "You're welcome."
The conversation drifted easily after that, light as air. CeCe teased him about his dull suits and lack of color in his wardrobe, and Liam deflected with the patience of a man used to being provoked. But as CeCe spoke—hands moving with graceful animation, lips forming each word like they were meant to be watched rather than heard—Liam found his focus slipping.
He caught himself studying the fine tendons in CeCe's wrists as they flexed, the way his mouth curved around his words, the slight tilt of his head whenever he grew curious.
For a moment, the sound of his voice faded, and Liam realized, with quiet unease, that he was no longer comparing CeCe to Kiki at all.
He was just watching him.
And for the first time, he realized that CeCe was beautiful not because he resembled someone else, but because he didn't.
Kiki had been soft-spoken, fragile, almost untouchable. CeCe was fire—living, laughing, daring him to come closer.
That night, as Liam climbed the stairs to his room, he found himself thinking of the way CeCe had smiled at him before saying goodnight.
It wasn't the kind of smile he'd ever received from Kiki.
It was sharper. Brighter. Real.
And Liam, who couldn't allow himself the luxury of longing, lay awake for a long time afterward, the image of that smile replaying in his mind until he could no longer tell where memory ended and desire began.
By winter's first frost, he stopped thinking of Kiki altogether.
He saw only CeCe—the pale hair glinting like starlight, the quick wit, the sudden quiet that hid more than it revealed.
And though he didn't yet have the courage to name it, Liam Amburdale was falling in love. Not with a ghost, not with a resemblance, but with the living, dangerous, maddening person who had made his house feel alive again.
With Charles…with CeCe.