For three days after the storm, the Amburdale mansion moved in a strange kind of stillness.
Every clock tick sounded too loud, every footstep too careful—as if the house itself had learned to hold its breath.
Liam told himself the silence meant things were back to normal.
That was the lie he needed to believe when he sat in his private study each morning before heading to work and pressed play on the new surveillance feeds.
The monitors filled the wall: six camera angles, grainy and muted, glowing faintly blue in the dark.
In one, CeCe crossed the hall in a cream-colored robe, hair tied, eyes fixed straight ahead.
In another, Dave followed him at the proper distance—no closer than regulation allowed.
They never touched.
They never even looked at each other for long.
Liam leaned forward, elbows on his knees, searching for something—anything—that might tell him he'd been wrong about the pull between them.
But all he saw was restraint.
Perfect, polished restraint.
He exhaled slowly and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Maybe I overreacted."
The thought gave him no comfort.
---
The car ride home from the mall had ended in silence.
The moment CeCe heard the words "Liam has placed secret security cameras," something inside him cracked—not just because of the invasion, but because of what it meant. Every moment, every laugh, every lingering look with Dave is now being under watch. It was a violation dressed as protection, and the knowledge left a cold taste in his mouth.
But what cut deeper still was Dave's question.
"What are we?"
CeCe hadn't answered. He couldn't.
The words had hung between them like a suspended thread, trembling but unbroken, until the car reached the estate gates. From that moment on, something shifted.
Dave had pulled away.
From that moment on, their dance changed.
They spoke to each other like strangers again.
"Mr. González, please fetch me tea."
"Yes, sir."
They moved with professional distance—no shared jokes, no gentle brushes of fingers when handing over a glass, no lingering gazes across the breakfast table.
To the cameras, they were the perfect spouse and employee of the Amburdale household.
To themselves, they were ghosts haunting the same walls.
---
Day One.
The morning after, CeCe noticed it immediately—the absence.
Dave still followed him, still opened doors, still waited at the foot of the stairs like the perfect bodyguard. But gone were the fleeting smiles, the small brushes of fingers, the warmth in his tone when he said, "Good morning."
Now it was just "Morning, sir."
Cold. Distant. Professional.
CeCe spent breakfast staring into his tea until it went lukewarm, his appetite gone. The maids noticed, exchanging curious glances, but said nothing.
He told himself it was fine. He told himself this distance was safer. That Dave was only protecting them both from Liam's eyes.
But when he reached for a glass at lunch and Dave didn't automatically hand it to him—when Dave walked behind him at an exact, measured distance instead of beside him—CeCe realized just how much he'd grown used to those quiet, wordless gestures.
He hated it.
He missed being seen.
---
Day Two.
By the second day, CeCe couldn't stop watching Dave.
He caught himself looking up from his book whenever Dave entered a room, waiting for that familiar meeting of eyes—only for it not to come. Dave never looked directly at him anymore. He moved with military precision, efficient and unreachable, as if touch itself had become forbidden.
CeCe's irritation built quietly, a knot tightening in his chest.
He lingered longer over breakfast just to make Dave wait. Asked for trivial things he didn't need—a shawl, a second cup of tea, a different pen—just to hear Dave's voice. But each time Dave answered with a short "Yes, sir," or "Right away, sir," CeCe's heart twisted further.
At one point, he almost said it.
Almost turned, mid-afternoon sun catching his hair, and said, I want you to stop calling me that.
But the words died before reaching his lips.
Instead, he sat at his vanity, staring at the reflection of the diamonds Liam had given him for a charity event later that evening—cold, perfect, meaningless—and whispered to his own reflection, "I hate this."
That day stretched painfully long.
CeCe spent most of the afternoon in the conservatory, staring out through the glass while pretending to read. The flowers no longer smelled sweet; they smelled like confinement.
He hated how quiet the house had become again, how cold. He hated Liam's cautious smiles at dinner, the way the Alpha seemed almost relieved to see his omega docile and distant.
But most of all, he hated how Dave's eyes avoided him now—how even when they were alone, he still played his role to perfection.
"You don't have to be so careful," CeCe whispered that evening as Dave helped him with his coat before a charity event.
Dave's voice was low, steady. "There are cameras in every hall."
"And in here?"
"No. But the walls have ears."
CeCe turned, close enough that Dave could feel the warmth of his breath. "Then maybe we need walls that don't."
---
Day Three.
By the third day, CeCe couldn't take it anymore.
He woke late, restless, the sheets twisted around his legs. The air in the room felt suffocating, full of all the things left unsaid.
He dressed quickly—soft cashmere, pale trousers, his favorite coat—and descended the stairs barefoot, catching Dave just as he finished checking the morning reports with the house staff.
"I'm going out," CeCe said lightly. "Need something outside. Need air."
CeCe muttered the last sentence before heading towards the door.
Dave's posture stiffened slightly. "I'll get the car."
CeCe bit back a sigh. Of course. Dave had to follow. Always had to follow.
But as the engine purred to life and the estate's iron gates slid open, an idea began to form—half impulse, half rebellion.
He pulled out his phone and, under the guise of scrolling idly, typed date ideas near me. The search results lit up the screen in soft blue light. Cafés, riverside walks, small art galleries, a hidden garden in the city's west district.
He smiled to himself, lips curving.
"Turn left here," he said suddenly.
Dave glanced at him in the rearview mirror, uncertain. "That's not the route to the boutiques."
"I'm not going to my usual boutiques" CeCe said, tone breezy. "It's an…errand. Very important. You'll see."
Dave hesitated but obeyed, signaling and taking the turn.
Outside, the city unfurled in bursts of late afternoon gold. CeCe leaned his cheek against the window, watching the light dance across the glass, pretending his heart wasn't pounding.
He didn't know exactly where they were going yet—only that he couldn't stand another hour of silence between them.
If Liam wanted to watch, let him watch an empty house.
If the cameras caught something, it wouldn't be the two of them.
CeCe Mor-Ray had never been the kind of Omega to play by anyone else's rules, and he wasn't about to start now.
He looked up from his phone, his eyes finding Dave's reflection in the mirror.
"Drive a little slower," he said softly. "I like this part of the city."
Dave's gaze flicked up, meeting his for the first time in three days.
Something unreadable passed between them—tension, longing, maybe even fear.
CeCe smiled faintly. "Good. Now take the next right."
He didn't say where they were headed.
But both of them knew this wasn't just an errand.
It was CeCe's answer—unspoken, reckless, and already in motion.
It was the first time they slipped away, it was supposed to look innocent enough.
At least, that's what CeCe told himself—and what Dave allowed himself to believe.
CeCe had insisted on running his own errands that morning, a scandalous notion for an Omega of his standing. It was the sort of thing high society would have called improper, but that was exactly why it worked. Nobody questioned the erratic whims of a spoiled, beautiful spouse—they simply nodded and stepped aside.
The drive into the city had been unhurried. Pale sunlight spilled through the windshield, catching on CeCe's hair like silk thread. He gave directions softly, almost lazily, one manicured finger tapping against the map on his phone. Dave followed every turn without question, his gloved hands steady on the wheel, his reflection cool and unreadable in the rearview mirror.
They stopped at a quiet street near the river, a narrow lane lined with old brick buildings and flowering balconies. Between a florist overflowing with wild peonies and an antique bookstore that smelled faintly of dust and leather, there was a small café with fogged windows and ivy climbing its façade.
"Here," CeCe said, smiling faintly. "This is the place."
Inside, it was warm and dim—soft yellow light from sconces, the low hum of jazz from an old speaker, the faint scent of roasted coffee and vanilla syrup. The floor creaked underfoot, and every table held a single glass vase with a tiny white carnation.
No one looked twice at them.
CeCe wore oversized sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat that he kept in the trunk, his disguise more theatrical than necessary but utterly charming. A loose cream blouse fell off one shoulder, revealing a glimmer of skin; he looked every inch the unbothered socialite hiding in plain sight. Dave had traded his usual uniform for a simple dark jacket and an open collar, blending in as easily as he disappeared into shadows.
They chose a small booth at the back, half-hidden behind a potted fern. From there, they could see the street through the rain-dappled window but remained unseen themselves.
CeCe peeled off his gloves with deliberate slowness, crossing one leg over the other, his every movement fluid and unhurried. "It's lovely, isn't it?" he said, glancing around. "A little secret in the middle of the city. No one here cares who's an Alpha or Omega or anything else. Just people, just coffee."
Dave gave a small, amused sound as he stirred his drink. "You don't even like coffee."
CeCe smiled, lowering his sunglasses just enough to show his eyes. "No, but I like pretending I do."
For a moment, neither spoke. The city murmured softly outside, the scent of rain mixing with cinnamon and espresso. CeCe traced a lazy circle along the rim of his teacup, and Dave watched the movement, his heartbeat betraying him in its steady climb.
What had begun as a harmless errand—a simple outing to indulge CeCe's whim—felt suddenly fragile, intimate, like a secret shared beneath the noise of the world.
And though they would tell themselves it was nothing—just a coffee, just a breath of freedom—they both knew the truth the moment their eyes met across that small wooden table.
This was how forbidden things began.
CeCe smiled for the first time in weeks. "See? No cameras."
Dave's mouth twitched. "Feels strange."
"Good strange," CeCe said. "Like breathing again."
They talked for hours about nothing—about the weather, about the crooked shelves in the bookstore next door, about how the café's mismatched cups had more character than half the people they knew.
CeCe spoke the most, his voice low but animated, hands moving as he described whatever small wonder had caught his attention. He teased Dave for taking his coffee black—"You drink it like you're trying to punish yourself"—and Dave countered dryly, "Some of us don't need sugar to survive." That earned a laugh, bright and unguarded, the kind that turned heads even in a quiet room.
When CeCe laughed like that, Dave realized how much he'd missed the sound—missed the way it filled the space around them, warm and alive. It had been days since he'd heard it without the echo of restraint. Here, without servants or surveillance or polished floors that swallowed every sound, CeCe's laughter lingered in the air like music.
They spoke of trivial things that somehow felt sacred.
CeCe pointed out the couple by the window, old and perfectly still, and whispered, "Do you think they're in love or just too polite to admit they're bored?"
Dave replied, "Maybe both," and CeCe smiled softly, eyes distant, as though imagining what it might be like to grow old in peace.
Outside, rain began to fall again, faint and rhythmic against the windows. Inside, the café glowed in candlelight as the day slipped quietly into evening. CeCe had removed his sunglasses hours ago, his disguise forgotten. His pale eyes shone like glass in the soft light, the silver of his hair catching glimmers from the street lamps beyond the glass.
By the time they stood to leave, the world outside had shifted into twilight. CeCe reached for his coat, but Dave was there first, holding it open for him. Their fingers brushed—a small, accidental touch that neither pulled away from.
"Thank you," CeCe said softly, the words simple but weighted.
Dave looked at him for a moment, the air between them thick with everything they couldn't say. Then CeCe tilted his face up, just slightly. The motion was instinctive, barely a breath of distance left between them.
Dave hesitated—one heartbeat, two—and then leaned in.
The kiss was quick but aching, a whisper of contact that lingered longer than it should have. It wasn't hunger; it was recognition, quiet and certain, like the world exhaling around them.
When they finally pulled apart, Dave lips curved in a small, rare smile, eyes half-lidded, voice a soft murmur. "We should go before someone notices the scandal."
CeCe's smiled faintly. "Let them."
They stepped out into the rain together, CeCe's laughter echoing softly as they walked toward the car, two shadows in the city's golden dusk—an Omega and a Beta, bound now by something neither of them had meant to begin.
When they left, the city lights spilled across the wet pavement, reflecting in CeCe's green eyes like scattered stars.
"Thank you," CeCe said softly.
"For what?"
"For being real."
Dave didn't answer. He didn't need to.
---
It became their pattern—an unspoken rhythm of escape.
Sometimes it was a hotel lounge, all marble floors and velvet chairs, where CeCe would lean close over a glass of champagne, murmuring in that low, teasing voice, "You know, if Liam ever found out how much I enjoy these errands, he'd start giving me more of them." Dave would sit across from him, jacket off, hands clasped on the table, eyes never leaving CeCe's face. "He'd never guess," he'd reply, voice steady but gaze burning with something unspoken.
Other times it was a quiet walk through the park, just outside the polished district where the Amburdale name meant something. There, the trees arched like cathedral beams, and CeCe would drag his fingertips along the iron railing as they walked. "I used to come here before I was married," he'd say, soft and half-laughing. "It felt like the only place I could breathe." Dave would glance sideways at him and answer simply, "Then I'm glad you brought me."
And then there were the old movie theaters, half-forgotten by the city—places where the air smelled of popcorn and dust and the seats creaked if you breathed too deeply. They always chose the back row, their small rebellion against the world. CeCe would whisper snide commentary during the trailers, and Dave would lean close enough to murmur, "You'll get us caught," his breath brushing CeCe's ear. CeCe would smile, wicked and fond. "Then maybe stop looking at me like that."
They never risked touch where eyes might see. Never. That was the rule they both swore by.
But rules, like breath, could falter.
Sometimes it was the slow drag of CeCe's fingertips across Dave's palm when coins clinked between them at the café counter—metal warm from Dave's pocket, CeCe's skin cooler, the pads of his fingers tracing the lifeline in Dave's hand like he was memorizing it. Dave's cock twitched in his jeans, a pulse of heat that made him grip the edge of the counter to keep from hauling CeCe across it.
Sometimes it was the way CeCe's hand settled on Dave's forearm as they crossed the street, thumb sweeping the inside of his wrist, pressing just hard enough to feel the thrum of Dave's pulse. The touch lingered—three beats, four—until the light changed and CeCe's fingers slid away, leaving a stripe of fire under Dave's skin.
But when the hunger clawed too deep, they found shadows. Behind a marble pillar in the museum's echoing hall, CeCe pressed Dave into the cool stone, cashmere brushing denim. His lips found Dave's—soft, deliberate—the kiss wet and slow, tongues sliding slick and lazy like they had all the time in the world. CeCe's breath hitched when Dave's hand cupped the back of his neck, thumb stroking the soft skin beneath his ear. He opened wider, a quiet moan swallowed by Dave's mouth, hips rolling forward to grind the hard line of his cock against Dave's thigh through silk and wool.
Dave's other hand slipped beneath CeCe's coat, fingers splaying over the small of his back, dipping lower to palm the curve of his ass. He squeezed, felt the flex of muscle, the damp heat of slick already seeping through CeCe's trousers. CeCe's teeth grazed Dave's lower lip, a sharp nip that drew blood, then soothed it with a slow lick. The taste of copper and jasmine flooded Dave's mouth; he groaned, low and filthy, and pressed CeCe harder against the pillar, grinding until the omega's breath stuttered and his cock leaked a wet patch against Dave's hip.
They broke apart only when footsteps echoed too close, foreheads pressed, panting into the scant space between them. CeCe's lips were swollen, glistening, eyes dark and wrecked. Dave's thumb swept across them, smearing saliva and the faint smear of blood, pressing until CeCe's tongue flicked out to taste it again.
"We should…head back soon… Before Master Liam gets suspicious."
Dave finally spoke, voice low and raspy. CeCe nodded, breathless.
"Yeah…"
---
The morning after their charged kiss at the museum, CeCe woke to find an invitation lying on the breakfast table—a cream envelope sealed with the Amburdale crest. Liam's name was written in bold, sharp letters across the top, with a note in his tidy handwriting beneath:
Pack for warm weather. Seven days. Private cruise. My friend Gabriel's birthday—attendance required.
CeCe had stared at the note for a long moment, his thumb brushing the edge of the paper. Attendance required. It wasn't a request, it was an order. An expectation of an Omega spouse to his Alpha husband to obey.
When he met Liam in the entry hall, the Alpha was fastening his cufflinks.
"You could've just told me," CeCe said lightly.
Liam didn't look up. "Would you have come if I had?"
CeCe's lips curved. "You make it sound like I have a choice."
Liam's answering smile was brief, cautious. "Bring something elegant. My friends like to be impressed."
Dave helped CeCe pack that night—quiet, deliberate, every folded shirt and chosen accessory an exercise in restraint. Neither mentioned the museum or the kiss that had left them both shaking. When CeCe held up a white linen suit and asked, "Too much?" Dave had only said, "You'd outshine the sun in rags."
The words lingered long after he left.