The world split neatly in two.
Liam Amburdale's was all glass towers and boardrooms—a world of polished reflections and silent power, where men in tailored suits spoke in figures and futures. His days began before dawn, the city skyline still half-asleep, and ended under the same cold glow of fluorescent light. Everything about him existed in order: his coffee, his signature, his silence. Even his emotions were filed away like contracts—measured, stamped, and sealed.
He ruled that world like a man too aware of the cost of losing it. His words were currency, his time an empire. There was comfort in that sterility, in the precision of numbers and the unyielding rhythm of control. He had built walls out of spreadsheets and marble floors, and called them home.
But CeCe Mor-Ray's world was nothing like his.
CeCe's days unfolded like a carousel of light and color—gardens blooming too early, music spilling from open windows, the scent of tea and sugar drifting through laughter. He lived in moments rather than hours, collecting sensations the way others collected titles.
In Liam's world, perfection was survival.
In CeCe's, beauty was rebellion.
And somewhere between those two worlds lay the truth neither dared to say aloud: CeCe had found warmth in places Liam could never reach.
There were afternoons in the garden where sunlight dappled the marble paths and CeCe's laughter slipped like water through the air—light, alive, unguarded. There were evenings by the piano, a glass of wine half-forgotten on the keys, and a man with blue-gray eyes standing quietly beside him. Dave didn't speak much; he didn't need to. His presence was steady, grounding—the quiet hum beneath the melody of CeCe's chaos.
While Liam brokered mergers and signed deals that moved nations, CeCe filled the Amburdale estate with life.
While Liam dined with investors in penthouse restaurants, CeCe sat on the kitchen counter barefoot, laughing at something Dave said as he wiped flour from his sleeve.
While Liam watched city lights from a boardroom window, CeCe watched rain bead along the garden glasshouse and felt the warmth of a Beta's hand brush against his.
Two worlds.
One built of ambition and glass; the other of stolen seconds and breathless warmth.
Liam didn't know it yet, but his glass world was beginning to crack—
and through those fractures, CeCe's light was already slipping in with the secret warmth of a man who wasn't his husband.
---
Liam — Europe
London was gray when he arrived, the sky swollen with rain that hadn't yet fallen. Amburdale Industries' European branch filled three floors of a mirrored building near the Thames. The emergency that had pulled him halfway across the world turned out to be exactly what he'd expected—human error, not sabotage.
A logistics program had mis-routed a shipment of high-grade steel bound for military contracts; a new employee had approved it without cross-checking codes. It had cost the company three days, a handful of contracts, and more embarrassment than Liam could allow.
By the time the board meeting ended, he had smoothed everything over. The investors calmed, the loss mitigated.
Efficiency, composure, control—he had mastered those.
But even as he shook hands and gave orders, a quieter thought pressed behind his ribs: CeCe would have laughed at all this pomp. He'd have called it a parade of peacocks in suits.
That thought followed him down the corridor as he asked the branch director, "The employee who caused this—what's his name?"
The director checked his tablet. "An Omega, Kevin Maxwell, sir. New hire in systems logistics."
The name froze Liam mid-stride.
For a heartbeat the entire office blurred—the clicking keyboards, the measured footsteps of assistants, the drone of city life beyond the glass. Everything slipped away except that name glowing on the screen.
Kevin Maxwell.
It had been years since he'd even let himself think it aloud.
He swallowed once, too hard, and tried to compose his face. "Did you say Kevin Maxwell?"
"Yes, sir. Transferred from the Oxford branch." The director scrolled quickly. "Background in data security, excellent references. Would you like a summary?"
"No." Liam's voice came out thinner than intended. He cleared his throat. "That won't be necessary."
But inside, his thoughts had already unraveled.
Kevin.
The boy with the sandy-blond hair who'd worn threadbare sneakers and always spoke softly. The one who'd never noticed how often Liam lingered after class just to walk him home. Kevin, who'd call him Amburdale in that gentle, nervous tone that made it sound like affection.
Liam had spent an entire youth orbiting that light. The friendship had been simple—study sessions, concerts, late-night diner runs—but under every laugh, every shared secret, Liam had felt a pulse of wanting he'd never dared to speak.
Kevin had never known.
He'd left for college overseas without so much as a word, completely oblivious that he was walking away with half of Liam's heart.
And Liam—bound already to his father's expectations, to business school and bloodline—had let him slip away, convinced that love was something only other people got to keep.
Now, decades later, the name had returned, dropped casually into a work briefing.
"Should I arrange for him to report to you personally?" the director asked.
Liam hesitated. His CEO's mind told him to delegate. Keep it formal. But an old, forgotten part of him—the boy who once lingered in school hallways hoping for a smile—stirred awake.
"Yes," he said finally, voice quiet. "Send him to my office, now."
The director nodded and moved on, leaving Liam standing in the corridor, hands buried in his pockets, pulse quickened to a boy's rhythm.
He exhaled slowly, eyes unfocused on the glass wall before him.
After all these years… Kevin.
It was ridiculous—he knew it. Kevin had probably married, changed, built a life that had nothing to do with him. But the thought of seeing that face again made his chest ache with something dangerously close to hope.
He told himself it was closure he wanted.
That this fluttering inside him was nostalgia, not longing.
That the married months with CeCe—pretty, sharp-tongued CeCe—had only dulled what had once been real.
Yet, when he remembered times CeCe had laughed across the dining table, sunlight flashing in his platinum hair, Liam's pulse did the same unsteady thing it had done for Kevin all those years ago. The resemblance had always unsettled him—those pale tones, those green eyes—but he'd refused to think too deeply about why.
It's Kevin you miss, he told himself firmly as he turned down the hall. Kevin, not him.
Still, as he recalled his time with CeCe—the study, the door, the cruise—faint traces of jasmine and honey lingering in the air, something inside him twisted.
He didn't know it yet, but the longing that had once belonged to a boy named Kevin Maxwell was slowly being rewritten—quietly, insistently—by the man who now shared his house.
---
Kevin Maxwell stood in the doorway twenty minutes later, clutching a folder like a shield.
He was smaller than Liam remembered—still compact, still nervous, but the years had softened him. His hair was shorter now, a pale brown instead of the sun-streaked blond of youth, his eyes a darker green.
He looked exactly like the memory Liam had been chasing—and nothing like it at all.
"Mr. Amburdale," Kevin stammered, bowing slightly. "I'm so sorry for the mistake. I double-checked the order sheets but the code— I must've—"
"It's been handled," Liam interrupted gently. "No one's being fired."
Kevin blinked up at him, startled. "You're… not angry?"
Liam managed a smile. "I've seen worse."
He gestured for Kevin to sit. "Tell me—how long have you been with us?"
"Just under two months, sir."
Two months. Exactly the length of time he'd been away from home.
Something cold and strange settled behind Liam's ribs. He studied the young man's face—familiar lines, familiar nervous habits—but there was no flicker of recognition in Kevin's eyes.
"I hope you'll learn from this incident," Liam said at last.
Kevin smiled, relieved. "Thank you, sir. I won't disappoint you again."
When he left, Liam sat back in his chair, staring at the closed door. The past had a cruel sense of timing. He had spent years trying to forget this face—and now it had found him again, at the precise moment his marriage felt like smoke between his fingers.
For the first time in years, Liam didn't know what he wanted more:
to remember or to forget.
---
CeCe — Home
While Europe swallowed Liam in business, the Amburdale estate turned into a gilded cage CeCe refused to stay in.
The first week after Liam's departure, CeCe kept up appearances.
He attended every dinner he was invited to—his beauty and reputation demanded it. The wives of investors clucked their tongues and complimented his fashion sense, their eyes sliding over the empty chair that should have been Liam's.
"Oh, poor dear," one woman crooned as the waiter poured wine. "It must be dreadful, having your husband away for so long."
CeCe smiled, tilting his head just enough for the light to catch on his earrings. "Oh, not at all. I find distance keeps the romance alive. Liam writes often."
He lied effortlessly, elegantly, and when the table tittered with admiration, he lifted his glass in a toast. "To the advantages of separation."
The first week was all choreography—perfect posture, flawless charm, laughter placed like punctuation marks. He was the model Omega spouse, radiant and untouchable, the envy of every room.
But inside, he was bored.
Bone-deep bored.
By the second week, he began to reshape the script.
At the next charity luncheon, CeCe arrived fashionably late, wearing an open silk blouse and diamond pins in his hair. When one of the older matrons raised an eyebrow, CeCe leaned close and whispered, "You're just jealous your husband doesn't look at you the way they look at me."
The woman gasped; CeCe kissed her cheek and floated away before she could reply.
Later that evening, when he returned to the Amburdale estate, the silence felt different—not oppressive, but vast, full of possibility.
Dave was waiting by the door, as always. "Did you enjoy yourself?" he asked.
CeCe dropped his coat into Dave's arms, a smile tugging at his lips. "Immensely. I think I scandalized half the board's wives. You should've seen their faces."
Dave's expression softened, a trace of amusement in his eyes. "I'm sure you did, CeCe."
"Oh, don't call me that," CeCe said, waving a hand. "You sound like everyone else who uses that nickname."
"What should I call you, then?"
CeCe paused halfway up the stairs, glancing back over his shoulder. "You'll figure it out."
He didn't see the faint smile that crossed Dave's lips as he followed a few steps behind.
By midweek, CeCe had turned the absence into art.
He filled the house with life again—hosting impromptu luncheons in the garden, inviting musicians to play in the sunroom, throwing open windows so the breeze carried music all the way to the gates.
Liam's world was one of order and marble; CeCe's became one of color and sound.
Every morning he walked through the garden barefoot, coffee in hand, humming softly as Dave trailed a few paces behind. Sometimes, he'd pause to pick a flower and tuck it into Dave's lapel just to watch the way his composure wavered.
"You look too serious," CeCe would tease. "A little beauty won't kill you."
Dave, ever patient, would only reply, "I'll keep that in mind."
In truth, CeCe had begun to need those walks—the quiet companionship, the steady rhythm of footsteps behind him, the faint warmth of being seen.
Freedom, it turned out, wasn't loud or reckless. It was quiet. It was choosing when to speak, when to smile, when to let the world see you as you were, not as they expected.
And though he'd never admit it aloud, that freedom always felt a little more real when Dave was near.
At dinner one night, after a particularly long day of visits and small talk, CeCe slumped in his chair, half-laughing. "Do you think they'd all faint if I stopped pretending to be the perfect spouse?"
Dave, clearing the table, paused. "Probably."
CeCe looked up at him, eyes bright. "Good. Maybe I'll try it next week."
Dave's mouth quirked in the ghost of a smile. "I'll be ready for the fallout."
"Of course you will," CeCe murmured, leaning his chin in his palm, studying him. "You're the only one who ever is."
The words hung there for a moment, too sincere, too raw. Then CeCe laughed it off and stood, heading for the stairs.
But when he reached his room that night, the laughter faded.
Freedom, he realized, wasn't about Liam's absence. It was about this. The moments of warmth that filled the spaces Liam's cold had left behind.
And though CeCe didn't yet have the courage to name it, that freedom had started to look a lot like a man with quiet hands and icy blue eyes who always walked one step behind him.
Soon every invitation that arrived became an excuse to leave.
Every appearance, a chance to slip through the cameras' blind spots.
Dave never asked where they were going; he simply opened the car door and followed.
Sometimes CeCe chose the ocean—fundraisers on yachts glittering with champagne, where he could lean on the railing and breathe salt air while Dave stood behind him, close enough for the wind to hide the sound of his voice.
"If anyone's watching, it'll look like I'm flirting with the sea," CeCe whispered once, lips curved.
"Then the sea is lucky," Dave murmured.
Other nights, they wandered through park galas, light spilling through glass pavilions. CeCe would pretend to mingle while Dave lingered near the exits. Between conversations, their fingers brushed—quick, practiced, the kind of touch that could be mistaken for accident by anyone but them.
Every outing the papers praised.
Amburdale's Omega Brings Grace Back to Society, the headlines read. A Picture of Reform.
CeCe laughed when he saw them. Let the world believe what it wanted. He wasn't saving reputations—he was stealing hours.
When the crowds and cameras grew unbearable, he and Dave vanished entirely.
A rented suite in a small coastal hotel—whitewashed walls, salt-stiff curtains, a balcony that faced nothing but sea. No servants, no titles, no ring sitting heavy between them. Just a tiny kitchenette, a squeaky ceiling fan, and the hush that comes when two people finally step outside the world's expectations.
They arrived at dusk, travel-tired and giddy. CeCe kicked off his shoes the second the door clicked shut and padded through the rooms with the curiosity of a cat. "It smells like linen and salt," he declared, throwing the balcony doors wide. Wind rushed in, lifting his hair. "Perfect."
Dave set their bags down in their corners—his neat, CeCe's already blooming open with silk and notebooks—and checked the locks out of habit. When he turned back, CeCe was leaning on the balcony rail, eyes on the horizon where the sky diluted from copper to violet.
"Hungry?" Dave asked.
"Desperately. Feed me and I'll say something nice about your terrible shirts."
"My shirts are fine."
"Mm. 'Fine' is such a generous word." CeCe grinned. "Come on. Let's find a market."
They walked the boardwalk like tourists—hoods up, sunglasses on even after dark, anonymous at last. The grocer on the corner sold ripe tomatoes, basil that still wore a smear of earth, pasta dried into little spirals. CeCe pointed, Dave carried. Back in the kitchenette, the rhythm found them fast: CeCe barefoot at the stove, humming as he crushed garlic; Dave washing leaves in the tiny sink as if the task were sacred.
"You know this is my favorite food," Dave said, watching steam bead on the window.
"Pasta?"
"Anything you cook." He blinked, as if surprised the words had slipped out so easily. "It tastes… better."
CeCe stilled, then went back to stirring, gentler now. "Then eat a lot," he said, voice softer. "I made too much on purpose."
They ate at the tiny table, knees bumping, laughing over nothing—how the forks were too big, how the fan ticked when it turned, how blissful it felt to hear no one call either of them "sir."
Later, they walked the dark beach in borrowed hotel slippers, pockets filling with shells that weren't pretty so much as oddly shaped. CeCe pressed a chipped piece of sea glass into Dave's palm. "For your collection."
"I didn't know I had one."
"You do now."
Back in the suite, CeCe found an old portable radio in the closet and coaxed it to life. Static, then a station—grainy jazz, a saxophone trying not to cry. He held out a hand with theatrical flourish. "Dance with me, Mr. González."
Dave hesitated only a breath, then stepped forward. They moved slowly, careful not to wake the guests below, careful not to wake whatever honesty was sleeping between them. CeCe's cheek settled against Dave's shoulder. Dave's hand found the small of his back and stayed there, steady as a heartbeat.
"I've never been anyone's first choice," CeCe murmured into his shirt. "Not really."
Dave's hand tightened—barely. "You are mine," he said, so quiet CeCe almost missed it.
He leaned back enough to search Dave's face. The fan clicked. The radio hissed. The sea answered itself. "Say it again," CeCe whispered.
"You are my first choice, Amor" Dave repeated, no hesitation this time.
Something trembled and went still inside CeCe. He kissed the corner of Dave's mouth—quick, testing—and when Dave didn't move, didn't breathe, CeCe kissed him properly. It was gentle at first, a question they were both answering at once. Then warmer. Then inevitable.
They broke apart only because laughter rose up—nervous, relieved—and spilled out of them both.
"Stay," CeCe said.
"I'm here," Dave answered.
"No," CeCe tried again, braver now. "Stay with me. Tonight."
Dave searched his eyes, all the careful lines of his life visible for a moment—the duty, the fear, the vow to guard what wasn't his. "Are you sure?"
CeCe nodded once. "I'm choosing, too."