Chapter Twenty-Nine-Cecilia
The soft clink of porcelain on marble draws my attention.
Maria, the same sweet-eyed maid who brought me mint tea yesterday, enters the airy Mykonos suite again, carrying a delicate tray of fresh pastries—flaky bougatsa, this Greek custard pastry baked in phyllo dough that I’m in love with, dusted with powdered sugar—and a steaming cup of herbal tea.
“Thank you,” I say, offering her a warm smile.
She bows her head slightly, then retreats without a word, her slippers silent against the cool tile.
Not sure what’s going on with her. I mean, we were friendly before the trip to Turkey, but she seems withdrawn.
Like she can’t look at me.
I make a mental note to ask her about it later.
I exhale, sinking deeper into the cloud-like cushions of the white-on-white couch, my laptop propped against my thighs.
The sea breeze floats through the open balcony doors, bringing with it the scent of salt, jasmine, and blooming citrus.
Atlas left over an hour ago. He didn’t say what he was doing, and I didn’t ask. But I know it’s something serious.
I can feel it in the way he kissed my forehead before he left, the way his hand lingered at my lower back as if to say, stay safe without actually speaking the words.
He hasn’t told me what’s wrong in detail. But it’s something bad, something unexpected. I know that much.
So, I’m doing the only thing I can do—I’m digging.
I’ve got all the communications between Viper Enterprises and Hephaestus United pulled up.
It took me twenty minutes and three wrong converters to get my laptop charged—because no, I didn’t exactly have time to pack an international adapter when Atlas dragged me away from the Den and flew me to Greece under what I now understand to be a strategic escape plan slash faux honeymoon.
Except it’s not entirely faux, is it? He says he loves me.
I haven’t said it back yet, but come on. He has to know I love him back, right?
Either way, I plan to correct that by saying it back tonight.
I sigh and sip my tea, scrolling through emails with sharp eyes, tracking metadata, cc lists, and financial disclosures. I’m twirling my wedding ring, the beautiful pearl surrounded by diamonds Atlas put on my finger, and I’m in full-on attorney mode when my phone lights up beside me.
A group call.
From them. I don’t even have to check to know who’s calling.
My girls.
My family.
The ones who love me fiercely and unconditionally—even if they do interrogate me like the FBI every time I so much as breathe near a man.
I swipe to answer.
“Okay, Cece, you’ve been holding out on us!” Clementine’s voice shrieks from my phone speaker, warm and wild and unrelenting. “We want to hear everything.”
I glance toward the balcony, make sure Maria is nowhere in earshot, and groan. “Clem, it’s not what you think—”
“WEDDING,” she cuts in. “There was a literal wedding. And a hot Greek husband! A mother-humpin’ prince, Cece? And you didn’t invite any of us! Rude.”
One of the kids must be close for her to use that word, and I snort as I watch my redheaded cousin trying to rein in her sassiness.
“Oh my God, Clem, get a grip!” Lucy gasps dramatically. “But what did you wear? Better yet, did he wear one of those gorgeous linen suits? Or was he shirtless and broody and dripping in Grecian angst?”
Michaela is next to query, “Did you get a dress? Please tell me there was a dress.”
Andrea butts in. “Or at least a white bikini and a veil situation. I need visuals.”
Lee-Lee snorts. “And what about this honeymoon, Cece? I saw that yacht. I saw it. That’s not a working vacation boat. That’s a blow-your-back-out boat. So did he?”
I burst out laughing, nearly spilling my tea.
“You’re all insane.”
“You love it,” Clementine sing-songs.
I shake my head and lean back against the couch, phone balanced on my bent knee.
“Okay, yes, there was a wedding. No, it wasn’t planned. Well, I mean it was supposed to be fake—”
“Fake?” Clem snaps.
I ignore her and continue, “Yes, I wore a dress, but not a wedding dress. And yes, Atlas looked unfairly hot in a suit, as usual.”
Lucy groans. “Ugh. I knew it. He’s so hot and dangerous.”
“He’s not dangerous,” I reply softly. “At least, not to me.”
That quiets them for half a second.
Then, Michaela breaks the silence. “Wait, wait. You’re catching feelings, aren’t you?”
“No,” I lie.
Lucy gasps. “You’re in love with him!”
Clementine asks, “Oh, you definitely had the so-in-love kinda S-E-X, am I right?”
Andrea adds, “Was it good?”
Lee-Lee chuckles. “Okay, but how good? Like, shake-the-boat good or—”
Lucky for me, none of them are letting me answer.
I throw my arm over my eyes and groan again.
“This is a violation of human rights.”
“No, this is a Sexquisition,” Clementine quips, gasping when her toddlers start screaming the word only, they can’t quite get it right, so it sounds like they’re yelling sex-squishy.
Which, in all fairness, is a pretty good description of sex. The good kind is always squishy, messy, and dirty as fuck.
“You two hush,” she says, giggling before turning back to the call, “And you answer the damn question.”
I smile despite myself.
Because even though I’m thousands of miles from home, in a country I wasn’t expecting to be in, married to a man I barely know but already love, I don’t feel alone.
Not with them on the line.
Not with this ridiculous, relentless love they give me.
“I’ll tell you,” I say, “but you all have to promise not to freak out.”
All their voices in unison, “NO PROMISES.”