SIX
Cece
TWO WEEKS LATER
Fourteen days since he said ‘I love you.’
Fourteen days since he met his ex-girlfriend again after a decade.
Ten days since I learned about it—not from him, but from Taewon.
Three days since he’s even seen me.
And none of our conversations ever included a mention of Iris Desmond.
And now—tomorrow—I’ll be in the same room as her, to finalize the contract with Miller-Moore. Tying this woman into our lives. Even if temporarily.
Still, the sting remains. Of being lied to, by omission.
I steady my hands and glance over at my sister, who’s currently mid-rant about one of her university assignments. She’s only twenty, but already sharper than I was at that age. Possibly sharper than I am now.
But then again, she and I never had the same parents. Even if they were the same people.
She was raised by millionaires who had made something of themselves. Who had enough time to stay present for every single milestone she ever reached.
Meanwhile I was raised by two people who were desperate to launch out of the upper middle-class. Who believed that their firstborn being raised by a combination of neighbors and babysitters was good enough.
It wasn’t until I was already fifteen that they hit their first double-digit million. Apparently, single digits were never enough.
And that’s when they decided they finally had enough time to parent. But only their two-year old toddler, who was being raised by their surprisingly self-sufficient teenager.
God. I’d need to let go of this resentment at some point, right?
Vivienne rarely visits, though. Smith School of Business is her dream school, and I wasn’t able to see her when I was in Toronto a few weeks ago. Kingston just didn’t fit in the itinerary.
I’m grateful she’s here now, for our parents’ wedding anniversary this weekend.
My smile falters through her venting spiel when I realize something.
Vi knew about the party weeks in advance. I only found out after a casual remark from my mother last week. And now, I’m worried Levi won’t be available, given the short notice.
I sent him the digital invite a week ago. He hasn’t mentioned it yet. But then again, we’ve barely spoken.
I swallow the rising panic in my throat. It can’t be because of her—
“Are you even listening? Lord, Cece! Why do you always drift off mid-sentence?” Vivienne tosses a grape at me from across the kitchen island, and it bounces off my forearm.
I blink, startled, then force a smile. “Sorry. I was just—uh, going over some figures in my head.”
She raises a skeptical brow, the same one she inherited from our mother. But on her, it’s less scripted and never scheming. “You’re always going over figures in your head. I’m starting to think they live there permanently.”
I reach for the grape, toss it back. “That’s capitalism for you. You’ll get there.
She laughs, the sharp sound brightening the room. “Fuck, no. I’m okay with where I am.”
I smirk, but I’m already shifting slightly in my seat. The pressure in my chest is quiet but present. Like static before a storm. I’d learned to mask it well over the years—this constant hum of nervous energy that flares whenever the unknown is involved.
Maybe I’m overthinking again. Maybe his ex has nothing to do with—
“I don’t like when you disappear like this,” Vi says more softly this time, studying me. “You’ve been really… distracted since I got here.”
I wave her off, but her tone hardens. “I mean it, Cece. If something’s wrong—”
“There’s nothing wrong,” I interrupt, more sharply than intended. Then softer, “I’m okay. I promise.”
She looks unconvinced. I try again. “It’s just this merger, you know? And the wedding. I need it all to go smoothly.”
She squints at me. “Why do I feel like there’s something else this time?”
God, why is she always able to read between the lines? My lines.
Probably because she knows, Cece.
I reach out, tucking a lock of her dark hair behind her ear like I used to when we were kids. “There’s nothing, alright? Don’t worry about me. Just focus on making it through that assignment of yours without rage-quitting.”
She rolls her eyes but softens. “I swear if one more teammate starts talking about ‘daily alignment calls’, I’m going to tattoo ‘fuck you’ on my forehead so they see it first thing.”
I grin. “I’d help pay for it.”
“Ugh.” She shakes her head but sobers up just as quickly. “Have you resumed it?”
I know exactly what she’s asking. I still can’t recall why I stopped my bi-weekly therapy sessions. The timing is dangerously close to two months ago. That first time Levi uttered those three wonderful words.
“Yeah, I’m… planning to. Soon.”
She nods, seemingly satisfied, and launches into yet another rant of her classmates.
As I glance at the time on my phone—7:13 p.m.—a familiar worry claws back into my gut.
Will he even show tonight?
He said he would.
But Levi’s canceled on me thrice these past two weeks. One time because of some board call. Another because his parents had called him for a family emergency. I could’ve been okay with it—considering it isn’t the first time he’s done that. But it’s the first time his messages seem more terse.
Especially how he cancelled on our dinner plans the third time, just a few nights ago.
Levi: Sorry. Coquitlam complex causing a mess. Working late tonight with Tae.
Tonight I’m hoping he’ll show, though. Maybe I’ll finally be able to give him the words. It’s not that I can’t get them out. It’s that the fear of him ignoring them is a thousand fold.
But now he’s even stopped saying them. Maybe it’s because I’ve never said them first and he got sick of it. Or maybe is because of—
I don’t let the thought finish. Instead, I tuck away the anxiety like I always do—smooth, invisible.
I slide my phone toward me as it pings. Already knowing it wouldn’t be him.
Then I murmur to Vivienne when I read the message, “Your car is here. Mom asked for Janette to bring her collection.”
She rolls eyes before hopping off the stool. “Mom and her personal fucking shoppers.”
I chuckle halfheartedly before walking her to her car.
Once she leaves to go back home to our parents, I sit on my couch, in the stifling silence of my apartment, staring listlessly at my kitchen cabinets. Wondering if I’ve done anything different in the past two weeks.
Because, perhaps it’s not Iris. Perhaps it’s… me.
??????
The click of the door startles me, even though I’ve been watching the clock for the past hour like a maniac.
He’s here.
I grab my phone, thumb hovering over the playlist I’ve prepped—the one I’ve foolishly named ‘Levi’s favs’. Before I even hit play, I’m already halfway to the hallway, heart fluttering like it’s our second date, not our eleventh month.
Levi steps inside, setting down his duffel. His hair’s rumpled from the day, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie half-loosened. When his eyes meet mine, something tight in my chest unclenches.
He smiles. “God, I’ve missed you,” he says, voice low, worn.
That has to mean something, right?
I exhale the tension, hoping I’ve actually spun a fantasy out of control. “You’re late,” I tease, stepping into his space.
He dips his head, pressing a quick, hard kiss to my lips. “And I’ll spend the rest of the night making up for it.”
“Promises, Astor.”
“Threats, Wentworth.” He kicks off his shoes, dropping his set of my keys into the bowl by the entry like he lives here. Like this is also his home.
The thought makes my pulse do a stutter-step.
“I’m going to jump in the shower,” he says over his shoulder, already walking toward the ensuite. “I smell like twelve hours of hell.”
I grin easily. “I’ll get the dinner started. Don’t take forever or I’ll eat it without you.”
He grins his devilishly beautiful grin before disappearing. And I find myself wondering if I’m forcing the anxiety away, or he’s just that charming to get rid of it.
By the time he pads back into the kitchen, he’s in nothing but grey sweatpants, towel slung across his neck. Still toweling his hair, still every inch the walking distraction he has no idea he is. Or maybe he does, and he’s currently weaponizing it.
God. His torso is leaner now, more defined than even three months ago. I told him this protein shake would work.
His appetite changes so much that he wasn’t able to maintain the muscle he wanted. And now, here we are—biceps, abs, V-line.
I’m a damn puddle and dinner’s probably burning in the oven. “I’m starting to think you’re trying to seduce me,” I murmur, shocking even myself, fiddling with my pan just so I have a reason to not stare.
He smirks, stepping behind me, his stubbled chin rubbing my shoulder. “Oh, it’s working, then?”
“I didn’t say that,” I blurt, heat rising in my cheeks.
“You didn’t not say it.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning. When I turn in his embrace, my heart beats so loud I can barely hear the searing noise from my pan.
Shit. There’s nothing to tug. He got rid of the towel in the last ten seconds.
How will I do this?
I do the next best thing that usually signals him to hug me tight. I tug lightly on the waistband of his sweatpants. I hope it works. That he identifies my signal like he always does.
And voila! He circles his arms around me like I’m the one who’s keeping him steady. My hold on him tightens, feeling his presence so I can shake off the memories of his absence these past couple weeks.
A moment later, the pan calls to me. I plate the lamb, seared to a perfect medium, beside roasted squash and the risotto. It’s Levi’s favorite—not that he ever explicitly said so, but I think I know. It’s in my notes already.
We settle on the bar stools, eating like people who are used to silence but still not immune to glances. And the fact that this relationship is still new brings me equal parts joy and dread. Dread because of the marital clause.
“How was the day?” I ask carefully.
“Surprisingly uneventful. Taewon and I were getting the Coquitlam issue under control.” He pauses. “But I’m glad it’s almost over. I missed you.”
My heart twists at the sincerity in his voice. He means it, but my mind betrays me again.
He’s here… but where has he been?
I chase the thought away with a smile. “By the way, my parents’ anniversary party is this weekend.”
He blinks. “Wait—that’s this weekend?”
He forgot, didn’t he?
I nod slowly. “I sent the invite a week ago.”
His jaw tightens just a little. “Shit, Cece. I—yeah. Yeah, I saw it. I should’ve RSVP’d.”
“You don’t have to come if it’s—”
“No, no. I want to come,” he says, reaching across to brush his fingers over my wrist. “I’ll be there. I promise.”
The touch is light, but it stings somehow. Because I’m not sure if I’m being put off his priority list temporarily, or being erased under the guise of this merger.
After dinner, when he leans in on the couch as we watch a TV show and plants a soft kiss against the side of my neck, my eyes flutter close.
The grim train of thought dissipates with every deliciously lingering kiss he presses on to my skin.
He actually loves me. Doesn’t he? The clause be damned. He hasn’t said it, though. Not in the past fourteen days. But that’s okay.
Tonight, I’ll say it. I’ll gather the courage and say it first. I don’t need to wait. He’s been shouldering that for two months already.
He pulls me onto his lap like it’s instinct. My fingers slip seamlessly over his bare chest. His mouth is hot against mine. The TV hums something meaningless in the background, but it’s already forgotten.
We move together like we’re rehearsing a favorite scene—familiar, slow. Hungry as ever.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes out. “I missed you, dammit.”
When he kisses me again, deeper this time, I can’t help but think this is it. This is the moment. I’ll tell him now. Or after this kiss.
His hand threads through my hair, pulling me in further.
Okay, maybe after the next kiss. Or maybe… maybe once he looks at me the way he did when he first walked in.
The way I hope he still does.
His hands find my waist, his breath uneven against my jaw.
“God, Cece, Cece, my Cece,” he murmurs, voice rasped, low.
I love it when he calls me his Cece. Because it piles on top of his sweet actions that are slowly making me believe that his love is not because of the clause. But despite it.
Those actions have been disappearing, Cece, my traitorous brain reminds me.
He lifts me easily, mouth still tracing down my neck, the world shrinking to the press of his skin and the quiet catch of my breath. We stumble, chuckle softly, half in rhythm, half in urgency, until my back meets my bed.
He looks at me for a long moment, brushing a thumb across my cheekbone, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen, even in the dim lights of my bedroom.
I’m suddenly dreading that he’ll end up saying it first again. And I’ll miss this short window of opportunity, disappointing both me and him.
“God, I’ve missed this. Why does it feel like it’s been forever?” he whispers, forehead pressing to mine before his lips are on mine again.
My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my fingertips. My resolve to say those three little words drowning out his lust-filled mumblings.
Say it, Cece. Just say it.
But they tangle somewhere between my throat and fear.
He leans back again, his gaze locked with mine—steady, almost searching. “Tell me you love me,” he says quietly.
I blink, breath caught. For a second, I think I’ve imagined it. But no, his eyes are intently waiting.
He knows me. He knows I hesitate. He knows how my mind turns everything into analysis and risk. And so he’s asking.
He knows I love him, I tell myself. He must know. Right?
But the silence stretches long enough for that unwarranted unease to creep back in my veins, and he repeats it. Softly but firmly. “Say it, Cece. Say ‘I love you, Levi.’ Say it.”
My pulse thrums under his commanding tone, like it’s trying to break free. Why am I hesitating? I love him, I do. So why does my throat burn like it’s betrayal?
Because he hasn’t said it, not since that night. Because maybe I’m scared he won’t mean it anymore.
I close my eyes, push past the tremor in my voice. Clutching his hand tightly, I finally whisper, “I love you, Levi.” The words feel like surrender, like diving without knowing if he’ll catch me.
He exhales, eyes dark with something I can’t quite read, and then—there’s no more talking. Only touch, sweat, and breath. A rush of everything I’d missed and everything I’m terrified to lose.
He squeezes his eyes shut, and I feel him entering me. My world starting to suddenly make sense.
When it’s over, the room is quiet. The city hums faintly through the window. His breathing evens beside me as sleep takes over him. And that’s when I realize, he never caught me.
He never said it back.