TWENTY-TWO
Levi
I’m not mourning. I’m not.
Am I?
There’s not much rage left in me after the twisted satisfaction of punching the shit out of my own uncle. Gareth deserved it. I know that.
And the fact that I’ve only ever been a level-headed person prior to today should shock the hell out of me. But it doesn’t.
All I could see—could feel—was the rigid frame of Cece in my arms. That slight flinch when Gareth threw his vitriol at her. My vision had hazed red at the edges in a blink. The only thing in the way of his head slamming into the wall behind him was the few short steps.
I didn’t hesitate. Not once.
But now, the rage is draining out of me in slow, trembling pulses. Leaving me with a kind of dejection I don’t like. I think I’m confusing it with mourning the loss of my parents—even though they’re still alive.
Am I?
I shake my head, my senses razed thin due to the whiskey soaking my throat.
Sebastian texted me a while ago. Cece and I had just entered my apartment, neither of us breaking the strange silence that had wrapped around us.
But I’d noticed her fingers persistently resting on my wrist. My steady pulse was probably the only reason she didn’t think to question my unnatural quietness.
Sometimes I think I should give her access to my smart watch’s health stats. I rarely take it off, and she can easily see if my pulse spikes at any given time. But that would put another burden on her shoulders when she already has so many.
I take a quick swig of my whiskey. It wasn’t ideal or even habitual for me to be drinking in the afternoon. But I desperately needed to get rid of this uneasy sorrow building in my chest.
I can’t be mourning monsters, can I?
Glancing up, I stared at the hallway, a different kind of desolation filling me. Cece’s there. Just beyond that darkened corner. Being in a place she expressly doesn’t want to stay at.
I know she wants to go back to her apartment. But according to Seb, her place is swarming with reporters. Same for her parents’ house.
I hope Vivienne is safe in Kingston. Samuel definitely would’ve hired security for his precious daughter.
My mind drifts again. The vultures need a story. Especially since the Astor estate is empty and my location details are locked up tighter than ever.
I’ve kept my life fairly out of the tabloids. It was a decision I’d made when I turned eighteen. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t randomly pictured with a date every now and then.
And once Cece and I started dating, I’ve tried to keep our personal details out of them—as much as I could.
All this confinement… and this is where I end up.
As the last remaining face of a decades-long, nasty scandal.
Fuck.
I wouldn’t lie. I didn’t know half the charges slapped on my parents, Gareth, and Charles. And there’s a part of me that’s unable to register the severity.
It doesn’t matter what I think, though. I trust Blackthorn. And I trust Cece.
If it wasn’t for her, I’d be trapped in that mechanical numbness of the Astor presidency.
Don’t get me wrong, I wanted this. I still want the presidency. But it came with a tightly coiled labyrinth of corrupted bureaucracy that I was having trouble navigating through.
And when Cece found a tiny, out-of-place knot, she pulled at it. Unraveled it. Collapsing their hidden empire with it.
I wonder if she’s sleeping soundly now. Her eyes were jittery yet heavy the moment we’d changed out of our clothes. She didn’t even do her skincare before collapsing on our bed, groggily pulling at the duvet.
My phone buzzes on the table, and I ignore it again. My lawyers and the board haven’t left me alone for more than two minutes—at least technologically.
I’m not sure if I’m interested in fielding their questions right now.
The only thing I was interested in was Sebastian’s last message.
Sebastian: CSIS has handed over the case info to RCMP. As have I. The other four hive businesses will go down this week. Also, your parents requested the lawyers on your Astor Holdings retainer. I’ve blocked them out of it.
Good. They won’t be getting any support under the Astor name. Not on my fucking watch.
A second later, it’s Cece’s phone that buzzes next to mine.
I see ‘Favorite Dongsaeng’ flashing on the screen. Even with the bleakness of the situation, I find a reluctant smile pulling at my lips.
“She’s sleeping… Dongsaeng,” I deadpan when I answer.
“Oh,” Taewon says, sighing heavily. “Well, uh… keep her away from this Instagram account. I’m sending you a screenshot.
She’s basically a micro-influencer who somehow manages to get invites to exclusive parties.
She has a legit picture with Cece and is claiming…
well, she’s claiming a lot of bullshit.”
Christ.
“Fine, I’ll block her from Cece’s account,” I say, dragging a tired hand over my face and leaning back on my couch. “Is that why you called? To tell her to keep away from something, knowing full well she’ll want to see it even more?”
He groans. “No. I called her because her portfolio sank by $530K.”
My spine snaps up straight. “What the fuck?”
“Yeah,” he says bitterly. “Doesn’t matter that your parents are on their way to wearing jumpsuits for life—their tactic worked exactly how they wanted it to. The reputational hit could cause her to lose millions, Levi.”
You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.
I haven’t even recovered from the shock of his statement when he continues. “Oh, and if her net worth goes under five mil, it’ll make her ineligible to fulfill the Astor clause. Which—well—she’s not far away from.”
“Fucking hell,” I say through clenched teeth and chug the remaining whiskey.
Then I immediately wince after slamming the glass on my coffee table a little too hard.
“The fuck was that—”
“Ignore it,” I cut in. “Where’s Amanda? Her PA should’ve—”
“Amanda doesn’t look after her portfolio. She’s a personal assistant, Levi. Not an executive one.”
“Then who…”
He sighs. “Noona manages it all herself. I sometimes keep an eye on it since I’m already doing that for you. But… yeah, she does it herself.”
Why the hell am I even surprised?
Of course, she does. She was one of the most brilliant graduates at Harvard that year. The Canadian heiress’s ruthless financial risk management strategy for market volatility.
She’d apparently built a self-assessing proactive program for her final thesis.
Even we heard about her through the whisper-gate. All the way to fucking Stanford.
“Christ,” I mumble. “I need to tell her. She’s been… out of it for a while now. The whole thing about Iris and me is…”
I exhale sharply, rubbing my temples in slow, tight circles.
“You’re not entirely at fault,” he replies unconvincingly, and I snort.
“You think so?”
“Man—”
I don’t bother listening. Instead, I shoot up from my couch and walk over to my kitchen so I can whisper-yell to my heart’s content without waking Cece up.
“You don’t think I could’ve avoided the whole situation, Taewon?
I… I was lying by omission. I was so fucking consumed by my past colliding with the present that I—” My throat closes up, but I force the words out, “—neglected her.”
“She understands more than you—”
“I don’t want her to understand!” My anger at my damn self boils over. “I don’t… I don’t want to put her in a position where she has to compromise or devalue herself.”
My chest caves in at the thought of what I’ve put her through just by being with me. What I’m still putting her through.
I croak at my next words. “Why the hell should she keep understanding when I’m constantly making stupider mistakes?”
“You’re saying,” he says, clearing his throat. “You’re saying if you were honest from the start, she wouldn’t be shutting down right now?”
“She’s sleeping at three fucking p.m.,” I mumble defeatedly. “What do you think?”
Silence falls on the other end of the line. For long enough that I check if he hasn’t hung up.
“That’s… not how it works, Levi.”
I frown, analyzing his words. Until my buzzed brain catches up to the meaning behind them. “You know.”
It’s not a question. It’s a confirmation. And I’m suddenly feeling the sharp sting of jealousy at Taewon knowing about Cece’s struggles more than me.
“You’d know too if you just searched the symptoms, man.”
“I have,” I say quickly, a bit too defensively.
“Okay, well, she’s struggling now. But I’m sure she’ll be fine in a couple days. She’s very meticulous about her management,” he adds reassuringly. But I can’t seem to believe him.
And I know why.
Dots connect a little too fast for my alcohol soaked brain.
She’s sleeping in the middle of the day. She didn’t do her skincare—something she rarely ever misses. Hell, she even made sure to do it the night fucking Gareth attacked her.
I stagger back a few steps, leaning against the counter.
Fuck. I’ve never faced this type of silence from her. There was something entirely too different about it. Something terrifyingly eerie.
Because it lacked control. It lacked choice.
She’s been a gracefully quiet person who weighs her words carefully. But there was absolutely nothing controlled about how she stumbled into the bed a few hours ago, her lips unmoving.
And I’m a stupid fucking moron to have missed the signs when I’ve researched the hell out of her condition.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Taewon,” I whisper.
“What is it?”
I have a million questions running through my head. But there’s one glaring question that I can’t seem to remember the answer to.
Had I been any type of attentive fiancé these past few days—hell, months—I’d have known it.
And I don’t want Taewon to answer it either, even if he knows.
I want Cece to tell me instead.
“Nothing, I’ll call you back.”
Hanging up without a second thought, I sprint to our bedroom. I don’t know what I’m planning. In fact, I have no clue how to ask this question that could potentially unravel things further between us.
But I need to know.
So I push the door open as quietly as I possibly can. And there she is.
Sitting up straight on the bed, back leaning against the headboard. The dim overhead lights catching her mussed hair falling down her forehead.
For a second, I just stand there. Watching her. She looks impossibly small, curled up like that.
I walk over slowly, settling down on the edge of the bed.
She looks up then, her lips flattening with what appears to be a poor attempt at a smile.
It barely lasts a second.
“Baby,” I croak out. My hand slides toward her leg, fingers curling loosely around her ankle like I’m afraid of her being frightened by my next words.
Who am I kidding? I’m downright terrified of messing things up again. Terrified of asking the wrong questions. Maybe even asking the right ones, but in the wrong way.
She hums. The smallest, most precious smile takes over her face. And it still looks painfully forced.
Shit.
“You…” I clear my throat. “You’re on Seroquel, right?”
And just like that, her smile disappears. Taken over completely by a deadened, blank stare as she nods.
That’s when I fucking realize how difficult that smile must’ve been for her.
I swallow hard. “Have you missed a dose, baby? Recently?”
Silence.
Then she abruptly yanks the duvet off herself. The movement is sharp enough to make me flinch.
She climbs out of the bed without looking at me, shoulders stiff. “I’ll go make us some lunch,” she mumbles as she strides over to the door.
I expect her to slam it shut once she walks out. Instead, the soft click when it shuts behind her somehow feels worse.
A soft sigh escapes me. Because in this silence, I’ve gotten my answer anyway.