TWENTY-THREE
Cece
Out of the thirty-three years of my life, I’ve spent about ten being thoroughly confused and miserable—two of them in an introspective haze where nothing made sense, but everything did.
That had happened pretty much immediately after I finished my MBA thesis.
To this day, I hear random online chatter in my alma mater groups about the ‘Cece disappearing act’ whenever I’m in the tabloids.
The conversations are mostly about me, and rarely directed to me.
About how I was the stoic bitch who fell off the HBS throne after a one-and-done, financial tour de force. Only to resurface two years later as a rising heiress economist.
Suddenly, for anyone outside of Harvard, I was simply that. An heiress. A woman whose success seemed spoon-fed.
Like those two years I spent as a hermit gave me a clean slate I didn’t want. One I didn’t even anticipate.
But very little of those condescending remarks ever reached me. Because I was about to spend the next eight years of my life as a newly diagnosed, morosely medicated, put-together woman.
The only person from my pre-medicated years who ever really gave a damn was… Sebastian.
But then, he did his own disappearing act.
I didn’t begrudge him for it. I had no right to.
So I stuck with what I knew. What I had started to learn about myself, cataloguing my behaviors like they were a pattern recognition research paper I was building.
Statistics made sense. Categorization, lists, and pie charts of my stupid highs and lows.
I did all of it with such feverish intensity that I barely remember the pre-medicated Cece anymore.
I still maintain that my therapist was probably disgusted by my overt organizational approach to my own diagnosis. It didn’t matter how many times she had reassured me that my outrageous, documented presentations were actually useful.
She would look at my presentation decks and give me that unperturbed smile as she’d explain for the thousandth time that every disorder is on a spectrum.
And I’m probably a vicious combination of many.
It was about five years ago that she plastered another term onto my face—avoidant attachment behavior.
She didn’t use the term vicious, though. But that’s how I felt. I was an uncontrolled, violent person who was a little too skilled at blanketing the urges.
Urges that I now understand as mania. Or my hypomanic tendencies.
That took me on a spiral of its own. Cyclothemia, mood disorders that were initially called manic-depressive.
I’d learned about all of it. Enough that I could potentially claim a spot in a psychiatry program. Get my transitional degree while I was at it.
But I didn’t do any of it. The only thing glaring at me was the high suicide rate. While that took me on another bend, I did realize that the difference between passive and active suicidal ideation was a life-changing one.
Pun intended.
The morbidity didn’t sway me much. I was fascinated instead.
But when I learned that alcoholism—not just regular alcohol consumption—was effectively worsening my symptoms, I stopped drinking.
I didn’t drink for a good three years.
Unfortunately, there was no one around me I could actually tell about being a teetotaler except for Vivienne. My sister didn’t bat an eye.
It seemed… functional.
But with the success I was gaining as a financial economist—and my final transition into the Wentworth Group’s Executive Director role—I was required to attend events where champagne was a mandatory prop besides your fancy clutch.
So I started drinking again.
Until my physician told me that my meds won’t work if I had alcohol in any capacity. Which was why I limited it afterwards.
In fact, I started planning around it.
If I had a gala to attend, I’d make sure there wasn’t any other event I was supposed to go to. And if I could do without alcohol, I’d usually just hold a glass in my hands and never take a sip.
But I never let myself get to a point where alcohol was something I needed to function. It was a blessing and a curse when I’d realized that it did actually help my social anxiety.
Without it, I couldn’t even make a respectable sentence.
But with medication, I sometimes could.
Without alcohol, I needed a pillow and my phone to doom scroll.
With medication, I could smile at the empty conversations.
Without them both…
I felt empty.
I had learned it. I had known it. Yet I still let myself drift to this conclusive reality where I was standing at Levi’s kitchen counter. Having just left him and his damning question to dust.
I knew where he kept his liquor, and now I’m staring at the glass of whiskey sitting next to Levi’s empty one.
“Cece?”
I jump at Levi’s infuriatingly soft voice.
What did he ask? My meds?
Yeah, I’ve been without them for over 84 hours now. And I can almost feel the depressive episode coming. But instead of the dulled, muted version on Seroquel, it’s a new, freezing coldness I’ve never handled before.
Or maybe the pre-medicated Cece once knew what this was. And the current one is simply scrambling for a fix.
Seroquel, whiskey. Whiskey or Seroquel?
I shake my head and chug the amber liquid—straight.
A warm, shaking hand covers mine on the counter. My head snaps up, gaze locking firmly on Levi’s concerned face.
“It’s still afternoon, baby. You shouldn’t—”
I bristle at his words, tugging my hand out from underneath his. Then I pour an exorbitant amount into his glass before sliding it across the counter.
My throat is still burning, but I manage another shot that I’ve convinced myself is definitely not more than 60ml.
He watches me silently as he takes a quick swig.
Gripping the edge of the counter, I drop my head to my chest. My breath ragged and uneven. I can feel the alcohol warming my muscles and loosening my tongue.
Thank God!
“What are our next steps?” I ask numbly, but my voice is still steady and firm.
He circles the island separating us. His hand gripping my shoulder, turning me to make me forcibly face him. Face his stupid, apprehensive eyes.
“We’ll figure it out, Cece,” he says, voice rough. “But my priority is you. Getting you through this. I need you to not shut down on me, please.”
I gently pry myself out of his maddeningly comfortable hold. I can’t think when he has me like this.
That’s… new.
Shit. I don’t even have the energy to use my signal. I highly doubt he even remembers it. But what really twists my stomach is that I don’t even want to use it.
I swallow hard. “I’m… I won’t shut down. I just need to know what’s next so I can…” prepare myself. “Arrange things accordingly.”
He nods immediately, stepping closer once again anyway.
His whiskey-laced breath fans over my lips as he cups my face, lowering his forehead to mine.
“We’ve done enough for the day,” he rumbles softly. “Everything else can wait until tomorrow, okay?”
I nod against him.
“Are you…” His voice catches. He clears his throat roughly. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need anything?”
I know what he’s asking—if I need my meds. I don’t.
Not now.
The point is irrelevant anyway. I stopped taking them abruptly and now it’s whiskey pulsing through my blood instead of Seroquel. The withdrawal symptoms should be worse than this, but every other disaster in my life seems to be drowning it out.
God.
I’ll probably need to see my family doctor eventually. Get him to restart my medication properly. You can’t just jump back into Seroquel after stopping cold turkey.
Maybe he’ll put me back on Abilify instead.
That one was nice. Kinder, almost.
I blink rapidly, forcing myself to focus on Levi. “I don’t. I just… need sleep.”
Yeah. That’s something I can do. Probably too well.
Then a thought hits so suddenly that my chest tightens.
What if I fall back into that rhythm?
I’m terrified I’ll sink back into it with too much ease. Where I used to pass out during the day and wake up to the sunrise bleeding through my curtains. Existing in fragments between sedation and exhaustion.
Shit. I can’t afford to sleep 16-18 hours a day.
Not with everything going on.
My breathing picks up before I can stop it.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Levi’s grip tightens on my jaw gently. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say too quickly. “Just… when are you holding the press conference?”
My redirection doesn’t soften his concern. Not even a little bit. But he lets me go with it anyway.
He sighs heavily. “I’ll be speaking to my lawyers tomorrow. About…”
About the clause, I finish in my rapidly freezing mind when he trails off.
“Once I have more information,” he continues, “I’ll set it up.”
I nod. But I don’t say anything after that.
And the silence that follows feels dangerous somehow.
Levi goes unnaturally still. I can feel it now. Or I’m suddenly allowing myself to. The restraint in him—the effort it’s taking not to panic.
His hands tremble slightly against my face. “Baby,” he says hoarsely. The sound seems to tear out of him. His throat works before he finally whispers. “Am I losing you?”
Is he?
Or did he already lose me with his lies?
The questions crack something open in my chest. Because I don’t know.
The Cece he knows… the one who loved him so fiercely it bordered on devotion, the one who understood him down to his core, the one who built entire futures around him without even realizing it—
She isn’t here right now.
Or maybe she is.
Maybe she’s buried underneath exhaustion, withdrawal, betrayal, and the terrifying numbness crawling through me.
I don’t know anymore.
I’ve never been in love while off my meds.
Hell, I’ve never been in love before him, period.
So, I don’t know what parts of me are real. What parts are chemistry. What parts are sickness.
Or whether loving Levi was the truest thing about me, or just another symptom.