TWENTY-EIGHT
Levi
She’s standing too stiffly. Smiling too long.
Fidgeting with the strap of her dress as if it is strangling her. Like this isn’t her thing at all anymore.
And I know. I fucking know she’s done ‘socializing’. I also know I’ve forced her into this charade, made entirely for public consumption. A carefully crafted image that rings hollow even to me.
I’d pleaded with her to remain by my side. Not for the so-called optics. But for my damn sanity. She still wandered off. Trying different areas of the catering—clearly looking for some booze.
I press a hand to my chest and turn to this random person we’re talking to. “I’m—uh—sorry. Can you repeat that?”
The man startles slightly, composing himself just as quickly. “Oh, nothing. You just mentioned your fiancée’s financial expertise, Levi. Is she in attendance?”
She is, and she isn’t.
I clear my throat. Awkwardly trying to remember his name. He just called me Levi, which probably means I must have given him the leeway to address me that way. Unfortunately, it also means that I can’t reciprocate.
I’m so off my game, my attention firmly on my lone woman aimlessly floating about the hall, that I can’t seem to hold an actual professional conversation right now.
Fuck.
“Ah, yes,” I say, pasting a polite smile for the nameless man.
“She’s… here. But I guess I lost her at the tenth—maybe eleventh—conversation about numbers.
Totally her thing.” I’m aiming for jovial, yet formal niceties.
But it lands bordering on lame. I can’t even blame the man for giving me a confused frown.
He chuckles awkwardly. “I get that. My wife is somewhere around here, probably giving someone a crash course on Google Analytics.”
He looks around, and in an instant, a beaming grin forms on his face. His eyes locked on a woman walking toward us.
“There you are.” She smiles up at him.
“You keep running away,” he says softly, eyes gleaming with something I’ve only ever witnessed on Cece.
It’s not just love. It’s that irrevocably unshaken trust that they share that’s shining in his eyes.
I would give anything for Cece to look at me like that again.
“Mr. Astor,” he says, pulling me out of my despairing mood. “This is my wife, Aarohi. Aarohi, this is Mr. Levi Astor.”
She gasps. “You’re Celestine’s fiancé. So nice to meet you!”
That’s a first. But the warmth of pride spreading in my chest makes me want to hear this more. “Certainly am. Lovely meeting you.”
Now, if you’d just say your husband’s name one time, I’d be fucking grateful.
She grins. “I’ve been using Ms. Wentworth’s white paper on economic indicators in the Canadian retail market for my consumer demand forecasts. She’s absolutely brilliant.”
I smile at her. “That’s… my Cece. I don’t know how she gets the time to work on these research projects—all while handling the Wentworth Group.”
My whole frame relaxes the more I talk to these two. Our conversation flowing seamlessly. At one point, she finally utters her husband’s name, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Lucian Vale of Kepler Health.
It was annoying me not being able to recall his name. But I won’t forget now. These two have been the only people in this whole crowd of meddlesome assholes who haven’t brought up anything related to the Astor scandal. Or the clause.
I’d been dodging the prying questions about Cece and me this whole evening. So this is a breath of fresh air.
My eyes wander, scanning the hall for Cece when Aarohi mentions her again. There she is. Standing with a group of young professionals. Trying her best to respond to their clearly animated questions.
Then I see it, my practiced smile falling off.
Her body is unnaturally rigid, a startled look on her face. One of the women is throwing her a smug smile, all while the others look away, biting back a smile like they’re in on a joke at my Cece’s expense.
Panic seizes my throat when her breathing aggravates. But more than the panic, blinding rage fills me.
Something’s wrong.
“Excuse me,” I mutter distractedly to Lucian and Aarohi. “I’ve gotta go. Nice to meet you both. Let’s keep in touch, yeah?”
They both offer me their polite yet slightly confused goodbyes, and I make a beeline straight for Cece.
She’s already outside of the group now, walking away with steady steps, her chin still up.
I reach her quickly, gently pulling her further away by her elbow. “Baby, you okay?” I ask, concerning bleeding through every syllable.
She blinks. Once. Fear gleaming in those beautiful eyes. Then she nods, before quickly shaking her head. “There’s a… there’s another article. Speculations around your press conference last Friday,” she whispers, voice shaking.
A cold weight settles in my stomach as I yank my phone out of my inner suit pocket. “Okay,” I say carefully, cupping her trembling cheek with one hand. “What are they saying?”
“They think…” She swallows hard. “They think you’re preparing to announce the engagement is over.”
For a moment, I simply stare at her. Then I exhale slowly through my nose.
Of course they do.
The media has spent weeks tearing us apart—tearing her apart. Inventing narratives around the clause faster than we could shut them down.
Every public appearance of ours in the past became a performance. Every absence became proof.
It doesn’t bode well for us that even our attendance today was a tactic.
My fingers fly over my phone, finding the damning article within seconds. My stomach sinks to the floor—even with just the fucking headline.
Astor heir vows to remove the marital clause for former flame: insider scoop on Astor-Wentworth merger collapse.
I have no idea how they got the information about me wanting to remove the stupid clause, but this once again proves my naivety. I hadn’t thought of this very plausible misinterpretation until just now.
Words begin to blur as I skim. The vicious ones popping out of the screen.
“…during the press conference, Levi Astor stated he would not proceed with the merger. However, sources close to the deal have provided concrete evidence that Astor’s legal counsel is working relentlessly to remove a specific clause.
This timing strongly suggests the Astor heir intends to terminate his arranged marriage contract with Celestine Wentworth to pursue a former flame, who was recently photographed with him at Astor Tower (click here to view).
No official statements have been released by… ”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Baby,” I whisper through a dry throat. “I…”
Her eyes immediately drop. “We shouldn’t have come.”
“Just please—”
“I mean it.” She laughs weakly. “Look at me. Look at us. I can’t seem to stick with you, so I keep wandering off. Then I don’t know what people are saying half the time. I keep zoning out. I keep making things worse. You don’t need this Cece.”
“You are not making anything worse,” I tell her firmly.
“I am.” Her voice cracks. “Levi, they look at me and see exactly what I am. An impediment to a love story I don’t belong in.”
I physically recoil. “Don’t say that. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
She shakes her head. “Why not? It’s true.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s not even close to the truth. Because I see you. And I know exactly who you are.”
“What’s that?” she asks quietly, helplessly staring at my neck like even she doesn’t know the answer anymore.
Christ. I’d take her yelling at me. I’d take her throwing things. I’d take every cruel barb imaginable if it meant she wasn’t standing here looking so completely defeated and cornered.
“You’re Cece—”
She closes her eyes. “Which Cece?”
I stop her when she turns to leave. My throat clogs, desperation clawing at my skin as I form my next words as carefully as I can.
“You’re my Cece.” I step closer, cocooning her in a bubble that’s just ours.
“You are brilliant. You’re strength. God.
You’re so terrifyingly smart. You’re the woman who built entire divisions of Wentworth Group before she turned thirty.
You’re the woman who rates coffees with her own eccentric Cece-scale.
You’re the woman who makes spreadsheets for vacations because it makes that little chaos in your head more exciting than daunting. ”
A reluctant twitch touches her lips, and I latch onto it desperately. Even though it’s barely perceptible.
“You’re the woman who loves so fiercely, and I…” I pause to sniffle softly, eyes stinging. “I took it for granted.”
Her expression falters for half a second, crumbling slightly before she holds herself together again. “That’s not… that’s not this Cece.”
I shake my head. “You’re still you. And every version of you, I’ll love. I promise.”
“Maybe,” she whispers, eyes blanking.
The single word guts me. Because I know she’s trying to believe me. God, she’s trying so damn hard.
But she’s fighting a battle I can’t punch, threaten, negotiate with, or even fix. All I can do is stand beside her, let my actions speak for themselves.
But I still hate feeling this powerless. Because the woman I love is standing right in front of me, and I can’t reach her no matter how hard I try.
The silence stretches between us before I break it. “Let’s go home, okay?”
She starts to shake her head, but I cut in smoothly, like I am the one who needs saving. “I’m not really feeling it, baby. Honestly, let’s just go. Please?”
And just like that, she lets me be her excuse.
Together, we start walking back toward the exit, my eyes lingering on everyone’s curious, watchful gaze.
We were meant to look like a united front. A devoted couple standing strong.
Instead, we gave them the truth for the last few minutes. The sordid, vulnerable reality of two people weathering a storm. For some reason, that feels more real than any tactic we could’ve played.
The moment we reach home, she changes quickly, and heads to bed, as if this day has suddenly taken everything from her.
Which it has—in a way.
The second her head hits the pillow, her breathing slows. And I sit there, on the edge of the bed, watching her for a precious few minutes.
She looks peaceful. But I know what it took to get her here. How hard she worked not to break in public. How everything is designed to break this woman right now.
I brush a stray hair from her face, but she doesn’t stir.
And that’s when I leave the room.
Out on the couch, I collapse. The cold fabric against my spine feels earned.
I force myself to read the damn article again. And it takes only mere seconds before my eyes sting. Reading—and rereading—every single comment that’s aimed at my woman.
I unlock Cece’s phone as well, making sure I’ve blocked the new set of business emails who would surely contact her after this article.
The second the clock hits 23:00, her phone blares with a reminder, and I frown.
Order MuscleCore Nutro100 x 2 (3?)
I quickly silence it, my eyes focusing hard on the words that make no sense.
That’s the protein brand I use, the one Cece recommended. And I feel my heart sink at the realization of why there is a reminder on her phone to buy it.
She was the one stocking it in my damn pantry.
I click on the reminder and am immediately directed to the linked note she has on it.
My sinking heart? Yeah, it’s all the way to the ground floor lobby by now. Because what opens in the notes app, is a meticulously organized, detailed checklist of not just protein brands—but links to their corresponding ingredient labels.
Most brands are crossed out. And a few have ‘try this next #1’ typed next to them.
I swipe out of the note and freeze yet again.
Staring—no, jumping—at me are the words ‘His favs version 2’.
Somehow I know what I’ll find there, if the protein shake list is anything to go by.
I open it anyway.
There, in front of me, are hundreds of words of my favorite everything. From my favorite entree to the formal wear brand I love the most.
I chuckle when I scroll to the wine section where she has cheekily written ‘anything white, hates red for no logical reason.’
My smile disappears just as quickly, because this is proof that I’ve always loved the way she loved me. But I miserably failed to love her back the same way.
So I lock her phone again, put it aside, and cry. Silently. Because I don’t know what else to do.
I’ve done everything—changed my schedule, showed up, made space, made noise, held back, leaned in. And still, I don’t know if it’s enough. If I’m enough. Or too much. Or wrong in all the ways that make her keep pulling away. The mistakes I’ve made are too damn overwhelming now.
And the one thing I meant to do to make things right—removing the clause, and with it, her doubts—even that backfired on me.
When I finally drag my eyes open again, she’s there. Standing barefoot at the edge of the hallway. My oversized tee is barely skimming her thighs. Hair a mess. Eyes soft.
“Hey,” I whisper.
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just walks over slowly, her makeup smeared slightly.
She stares at the stray tear dragging over my cheek. Flinching as she does. “Levi, what—”
“I’m…” I croak. “I feel lost.”
Her lower lip trembles, eyes wide and darting between mine.
“I’m so sorry for what I’ve done,” I whisper, sniffling. “For what I let others decide for us. For what I’ve let happen to you. Baby, I’m s-so f-fucking sorry. But I don’t know… I don’t know what to do to fix us.”
She stares at me silently—her eyes filling. Like, this is not the person she’d ever known. Then she nods like she isn’t really registering her action.
And then—“Can you… can you tell me you l-love me?”
It’s not a command. Not a question. There’s a plea in her broken voice. And fuck, my heart splinters.
I close the distance between us because I can’t handle even an inch of space. But I pause right in front of her, not wanting to crowd her when she looks so guarded yet exposed.
“I love you,” I whimper, chest caving. “I love you so much. I don’t know how to do anything else but love you. All of you.” And I mean it.
Every syllable tastes like salt. I’m sobbing now. That’s when I feel it.
I feel a soft brush on my shirt collar near my neck. The fabric stretches and pulls on a gentle tug.
I don’t wait for another moment to pass. In a blink, I’m crushing her into my arms.
Her heartbeat is steady. Mine isn’t.
I squeeze her harder, tighter.
Then she presses her cheek against my chest. “You’re shaking,” she murmurs. “Calm your heart, Levi.”
This woman.
“Ignore my heart, baby,” I manage to say through the wreckage of my voice. “Ignore it.”
She leans back, just enough to meet my eyes. “I can’t ignore what holds mine.”
And I fucking lose it all over again. Because I know what she means. She’s accepted that I hold her heart.
But she just can’t seem to believe that she holds mine, too.