BONUS EPILOGUE TWO
Cece
ONE YEAR LATER
Nothing good ever comes from creepily staring at your partner at nearly five in the morning as you’re propped up infirmly on your elbow.
Levi has this ridiculously adorable habit of reaching for me in his sleep. And I should’ve thought of that before I became so hyper focused on my plan that I forgot about him stupidly flailing.
Which is why I’m now flat on the bed, pulse pounding in my throat. All while he dumps his limp right hand on my waist, grunting sleepily.
Then to my horror, he’s pulling me closer. Like he didn’t just accidentally shove my arm from right under me.
Now, I’m wondering how I’ll get access to his left hand that’s tucked between our bodies.
Shit.
Slowly, I cover his right hand with mine. Holding it there. Then I proceed to tickle his brow with my hair strand that’s sticking out on the front.
This won’t work, Cece.
Oh, but it does. Because the next thing I know, he has successfully untucked his left hand and is scratching his face where it itches.
Clearly, he didn’t want to let go of the contact and resorted to using the hand I needed—falling prey to my manipulation.
Hell yeah!
When his left hand goes limp in front of his face, I carefully—oh, so gently—grasp at my ring on his pinky, and begin the process of sliding it out.
Thankfully, it isn’t too stuck on his finger. And within a few seconds, I’ve triumphantly removed the ring that he’s been wearing for almost two years now.
A faint line is now visible where the ring used to be. Well, he can fix that with time. His problem. I’m not focusing on that.
My eyes are currently staring at my hands in awe. They won’t waver from where I’m slowly sliding what belongs to me on my ring finger.
It fits so perfectly.
Even if it’s blurry as hell because I can’t stop the tears from the fierce rush of relief I feel.
I’ve watched Levi take it off before washing his hands, or showering, countless times. Those were the only times I’d allow myself a closer look.
But now I can take this ring in, anytime. Anywhere.
It’s mine.
Well, according to Levi, he was simply carrying it for me. Until I was ready.
And the thing is, I’ve been ready. For months. There’s a reason I decided to do this today, though.
Tomorrow will mark what should have been the end of Levi’s five-year probation. But he’s been an elected, permanent President for a long time now.
And I wanted to do this today, so that my decision is never tied to that clause. Ever.
It’s almost surprising how the clause rarely ever pops up in my head anymore.
But a week ago, I realized how much time had passed. Time that was beautifully spent on learning each other without the past shadowing our lives.
It wasn’t as though marriage wasn’t on my mind that whole time.
It definitely was. Not just because the reminder is constantly on Levi’s finger.
But also because my love for him evolved out of that box of arranged necessity.
In reality, that had happened the moment the clause was gone. But my heart took its sweet time.
With the new medication, shifting familial dynamics, and the acceptance of my diagnosis—I was able to pull my love for him out of that repressive, social milieu.
A watery laugh escapes me when the morning sun, streaming through blinds, catches the ring. And I promptly turn in Levi’s embrace, snuggling up with him.
I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he notices the ring.
??????
Well, I wasn’t entirely wrong. I did know I’d enjoy the look on his face when he notices the ring. But his reaction is basically him noticing the absence of it.
Who am I to stop a stumbling, fumbling, mumbling man from embarking on this very serious quest? He looks genuinely distressed. Perhaps I should put him out of his misery by—say—waving my left hand in front of him?
But he looks quite occupied with frantically rummaging through all our drawers.
“The pipes. Pipes!” he shouts suddenly, sprinting to the hallway cupboard for the toolbox and then dashing back to the en-suite.
Uh-oh.
I jog after him. “Babe! Wait—stop!”
He doesn’t even slow down.
A few minutes ago, I thought I’d smugly lift up my hand and wiggle my fingers. Watch his face shift to that adorable boyish grin I love.
Now I’m wondering if he has enough comprehension left in him to even notice the ring in his panic.
He’s emptying out one of the bottom cabinets that lead to the plumbing when I quickly grab his arm, stopping him.
“Levi, babe,” I say a little loudly, turning him toward me. “You don’t need to do that.”
“What if it fell into—”
“I know where it is.”
He freezes.
“I know where the ring is.”
His eyes widen at first, before confusion washes over his whole face.
I can’t stop smiling. Then, I gently grab his free hand with my left one and squeeze. Pulling his attention to it.
That’s when it happens.
His head snaps down. The ring on my finger fully visible. His chest shudders on a ragged breath, but he doesn’t look up from our joined hands.
Then he lifts them up, slowly, hesitantly. His jaw working as his lips turn downward.
He brushes his thumb over the ring with heartbreaking tenderness. In sheer reverence. Like he’s making sure it really is on my finger.
And I’m melting under the rapt attention my hand is getting. But I don’t move a muscle. I don’t rush.
I let him process the meaning of this on his own.
Finally, he lifts his head, his bright eyes catching mine. He exhales softly before a tremulous smile curves his lips. I smile back, tears already streaming down my face.
“Well,” he rasps, brushing one away with his shaking fingers. “I’m gonna need a date that’s sometime within the next month, baby.”
Logically, I probably should have huffed, or maybe even made a show of being shocked at his words. Instead what leaves my mouth surprises even me. The word flying out before I can stop it. “Seventeenth.”
My response pulls a disbelieving laugh out of him. “What—baby, that’s next week.”
“It’s the long weekend. And the forecast shows no rain for once,” I ramble, slipping into planning mode. “Vi is coming home too, so it’ll be perfect.”
His smile grows impossibly wide.
“And just like before, we can have that private, intimate wedding at the Wentworth estate.”
He stares at me for what feels like minutes. Then he laughs, throwing his head back. “I can’t believe—” he says, still chuckling. “I can’t believe you’re planning our wedding while we’re sitting on the bathroom floor.”
I glance around. “Oh.”
The towels from our morning shower are still hanging on the drying rack. The toolbox I doubt he knows how to use is lying half open next to us.
Our toiletries are scattered across the floor because my… fiancé—oh God—my husband-to-be was fully prepared to dismantle our plumbing for a ring that never left the apartment.
A laugh bubbles up my throat. “It’s kind of weirdly perfect.”
“It is.” He agrees without a second thought. “So…” he whispers, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me into his lap. “Does this mean I can call you my future wife again? Without you glaring at me?”
I pretend to consider, promptly stealing that smile off his face. “For the record,” I say, circling my arms around his neck. “I never glared.”
He raises a brow in challenge. “You absolutely did, baby.”
“Nuh-uh! I squinted.”
He laughs, pulling me closer. Then his laugh softens to a grin, that melts into a smile that’s achingly gentle. “My fiancée,” he whispers.
I drop my forehead on his, my cheeks hurting from the smile that hasn’t left my face since this morning. “My fiancé,” I whisper back.
He kisses me then, slow and unhurried, even as he stands. Even with me clinging to him like a needy koala.
By the time we come up for air, he’s already settling me down on the bed, neither of us interested in cleaning up the disaster he’d made of the bathroom.
The toolbox stays where it is.
The cabinet remains open.
Our wedding planning for next week can wait until tomorrow.
But then his weight disappears and I open my eyes fully. Only to see him grinning down at me as he leaves me by myself on the bed, legs akimbo, brows furrowing.
Wait.
He’s sauntering toward our walk-in closet with a leisurely pace.
What—
Oh, no, no, no.
Not this again.
I groan, as I slap my palm on my face, my head hitting the mattress with a dull thud. Risking one eye open, I watch him walk back to me, smirking like the devil he is. I know what I’ll see in his hands.
That damn purple monstrosity. Or maybe electric red. He loves that one.
“Can’t miss this for our… celebration, feral Cece.”
Feral, it is.
“You’re so weird about this.” I roll my eyes. But I’m biting back a smile as I yank the red wig from his light grip.
Wig time is feral time. But not just for feral Cece.
In the last year and a half, Levi has grown my collection to a whopping eight wigs in every different, bright color he could find.
Quickly, I clip it over my pixie cut that’s now maintained to the same length as before.
“Fucking hell, baby.” A sensual groan escapes his throat when I look up to meet his lustful gaze.
And then—my fiancé pounces.