Chapter 158: A Handsome Man

Arthur

Understanding dawned on his face, followed immediately by what looked like the urge to laugh that he desperately suppressed. "No, sir. I can't say that I have."

"Then get out of my office and make sure HR understands that this—" I gestured at the folder with barely contained irritation, "—is not happening."

"Yes, sir." Ethan practically fled, and I was left alone with my thoughts and the growing certainty that Ceci had actually done it.

She'd actually taken steps toward becoming a detective.

Not just talked about it, not just considered it—she'd submitted a formal resignation letter, had started the process of leaving Winston Corporation to pursue this insane, dangerous career path that was going to give me a heart attack before I turned thirty-five.

I pulled out my phone, my finger hovering over her contact, ready to call and demand to know what the hell she was thinking.

Then I stopped.

Because calling her now, when I was this angry and this hurt, would only make things worse. Would lead to another fight like the one we'd had on the plane, where we'd both said things we couldn't take back and had barely managed to find our way back to each other.

So I set the phone down and forced myself to take a breath, to think this through rationally instead of reacting purely on emotion.

Ceci wanted to be a detective. Had wanted it since London, since she'd seen firsthand what the Grey family had been doing, since she'd held that hard drive full of evidence in her hands and realized she could make a difference.

And I'd told her no. Had flat-out refused to even consider it, had shut down the conversation before it could really start because the thought of her deliberately putting herself in danger made me want to lock her in this house and never let her out.

But that wasn't fair. Wasn't right. Wasn't the kind of relationship we were supposed to have—where I made unilateral decisions about her career, her future, her life.

Fuck.

I opened the bottom drawer of my desk where I kept important documents—contracts that needed special attention, personal files that couldn't be left in the general system.

And now, apparently, my fiancée's resignation letter.

Her handwriting really was beautiful. Neat and precise, each letter formed with care, the kind of penmanship that came from years of practice and natural elegance.

I traced my finger over her signature, over the loops and curves that spelled out her name, and felt something complicated twist in my chest—love and frustration and fear all tangled together so tightly I couldn't separate them.

I slid the folder inside, tucking it behind the other papers where it would be safe, where I could look at it later when I wasn't so angry and hurt and terrified of losing her to her own heroism.

Tomorrow, I thought, closing the drawer and locking it with more force than necessary. When she comes home tomorrow, we're going to have a conversation about this.

Cecilia

"—and then Sophia locked herself in the bathroom for two hours because she thought she'd flushed her favorite toy down the toilet," Mrs. Rose was saying, her eyes bright with the memory as she showed me another photo album. "Victor had to take apart the entire plumbing system before we finally found it stuck in the pipes."

I smiled and nodded, making appropriate sounds of amusement even as my mind drifted to the uncomfortable reality that Mrs. Rose's version of Sophia's childhood didn't quite match up with what I knew about Sophia's actual school experience.

The bullying. The isolation.

I glanced at Mrs. Rose, studying her face for any sign.

"She was always such a happy child," Mrs. Rose continued, her finger tracing the edge of a photo showing Sophia at maybe seven or eight, gap-toothed and grinning. "So full of life and joy. We were so blessed."

The disconnect was jarring enough that I almost said something—almost pointed out that Sophia's school years hadn't been quite so idyllic, that there were things Mrs. Rose had missed or chosen not to see.

But my phone buzzed in my pocket, saving me from having to respond to that.

I pulled it out, glancing at the screen to find a message from Ethan: Mr. Winston has rejected your resignation. HR has been instructed to file it as "not approved."

I blinked at the message, my brain struggling to process it for a second before understanding crashed over me.

Arthur had rejected my resignation.

Of course he had.

I'd been planning to tell him tonight—had the whole speech prepared in my head about why I needed to do this, why becoming a detective was important to me, why I hoped he could support my decision even if he didn't like it.

But then Mrs. Rose had asked me to stay for dinner, and then she'd pulled out these photo albums, and now it was nearly ten PM and I was still here, trapped in this strange alternate reality where Sophia had been a happy child.

I typed back quickly: Noted. Will discuss with Mr. Winston tomorrow.

Ethan's response came almost immediately: He's not happy, Miss Locke. Fair warning.

I could imagine Arthur's reaction—the cold fury, the sense of betrayal that I'd submitted a formal resignation letter instead of talking to him first.

I know, I typed back. Thanks for the heads up.

I tucked my phone away and forced myself back into the conversation, back into Mrs. Rose's carefully constructed version of history where everything had been fine and her daughter had been happy and trauma was something that happened to other families.

Tomorrow, I thought, watching Mrs. Rose turn another page of the album. Tomorrow I'll go home and face Arthur. If he asks me, I'll lay my heart bare to him.

Arthur

Ceci came home, finally, after spending the night at the Rose estate. She walked through the door looking tired but content, her hair slightly mussed and her clothes rumpled from travel.

"Hey," she said, dropping her bag by the door and crossing to where I stood in the entrance hall. "Mrs. Rose really needed—"

I pulled her into my arms before she could finish, holding her tight enough that she made a small sound of surprise. "Don't apologize," I said against her hair. "I'm glad you were there for her."

And I was. Despite the jealousy, despite the frustration of her absence, I was genuinely glad that Ceci had been able to help someone who needed her.

There are far more crucial matters to discuss, like that damned detective career.

Except we didn't talk about it.

I loathe myself. Didn't I agree to talk things over with Ceci yesterday?

But every time I saw her—every time she smiled at me or kissed me goodbye or curled up against me in bed at night—I found myself putting it off, telling myself we'd talk tomorrow, that I'd bring it up when the timing was better.

Time drifted gently into the next morning. I made up my mind to talk things through with her in person. The walk to her office felt unusually lengthy.

Soft murmurs drifted from the surrounding corridors, casual whispers floating into my ears as I advanced.

"Have you noticed? A handsome man just came to see Director Locke. Do you think there’s something going on between them..."