Chapter 29

Arthur

The interior was all clean lines and soft lighting, with dresses displayed like art pieces rather than merchandise.

Ceci looked around, and I could see her doing the mental math—calculating how much each piece cost, whether this was worth it, whether she should just find something at a department store instead.

"Elena," I said before Ceci could voice any of those thoughts, "we're looking for something for a garden party in the Hamptons tomorrow. Something that says 'I belong here and I'm not asking permission.'"

Elena's smile widened. "I have just the thing." She turned to Ceci. "What's your usual style, Ms. Locke?"

Ceci hesitated. "Honestly? I don't really have one. I wear what's comfortable and professional. I'm not big on making statements with clothes."

"Everyone makes statements with clothes," Elena said gently. "The question is whether you're making them intentionally or by accident. Come, let me show you some options."

She led us deeper into the boutique, pulling dresses as she went—some I recognized as designer pieces, others that looked deceptively simple until you saw how they moved.

"Try these," Elena said, handing Ceci a selection. "The dressing room is through there. Take your time."

Ceci looked at me. "Arthur—"

"Just try them on," I said softly. "If you hate everything, we'll leave and find somewhere else. But give it a chance."

She nodded and disappeared into the dressing room. Elena turned to me with a knowing look.

"She's not used to this world, is she?"

"No. And I don't want her to have to be. But she..." I ran a hand through my hair. "She's just worried she'll get me into trouble."

"Because people will judge her."

"Because people will try to tear her down, and take this opportunity to influence us."

Elena nodded slowly. "I understand. Don't worry, Mr. Winston. I'll make sure she has what she needs."

The first dress Ceci tried on was a pale blue thing with too many ruffles. She stepped out of the dressing room, took one look at herself in the mirror, and shook her head.

"No. This isn't me."

"Agreed," I said. "Next."

The second was better—a sleek black number that hugged her curves—but it was too severe, too much like armor and not enough like her.

"It's nice," she said, but I could hear the doubt.

"But not right," I finished. "Keep going."

The third dress... the third dress was perfect.

It was a deep navy blue, almost black in certain lights, with clean lines and a subtle sheen to the fabric. Not overly formal, not trying too hard, but unmistakably expensive in the way that only quality could be. The cut was elegant but modern, professional but with just enough edge to say she wasn't playing by anyone else's rules.

Ceci stepped out and looked at herself in the mirror, and I watched her expression change. Uncertainty gave way to something else—recognition, maybe. Like she was seeing herself the way I'd always seen her.

"This one," she said quietly.

"This one," I agreed.

Elena appeared with shoes and a simple necklace, nothing too flashy, just enough to complete the look. When Ceci turned to face me fully, I felt something shift in my chest.

This was the woman who'd walked into my boardroom and saved my company. The woman who'd stood up to my father and won. The woman who'd chosen me when it would have been easier to walk away.

"You look..." I couldn't finish the sentence.

"Like I can take on the world?" She smiled.

"Like you already have."

She changed back into her regular clothes, and I handled the payment while she wasn't looking. I knew she'd protest if she saw the price, would insist on paying for it herself, would turn this into a whole thing about independence and not needing me to take care of her.

But this wasn't about that. This was about me wanting to give her this one thing, this one piece of armor for the battle we were about to walk into together.

On the drive back to her apartment, Ceci was quiet. I could see her processing, preparing herself for tomorrow.

"Thank you," she said finally. "For the dress. For... all of this."

"You don't have to thank me."

"I do, though." She turned to look at me. "You didn't have to do this. Any of it. You could have gone to that party alone, kept things simple, avoided the drama."

"Ceci." I reached over and took her hand. "There is no version of tomorrow where I go without you. There's no version of my life anymore where I do anything without you. Do you understand that?"

She was quiet for a long moment, and I could see something working behind her eyes—some fear she was trying to articulate, some vulnerability she rarely let show.

"I'm scared," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

The admission caught me off guard. Ceci didn't do scared. She did strategic, calculated, prepared. But scared? That was new territory.

"Of what?" I asked gently.

"Of not being enough. Of walking into that party and having everyone look at me and think 'what is he doing with her?' Of proving your mother right about me not belonging in your world."

I pulled the car over, needing to look at her properly for this conversation. The words had come out in a rush, like she'd been holding them in and couldn't anymore. When I turned to face her, I could see the vulnerability there, raw and real.

"Ceci, look at me."

She did.

"You are not the one who doesn't belong," I said firmly. "They are. Every single person at that party tomorrow who thinks they have the right to judge you, who thinks they know better than me about who I should be with, who thinks your worth is determined by your last name or your bank account or how many generations your family has had money—they're the ones who don't belong. Not you. Never you."

"But—"

"No." I cut her off gently, squeezing her hand. "Listen to me. You saved my company. You stood up to my father when I was too blind to see what he really was. You've built something incredible from nothing, and you did it without compromising who you are. If anyone at that party tomorrow has a problem with you, it's because they're threatened by you. And they should be."

A smile tugged at her lips despite everything. "That's a very biased perspective."

"It's the truth." I brought her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "And tomorrow, when we walk in there together, I want you to remember something. You're there as my partner. As someone who has every right to be in that room, regardless of what anyone else thinks. Okay?"

She nodded, and I could see her pulling herself back together, rebuilding that armor she wore so well.

"Ceci." I waited until she met my eyes again. "I love you. And nothing that happens tomorrow is going to change that."

The words hung between us, heavy and significant. I'd said them before, but never quite like this—never as a promise, a commitment, a line in the sand.

"I love you too," she whispered. "Even when you're being overprotective."

"Especially then."

She laughed, and the tension broke.

I started the car again and drove us back to our apartment, her hand still in mine. Neither of us spoke, but the silence was comfortable now, settled.