Chapter 61

Cecilia

I went back to the restaurant where Arthur and I used to go. I'd walked here on autopilot after leaving the party, my feet carrying me to the one place.

"Miss Locke!" The owner appeared from behind the bar, his weathered face breaking into a genuine smile. "And where is Mr. Winston? It's been too long since you both—" He stopped, taking in my expression. "Ah. Just you tonight?"

"Just me," I confirmed, my voice steadier than I felt. "Can I have our usual table? The one in the corner?"

He hesitated, concern flickering across his features, but nodded. "Of course, of course. Come, sit. I'll bring you something nice. On the house."

I sank into the booth—our booth, the one where Arthur had taught me how to properly twirl pasta, where we'd spent hours talking about everything and nothing.

My phone sat on the table, screen dark and accusatory. I should call him. Should let him know I was okay. Should—

No. I shoved the thought away. He'd stayed at that party, with his grandmother crying and his mother scheming and Madison Hartley standing there looking like the perfect society bride.

I pulled out my laptop instead, needing something—anything—to distract myself from the ache in my chest. I began hacking into Irene’s phone system. Just routine surveillance, I'd told myself. Just keeping tabs on potential threats.

The chat logs loaded, and I started scrolling, not really expecting to find anything new. Irene's conversations were usually mundane—charity events, society gossip, thinly veiled criticisms of people she considered beneath her.

Then I saw it. A group chat labeled "Project Madison."

My stomach dropped.

The messages went back weeks—hundreds of them, a carefully orchestrated conspiracy between Irene and Margaret, with occasional input from Madison herself.

Irene: The contracts are nearly finalized. Hartley's lawyers are reviewing the terms. Once Arthur sees how beneficial this alliance would be for the company, he'll come around.

Margaret: He's being stubborn about that Locke girl. We need to separate them. Permanently.

Irene: I've been working on that. The birthday party will be the perfect opportunity. We'll make her so uncomfortable she'll leave on her own, and Arthur will see how unsuitable she really is.

Madison: What if he doesn't? What if he chooses her anyway?

Margaret: He won't. Arthur's always been a dutiful boy. He knows where his loyalties should lie.

I scrolled further, my vision blurring slightly as the messages grew more vicious.

Irene: That little whore has her claws in deep. Did you see the way she looked at him at Carter's engagement party? Like she owns him.

Margaret: She's common trash. No breeding, no background, no class. The fact that Arthur can't see that is proof of how thoroughly she's manipulated him.

Madison: I could give him everything she can't. Connections, status, a proper family. Why can't he see that?

Irene: He will. Once we remove the distraction. I've already spoken to several board members about concerns regarding her "relationship" with Arthur. The optics are terrible—a ward seducing her guardian. It's practically incestuous.

Margaret: We should leak it to the press. Anonymous tip. Let public opinion do the work for us.

Irene: Too risky. Better to handle it quietly. Social pressure, family intervention. Make her understand she'll never be accepted.

The messages continued, page after page of calculated cruelty, strategic manipulation, plans to destroy not just my relationship with Arthur but my reputation, my career, my entire life.

I felt something crack inside my chest, a sharp pain that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the sudden, crushing realization of just how much they hated me. How far they were willing to go.

My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the table, trying to steady myself, trying to breathe through the tightness in my throat.

"Ceci."

I looked up, and there he was.

Arthur stood at the edge of the booth, his suit jacket gone, his tie loosened, his hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it. His eyes were wild, desperate, searching my face like he was afraid I might disappear if he looked away.

"How did you find me?" My voice came out flat, emotionless, a defense mechanism against the storm of feelings threatening to overwhelm me.

"I’ve been having Ethan keep an eye on you." He said it without apology, without shame. "I needed to know you were safe. I needed—" He stopped, his jaw clenching. "Can I sit?"

I didn't answer, just turned back to my laptop screen, to the damning evidence of his family's hatred.

He slid into the booth across from me anyway, and I felt the familiar pull of his presence, the way my body wanted to lean toward him even as my mind screamed to push him away.

"You should be at the party," I said, still not looking at him. "With your grandmother. With Madison. Having a wonderful time celebrating your impending engagement."

"Ceci—"

"I mean, that's what they want, right?" I finally looked up, and I knew my expression was cold, defensive. "Your mother, your grandmother, Madison—they've got it all planned out. The contracts are already being drawn up. The board members are already being consulted. All you have to do is show up and sign on the dotted line."

I turned the laptop around, showing him the chat logs, the messages that laid bare every ugly thought, every calculated move, every bit of venom his family had directed at me.

Arthur stared at the screen, his expression shifting from confusion to horror to rage as he read. His hands clenched into fists on the table, his breathing growing harsh and uneven.

His voice shaking. "Those fucking—"

"They hate me," I said, and I hated how small my voice sounded, how much it hurt to say it out loud. "They really, truly hate me, Arthur. And they're never going to stop. They're never going to accept me. They're going to keep pushing and scheming and manipulating until they get what they want."

"Then they can go to hell," Arthur said fiercely. "All of them. I don't care what they want. I don't care about their contracts or their plans or their—"

"But they're your family," I interrupted, and the words tasted bitter. "Your grandmother, your mother—they're the people who raised you, who love you, who—"

"Who are trying to control me," he finished. "Who are using guilt and obligation and family loyalty to manipulate me into doing what they want instead of what I want."

The restaurant owner appeared then, carrying a tray with two plates of pasta and a bottle of wine.

"Ah, Mr. Winston! I knew you would come. I told Miss Locke, I said, 'He will find you. Love always finds its way.'" He set down the plates with a flourish, poured wine into two glasses. "Eat, eat. Everything is better with good food and good wine, yes?"

He disappeared before either of us could respond, leaving us alone with our pasta and the weight of everything unsaid.