Chapter 93: Return to Black Peak

Cecilia

The estate came into view as we crested the final hill—the main house sprawling across the clifftop, its stone facade warm in the morning sun, the ocean glittering beyond it like scattered diamonds.

The sight of it made something in my chest loosen, a tension I hadn't even realized I'd been carrying finally releasing.

"It hasn't changed," I said softly as Arthur pulled through the gates, the iron bars swinging open silently at our approach.

His voice was quiet, almost reverent. "I kept everything exactly as you liked it."

My throat tightened. "Arthur—"

"I knew you'd come back eventually," he continued, his eyes fixed on the house as we wound up the long driveway, past the perfectly manicured gardens and the fountain that had been here since his grandfather's time. "But I didn't know when, or how. I just knew. So I kept everything the same. Waiting for you."

I reached over and took his hand, threading our fingers together, feeling the calluses on his palm that came from his early morning workouts and the way he sometimes gripped the steering wheel too hard when he was thinking. "I'm here now."

"You are." He lifted our joined hands and pressed a kiss to my knuckles, his lips warm against my skin. "And you're never leaving again."

"Never," I agreed, and meant it with every fiber of my being.

We sat there for a moment longer, just looking at the house—at home—before Arthur came around to open my door, his hand steady and sure as he helped me out.

As I stepped onto the gravel drive, the front doors opened, and suddenly the entire household staff was streaming out.

Mrs. Chen, the housekeeper who'd been here since before I arrived, her gray hair pulled back in her usual neat bun; James, the head groundskeeper with his weathered face and gentle smile; Maria, who'd taught me to bake when I was thirteen and had always snuck me extra cookies; all of them lined up with smiles on their faces that made my eyes burn with unexpected tears.

"Welcome home, Miss Locke!" they said in unison, their voices warm with genuine affection that was so different from my mother's calculated performance that morning.

I felt tears prick at my eyes as I took in their faces—people who'd known me since I was nine years old, who'd watched me grow up, who'd bandaged my scraped knees and listened to my teenage heartbreaks and been more family to me than my own mother ever was.

"Soon to be Mrs. Winston," Arthur murmured beside me, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear, and I caught the possessive satisfaction in his tone.

Heat flooded my face, and I elbowed him in the ribs, which only made him smile wider, that rare, genuine smile that transformed his usually stern features into something almost boyish.

"Thank you all so much," I said, my voice slightly unsteady as I tried to compose myself. "It's good to be home."

They dispersed after that, returning to their duties with knowing smiles and meaningful glances between them, and Arthur led me inside, his hand never leaving the small of my back.

The wide entrance hall with its soaring ceiling and the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows, the grand staircase curving up to the second floor with its carved mahogany banister that I used to slide down when I was younger.

What strikes me most is the overwhelming fragrance of flowers.

Flowers. Everywhere.

White roses and peonies in massive arrangements on every available surface, their scent filling the air with something sweet and romantic and overwhelming in the best possible way.

The entire house had been transformed into something out of a fairy tale, and I felt my eyes start to burn again because this was Arthur—this was how he loved, grand and overwhelming and impossible to ignore.

"Arthur," I breathed, turning to face him. "When did you—"

"This morning," he said, sounding pleased with himself in that quiet, satisfied way he got when a plan came together perfectly. "While you were getting ready at your apartment. I wanted it to be special."

"You always love surprising me," I teased with a smile.

"Only for you," Arthur whispered.

Before I could respond, Mrs. Chen appeared from the direction of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes crinkling with warmth as she took in the sight of us standing there together.

"Mr. Winston, Miss Locke—lunch will be ready in about a half hour. Will you be eating in the dining room, or would you prefer a tray in your rooms?"

"We'll eat in the dining room, thank you, Mrs. Chen," Arthur said, then added with a glance at me, "but I'd like to take Ceci upstairs first. Show her the room."

"Of course." She smiled at both of us with the kind of knowing affection that came from years of watching our relationship unfold. "Take all the time you need."

She disappeared back toward the kitchen, and Arthur took my hand, threading our fingers together in a gesture that had become as natural as breathing.

"Come on," he said, leading me toward the staircase. "I want to show you something."

He led me up the grand staircase and down the familiar hallway toward the east wing, where my old bedroom was. When we reached the door, he paused, his hand on the knob.

"I had them clean it every day," he said quietly. "Even when you were gone. Just in case."

He opened the door, and I stepped inside.