Extra 1 Wedding(1)

Extra 1 Wedding(1)
Cecilia

"I can't believe we spent three months on this case," I said, watching through the airplane window as the skyline disappeared beneath us, giving way to clouds and endless sky. "I honestly thought we'd wrap it up in a few days."

Daniel, settled in the seat beside me, let out a dry laugh that suggested he found my optimism both amusing and slightly naive. "Who could have predicted there'd be multiple killers working together? That kind of coordination—it's rare. Usually murderers are lone wolves, not team players."

Daniel glanced at me, his expression shifting into something more serious, more grateful. "Speaking of which—I owe you my life, Cecilia. If you hadn't been there when Suspect B cornered me in that warehouse—" He shuddered slightly, the memory clearly still fresh. "I'd be another statistic."

I waved off his gratitude. "Don't thank me! Thank Arthur's security team. I just happened to have excellent backup."

"About that—" Daniel's expression shifted into something between gratitude and mild terror. "Maybe I should send them a gift basket or something instead of thanking Mr. Winston directly. Because honestly? Your fiancé terrifies me. The way he looked at me last time we met—I'm pretty sure he was mentally calculating how to dispose of my body."

The image was so ridiculous, so perfectly accurate to Arthur's particular brand of possessive jealousy, that I couldn't help but burst into laughter—the kind that made my stomach hurt and tears gather at the corners of my eyes.

"He's not that bad," I managed between giggles, though we both knew I was lying.

"He threatened to 'accidentally' have me deported if I didn't keep you safe," Daniel said flatly. "His exact words were 'accidents happen all the time in international investigations.' I'm fairly certain that wasn't a joke."

"Okay, maybe he's a little territorial," I conceded, still grinning as I pulled out my phone to check the time—nearly midnight, which meant Arthur would probably be asleep by the time I got home.

Three months, I thought, my fingers automatically opening our text thread to scroll through the messages we'd exchanged—good morning texts, case updates, photos of meals we wished we could share, increasingly desperate "I miss you" declarations that had become more frequent as the weeks dragged on.

Almost home, I thought, watching the familiar skyline come into view through the window. Almost back to Arthur.



The private car Arthur had arranged pulled up to Black Peak Estate just after two AM, the house dark except for a few security lights illuminating the entrance.

Mrs. Chen met me at the door, her expression warm despite the late hour, clearly having waited up specifically to welcome me home. "Miss Locke," she said, taking my bags with practiced efficiency. "Welcome back. Mr. Winston had a very long day at the office—he's already retired for the evening."

Something about that statement felt wrong.

I'd told Arthur two days ago that I'd be arriving tonight. Had confirmed my flight time, had sent him updates throughout the journey, had assumed he'd be waiting up despite the late hour because that's what Arthur did—he waited, he watched, he made sure I was safe and home and his.

But apparently he'd been so exhausted he'd just... gone to bed?

After three months apart?

He must have been really tired, I thought, but the explanation felt hollow, incomplete, like there was something I was missing.

"Would you like something to eat, Miss Locke?" Mrs. Chen asked, already moving toward the kitchen. "I can prepare—"

"No, thank you," I interrupted gently, my hand coming to rest on her arm. "I'm not hungry right now. I'll enjoy your cooking tomorrow—I've been looking forward to it for weeks."

Her smile widened with obvious pleasure at the compliment.

I climbed the stairs slowly, my body aching from travel and exhaustion but my mind too wired to consider sleep. The hallway to our bedroom felt longer than usual, each step echoing in the quiet house, and when I finally reached our door I paused with my hand on the handle.

What if he really is just sleeping? I thought. What if I wake him and he's exhausted and needs rest and I'm being selfish by wanting—

I pushed the door open before I could finish that thought.

The room was pitch black, no moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains, no ambient glow from electronics or security lights. I moved forward carefully, my eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness, making out the familiar shapes of our furniture, the massive bed where I could just barely see a form beneath the covers.

I'd taken maybe three steps toward the bed when arms came around me from behind.

I let out a startled yelp, my heart jumping into my throat before my brain caught up and registered the familiar scent of him—that made my entire body relax instinctively.

"Arthur!" I twisted in his arms to look up at him, my voice coming out half-laughing, half-scolding. "You scared me! I thought you were asleep—Mrs. Chen said you'd retired for the evening and I—"

But the words died in my throat as I registered his expression, visible now that my eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness.

He looked wrecked.

Not physically—he was still impeccably put together in the expensive pajama pants and t-shirt he favored for sleeping, his hair only slightly mussed in a way that suggested he hadn't actually been lying down. But his eyes held a kind of raw vulnerability I'd only seen a handful of times, usually in moments when his carefully constructed control had completely shattered.

"These three months," he said, his voice rough and strained in a way that made my chest ache, "I spent every single day worrying about you. Every morning I woke up wondering if you were safe, if you were eating properly, if some psychopath with a knife was going to—"

His voice cracked completely, and suddenly he was burying his face against my shoulder, his arms tightening around me with enough force to make breathing difficult.

"Arthur," I whispered, my own throat going tight with emotion as I felt him tremble against me. "Arthur, baby, I'm okay. I'm home. I'm safe."

But he just held me tighter, like he was afraid I might disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly.

My heart cracked open completely at that, all the exhaustion and frustration of the past three months dissolving in the face of his obvious distress.

I turned in his arms, cupped his jaw in my hands with gentle insistence.

"Look at me," I said softly. "I'm here. I'm home."

Then I was kissing him, pouring three months of longing and love into it, feeling him respond with the kind of desperate intensity that suggested he'd been holding himself together by sheer force of will and my return had finally given him permission to fall apart.

His hands came up to tangle in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss.

We broke apart only when breathing became absolutely necessary, both of us gasping, foreheads pressed together in the darkness.

"I missed you," Arthur said, his voice still rough but steadier now. "God, Ceci, I missed you so much I—"

I silenced him with another kiss, softer this time, more tender, my hands already moving to the hem of his shirt with clear intent.

He caught my wrists gently, stopping me, and I felt him smile against my lips. "Let me," he murmured, his hands finding the zipper of my dress and sliding it down with practiced ease. "Let me take care of you."