<h4>Chapter 220: Chapter 220 Midnight Confrontations</h4>


    Cecilia’s pov


    Myshes fluttered, instinctively. I forced them still.


    Every muscle in my body locked into ce.


    Even my breath stalled--held hostage by the collision of shock and something dangerously close to heartbreak.


    Only when his footsteps retreated did I finally exhale.


    Well, well.


    So Mr. Alpha has time to sneak a kiss between conference calls and caffeine refills. How...efficient of him.


    Clearly, the man had feelings.


    But "feelings" are like condiments--plentiful, varied, and mostly optional.


    And "like"? That’s the watery ketchup of emotions. Barely counts.


    Not that it mattered.


    I only "liked" him too.


    I curled back into sleep wrapped in that beautifully convenient lie.


    Next time I woke, we’d alreadynded.


    Rain tapped against the windows in steady rhythm, the kind of gray drizzle that made London feel like the kind of gray drizzle that made London feel like a prolonged sigh.


    As I stood at the open cabin door, a gust of damp air pped me awake.


    Cold needles threaded through the fabric of my clothes. I shivered hard.


    Then warmth. Across my shoulders.


    Sebastian’s suit jacket.


    I nced down at the fabric, my fingers already reaching to shrug it off, when his voice came from behind me.


    "Keep it," he said, voice low and rough around the edges, like it had been dragged through gravel. "My productivity stats plummet when my secretary gets pneumonia."


    Hard to argue with logic that cold and clinical.


    I took the umbre from Mia, the flight attendant, and started down the steps.


    Even with the umbre, the rain still found me, pping against my cheeks like it had a personal grudge.


    There’s cold. And then there’s London-in-November cold.


    The kind that doesn’t just touch your skin--it seeps into your bones and sets up camp.


    The car was already waiting.


    Not just any car. It was a sleek six-seater with enough legroom to host a yoga ss. Apparently, the upgrade had been made to amodate our so-called "team of four."


    Sawyer had filled me in during the flight.


    There wouldn’t be a hotel this time.


    We were staying in a private residence tucked inside one of London’s leafier, wealthier neighborhoods.


    He’d even sent me background info I didn’t ask for.


    Turned out, the house used to be Sebastian’s childhood basecamp when he lived here during middle school.


    Later, his younger brother and Amara stayed there while attending school in the city.


    The ce came with history, staff, and the understated prestige of old money.


    In another life, I might’ve found that charming.


    Might’ve asked which room was his, or what music he listened to at thirteen.


    Might’ve smiled at the idea of him stomping through London with oversized headphones and teenage angst.


    But now?


    Now I couldn’t care less about his prep-school nostalgia or romantic lore with Amara.


    The rain was still falling when we pulled up to the house.


    Tang, ever the reliable soldier, hauled all the luggage inside by himself.


    Smart man. He’d clocked the sub-zero vibes between Sebastian and me and wisely adopted a "speak less, survive longer" approach.


    Sebastian didn’t say a word. He just headed straight for the master bedroom like a man on autopilot.


    Even caffeine has its limits, apparently. The machine had finally cracked.


    Once the rooms were imed and the doors shut, silence took over.


    We were all wiped--not just physically, but emotionally.


    Like someone had rung us out and left us to dry on a rainy London balcony.


    Thank God we had a buffer day before reporting to the London office.


    Anything less would’ve been corporate cruelty.


    I unpacked, took a shower thatsted way too long, and tried to sleep.


    But my body had other ns. After all that airne napping, it wasn’t interested in unconsciousness just yet.


    My stomach, however, had zero patience.


    I made my way downstairs, determined to find something vaguely edible.


    The fridge offered the usual bachelor inventory: sandwich bread, bagged greens, cheese, and some sad-looking fruit.


    Nothing satisfying.


    Eventually, I found pasta in the cupboard. Not morous, but warm was warm.


    I had just brought the water to a boil when the doorbell rang.


    At this time?


    I turned off the burner and walked toward the front door, already bracing for the worst.


    Paranoid? Maybe. But after everything that had gone down, my internal threat radar was permanently set to DEFCON 1.


    I checked the peephole.


    You’ve got to be kidding me.


    I turned right back around and returned to my sauce like I hadn’t heard a damn thing.


    Ah. So that’s why Amara’s resignation had been so drama-free. She’d already booked a one-way ticket back to London.


    Although...hadn’t Sawyer mentioned she used to live here?


    If so, why didn’t she have keys?


    The doorbell rang again. And again.


    Persistent little queen, isn’t she?


    I kept stirring the sauce.


    If someone else wanted to y concierge at midnight, be my guest.


    Sure enough, a few minutester, I heard footsteps on the stairs. Hesitant, slow.


    And Sawyer’s voice, floating faintly down the hall.


    "Miss Amara..."


    Then came Amara’s voice. Clear. Sweet. Deadly.


    "Beta Sawyer," she cooed like a Disney viiness on vacation. "Lovely to see you again."


    I didn’t need to look.


    I could picture her perfectly--head high, coat immacte, that signature ’I’m back, bitches’ strut in full swing.


    Sawyer said something else.


    I couldn’t catch it all, just bit--"Vancouver," "Sebastian," "ident."


    And then, Amara again, her voiceced with faux concern. "What kind of ident?"


    I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly gave myself a migraine.


    God, Sawyer. Are you seriously trying to send her back with a koi pond story?


    A minuteter, I heard a phone call. Then Amara’s deration, loud enough to echo into the kitchen.


    "She’s fine now. My going back won’t change anything."


    Of course.


    Sawyer went quiet. I imagined his soul quietly packing a suitcase and checking out of his body.


    That was my cue.


    I emerged from the kitchen like I’d just wandered into someone else’s drama with a fork in one hand and zero patience in the other.


    Bnced carefully in my grip: a te of buttered pasta .


    I offered them both a polite smile as I walked past.


    That smile? Yeah, ording to Sawyer’s face, it probably looked like I was about to start sentencing people to death.


    His expression said it all:?Why did Ie downstairs? I could’ve just faked sleep and dodged this entire episode.


    I set my te down at the table and started eating with painstaking calm, like I hadn’t just walked into a passive-aggressive soap opera rerun.


    Amara followed, her heels clicking with the kind of confidence only delusion or denial could buy. She pulled out a chair across from me and sat down like she owned the damn house.


    "Don’t get the wrong idea," she said smoothly, brushing invisible lint off her zer. "I’m not here chasing after any of you. My friend from Vancouver wanted to check out London, and since you got me fired--left me unemployed--I figured, why not tag along?"


    I stabbed a piece of pasta like it owed me money.


    I took a few slow bites before looking up, meeting her eyes across the table.


    "Amara," I said, setting down my fork, "you can do whatever you want. You’re a free woman now. No title. No office. No NDA to keep you from running your mouth."


    I tilted my head and pointed my fork toward the ceiling.


    "The Alpha’s probably passed out cold upstairs. So if you’re feeling nostalgic...brave...or just in reckless--why not try creeping into his room again?"


    Her face froze. Like I’d pped her with a velvet glove and dared her to hit back.


    She stared at me like I’d grown a second head, then dyed it tinum blonde just to spite her.