Abandoned Luna Now Untouchable (Cecilia) novel Chapter 220

Chapter 220: Chapter 220 Midnight Confrontations

Cecilia’s pov

My lashes fluttered, instinctively. I forced them still.

Every muscle in my body locked into place.

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 already landed.

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 slapped me awake.

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

Then warmth. Across my shoulders.

Sebastian’s suit jacket.

I glanced 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 umbrella from Mia, the flight attendant, and started down the steps.

Even with the umbrella, the rain still found me, slapping 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 class. Apparently, the upgrade had been made to accommodate 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 place 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 claimed 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 that lasted way too long, and tried to sleep.

Sawyer said something else.

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

And then, Amara again, her voice laced with faux concern. "What kind of accident?"

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 minute later, I heard a phone call. Then Amara’s declaration, 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.

Balanced carefully in my grip: a plate of buttered pasta .

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

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

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

I set my plate 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 blazer. "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 plain reckless--why not try creeping into his room again?"

Her face froze. Like I’d slapped 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 platinum blonde just to spite her.