Aurora's POV
The rooftop glittered like a scene stolen from a billionaire's dream. Golden string lights draped across sheer white fabric, a glass DJ booth pulsed with bass, and marble floors gleamed beneath the shadows of white-gloved waiters. Ice sculptures shimmered, trays of gold-dusted hors d'oeuvres floated by, and the entire night smelled like wealth.
I stood at the edge of it all, clutching a drink I couldn't pronounce in a dress I could never afford.
"I shouldn't be here," I muttered.
"You say that every time we crash Clarke's parties," Percy grinned, popping a strawberry between her lips. "And yet... here you are. Serving face in velvet."
I tugged at the hem of the burgundy gown Clarke had practically forced me into. The fabric clung to my waist and hips like it had been sewn by gods, the quiet train stitched with golden lilies. My eyes searched for her-Clarke was across the room, whispering orders to a tall blond man like she owned the place.
"You borrowed everything," Percy teased, eyes sparkling. "But you're a broke beauty with a body that could end civilizations. Own it. People would kill for that waistline."
I snorted softly, though it didn't quite reach my eyes. She wasn't wrong-I was broke. Maybe beautiful. But broke all the same.
This glittering rooftop wasn't mine.
My world was coffee shop shifts, aching feet, and hope that bruised too easily. I had a dying mother in a charity hospital, a sixteen-year-old sister who depended on me for everything, and a father who had vanished years ago without a glance back.
But Clarke had insisted I come. Her 21st birthday demanded sparkle loud enough for the entire city to notice. In her rose-gold dress, with her senator father watching proudly, she glittered like the center of a universe I'd never belong to.
So I smiled. Pretended. And turned toward the skyline, letting the breeze slap a little truth into me.
That's when I felt it.
Not wind. Not chance. A stare. A slow burn crawling across my skin.
I looked up.
Behind sheer black curtains on a private balcony, a man stood alone. Tall. Still. Watching me.
And God-he wasn't just good-looking. He was ruinous. His features were sharp, deliberate, his suit black as sin, stitched to him like it had been tailored with blood and secrets. A crystal tumbler dangled carelessly in his hand, but it was his eyes that caught me-storm-grey, knife-sharp, locking onto mine as if he already knew my name.
He raised his glass in a lazy salute. A smirk-barely there-tugged at his lips.
"Aurora?" Percy nudged me. "You okay?"
I didn't look away. "Who is that?"
Her eyes followed my gaze. They widened. "Oh... damn. That's Ace Wolfe."
I blinked. "The Ace Wolfe?"
"Mmhmm." Percy lowered her voice. "Heir to the Wolfe Empire. Tech, fashion, media-you name it, his family owns it. Clarke said he only came because her dad begged. Rumor is, he hates parties."
Of course. A senator's rooftop gala was exactly the kind of place someone like him would haunt.
But when I looked back-he was gone.
The rooftop roared back to life. Laughter, camera flashes, Clarke twirling across the dance floor like a star in her own Vogue spread. But the weight of his stare still clung to me like silk.
I slipped away toward the quieter hallway near the elevators, needing air. The music dulled to a hum. Golden sconces lined the walls. Velvet carpet cushioned my steps.
And then... he was there.
Leaning against a marble column, like he'd stepped straight out of a fever dream. Ace Wolfe. Closer now. More dangerous. His presence wasn't loud-it was heavy. Measured. Predatory.
I froze.
"Leaving so soon?" His voice was smooth, deep, rich-like aged bourbon poured straight over ice.
"I needed air," I managed, lifting my chin.
"I watched you all night."
My brows shot up. "That's not creepy at all."
He didn't smile. "I don't waste words. You're not like them."
"Let me guess," I said dryly. "I 'don't belong here'?"
He stepped closer, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The air thickened. My pulse spiked.
"Not an insult," he said, his voice low. "Just an observation. One I rarely get wrong."
"Right. So what-balconies and judgment calls are your thing?"
"I don't judge," he murmured. "I choose."
My head tilted, my heart racing. "Do all your conversations sound like Bond villains flirting?"
That earned me the faintest twitch of a smirk. "I make very good offers."
My breath caught. "What kind of offer?"
Before he could answer, a sharp voice cut through.
"Mr. Wolfe." A suited man approached quickly, earpiece glinting. A bodyguard. "It's urgent."
Ace's jaw flexed. He glanced at me once more. "Give me your number."
The authority in his tone startled me. Not demanding. Not pleading. Just inevitable.
I hesitated-then gave it.
He said nothing more. Just turned, his bodyguard falling into step like a shadow.
I stood frozen, pulse roaring in my ears.
My phone buzzed a moment later. A new message.
Unknown Number: We're not done.