Ace POV
Ace Laurent did not believe in ghosts, but Mia Harrington followed him out of that ballroom like one.
He told himself it was just irritation. Her words had been sharp, cutting straight through the armor he wore so easily. He should have shrugged them off. He had endured boardroom challenges, cutthroat negotiations, and sycophants trying to win his favor. A socialite with cold eyes should not have shaken him.
And yet—she had.
The night air outside the Harrington estate was crisp, sharp with the scent of winter roses from the gardens. Ace tugged at the cuffs of his shirt, his steps carrying him toward the sleek black car waiting by the curb. His driver opened the door, but Ace paused, glancing back at the golden glow spilling from the ballroom windows.
She was still inside.
Probably surrounded by admirers now, though she'd brushed them off with the same frost she'd turned on him. He should have been relieved to escape her presence, but instead, his chest carried an unfamiliar weight.
"Drive," he ordered curtly as he slid into the car.
The vehicle purred to life, the city lights sweeping past as they descended from the Harrington estate's hilltop drive. Ace leaned back against the leather seat, loosening his tie. His reflection in the tinted glass stared back at him: dark hair slightly mussed, jaw set in its usual severity. A man in control.
But his mind betrayed him.
Do you always make it a habit of insulting your hosts? Her voice, smooth yet biting, replayed in his head. She had matched him word for word, parried his barbs without flinching. Most people backed down when he pressed. She hadn't.
And worse—when she'd smiled, it had unsettled him. Not because it was kind. Because it was sharp, hiding something beneath its curve.
He had seen enough of the world to recognize pain when it disguised itself as indifference.
He hated that he noticed.
The memory twisted, bleeding into another image he could never erase: his mother's lips curved in a smile that had not been meant for his father. He had been only seven, hiding in the hallway, watching as she whispered to another man. That smile, that softness, had been a lie.
From that moment, Ace had promised himself: he would never trust the women who wore masks. Never trust softness, never trust beauty. His mother had taught him what it meant to be deceived.
So why did Mia Harrington—heir, ice queen, untouchable—linger in his mind like a thorn he couldn't pluck free?
The driver's voice cut into his thoughts. "Home, sir?"
Ace hesitated. His penthouse was waiting, cold and sterile, as it always was. The thought of silence, of being alone with these thoughts, unsettled him more than he liked.
"No," he said finally. "The club."
The car redirected toward a private lounge frequented by men of his circle—sons of wealth, heirs of power. Noise, alcohol, distraction. That was what he needed.
Yet, even as he walked through the club's dimly lit halls, greeted by familiar faces and meaningless chatter, his mind betrayed him. He scanned every room as if expecting to find her there.
And when he didn't, irritation coiled in his gut.
She's nothing, he told himself. A spoiled heiress. Cold because it's easier than being kind. Untouchable because she wants to be envied.
But the words rang hollow.
Hours later, when he finally returned home, the city lights glittering outside his windows, Ace poured himself a drink. Amber liquid sloshed against glass, but it didn't burn enough to numb the memory of her eyes locking with his.
He downed it anyway.
"Careful, Harrington," he muttered to himself, echoing his own words from earlier, "you might actually be interesting."
The admission tasted bitter.
Morning brought no relief.
He woke before dawn, as he always did, driven by routine and discipline. His workouts were merciless, sweat dripping as he punished his body, but still her face intruded. Her words. Her damn composure.
By the time the sun rose, casting light over his penthouse, Ace was furious with himself. This was weakness. A Laurent heir did not waste time on women, especially not women like Mia Harrington.
And yet, fate had its own cruel humor.
James called before breakfast, his voice far too casual. "You'll be at Harrington's charity gala tomorrow night, right?"
Ace stilled. "Why?"
"Because Lila's on the committee, and Mia will be there." James's chuckle carried across the line. "Don't look at me like that. I know you are. You two need to learn to get along."
Ace's jaw tightened. "We're not children, James."
"No," James said lightly. "But you're both stubborn as hell. Maybe that's the problem. Or maybe it's the answer."
The call ended, but the words lingered.
Stubborn. Yes. Mia Harrington was that and more. She was danger wrapped in elegance, a reminder of everything he didn't want and everything he couldn't seem to ignore.
That night, as he stood on his balcony, the city glittering beneath him, Ace clenched the railing until his knuckles whitened.
He could already see it: her in another gown, her eyes cold as they swept past him, her tongue sharp as a blade. And he—he would want to slice through that armor, to see what lay beneath.
He hated himself for it.
But hate was safer than the alternative.
So he made himself a promise, spoken into the night air.
"I'll play the game, Harrington. But I won't fall."
The city didn't answer. But deep inside, Ace wasn't sure if he believed his own words. Deep down he was both confused and conflicted of what he was doing, either way time was going to tell and Ace knew this saying all to well .