Ace's POV
The whiskey burned down my throat, but not nearly enough. I slammed the glass on the counter, signaling for another. The bartender didn't hesitate—he knew better than to keep me waiting.
"Rough night, Mr. Stone?" he asked carefully.
I gave him a sharp look. He froze, swallowed hard, and slid the glass forward. Good. He knew his place.
Everyone did. Everyone except me.
The Big Shot Bar buzzed with life—rich kids blowing daddy's money, drunk executives pretending to be young again, pretty women in dresses that glittered under the lights. They laughed, they danced, they drank like life had no claws.
But me? I owned the place. I owned the entire hotel. The irony was bitter—I built this empire, and yet here I sat, drowning in my own wealth.
I took another sip, shaking my head.
Tomorrow—or rather, today, since the clock had already dragged past midnight—I was supposed to marry Cassandra DeMarco. The perfect heiress. The second-generation princess of a shipping dynasty. My parents had been thrilled when they arranged it, calling it "a union of power."
As if love had anything to do with power.
I didn't want her. I didn't want the deal, the press, the staged photographs. But my father's words haunted me:
"You're twenty- nine, Ace. Old enough. The country needs to see stability in you. Stop acting like a child."
I smirked bitterly, swirling the golden liquid in my glass. If only they knew their "responsible heir" was drunk at his own bar, hiding from the life they carved for him.
I leaned back against the stool, watching the crowd blur through the haze of alcohol. Maybe if I drank enough, the world would spin itself into something that made sense.
But deep down, I knew it wouldn't.
Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
I slid off the stool, unsteady but refusing to let it show. Billionaires weren't supposed to stumble. Billionaires weren't supposed to feel anything at all.
The music throbbed as I pushed through the crowd, the mix of perfume and sweat thick in the air. I hated this scene, hated these people, but I needed to move—sitting still was letting my thoughts eat me alive.
Then it happened.
She hit me hard, almost knocking the drink from my hand.
"What the—" I started, but then my eyes locked on her.
Messy black hair falling over her shoulders. Red, swollen eyes, like she'd been crying for hours. A face too beautiful to belong in this drunken chaos, but there she was—unsteady, vulnerable, yet burning with something I couldn't name.
She looked up at me, pupils glassy, lips trembling. For a second, she froze, as if she'd seen a ghost.
"Ethan…" she whispered, her voice broken, barely audible under the bass.
I frowned. Ethan? Whoever he was, I wasn't him. But before I could correct her, she clutched my shirt like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
"Take me home," she begged, her words slurring together. "Please… just take me home."
Something twisted in my chest. She was drunk—too drunk. But the desperation in her voice, the way her body leaned against mine like she'd collapse without me… it pulled me in.
I should've walked away. I should've told her she had the wrong man.
But I didn't.
Her eyes shone with a pain I knew too well, and against all reason, I couldn't let go.
She was trembling, staring up at me like I was the only thing holding her together.
"Ethan…" she whispered again, her lips quivering.
Before I could answer, she rose on her toes and pressed her mouth against mine.
I froze.
Her kiss wasn't sweet—it was desperate. A broken, aching kind of kiss that tasted like salt and whiskey. She poured her grief into it, and against every bit of logic I had left, I let her.
No—I wanted her.
Something in that kiss stripped me bare. No titles. No wealth. No pressure of the wedding waiting in the morning. Just her mouth on mine, her hands clinging to me like I was oxygen.
I kissed her back. Harder. Deeper.
The crowd blurred away, the music disappeared. There was only her. This stranger who thought I was someone else.
Her breath hitched when I pulled her closer, my hand sliding to the small of her back. She didn't resist. She melted into me like we were already something forbidden.
For the first time in years, I didn't feel like Ace Stone—the heir, the billionaire, the puppet groom. I just felt like a man who needed this woman.
My lips grazed her ear as I whispered, "Come with me."
She didn't answer with words. She only nodded, her forehead pressing against my chest.
And just like that, I made the worst—and best—decision of my life.
I led her through the crowd, past the velvet ropes no one dared to stop me at, into the elevator that shot us up to the suites I owned but never stayed in.
Her hand was still in mine, shaking.
I didn't even know her name.
But I knew I wasn't letting go.
The first thing I felt was the headache. A sharp, splitting pain behind my eyes that made me groan as sunlight slipped through the curtains.
The second thing I felt… was skin.
Warm. Soft. Pressed against me under the sheets.
My eyes shot open.
I was naked. Completely.
Memories crashed back in pieces—the bar, the crowd, her lips, the elevator. Her body tangled with mine until the night dissolved in heat and alcohol.
I shut my eyes, cursing under my breath.
Today was my wedding day.
Cassandra DeMarco. The heiress. The contract bride my parents were shoving down my throat. By now the press was probably setting up their cameras, waiting for the photos of the smiling billionaire groom.
And here I was. Naked in a hotel room with a stranger.
I turned my head slightly, my temples pounding. She was still asleep, her face turned away, black hair spilling across the pillow like silk.
Who was she?
I stared at her for a long moment, my chest tightening with something I didn't want to name.
She looked peaceful, but broken. Even in sleep, her body curled in on itself, like she was protecting something deep inside.
I couldn't stay… I shouldn't stay.
I swung my legs off the bed, my head pounding with every move. My suit jacket lay crumpled on the floor, my shirt half ripped, shoes scattered like evidence of last night's mistake.
Quietly, I stood and began dressing piece by piece.
The woman beside me didn't stir. Her black hair fanned across the pillow, covering her face. I didn't move it. Something in me didn't want to see too much.
She looked fragile, tucked beneath the sheets, the rise and fall of her chest steady and calm. I remembered her lips on mine, the taste of whiskey, the way her body clung to me like she'd break apart without me.
For a man like me, it should've been nothing more than a forgettable night.
But it didn't feel that way.
I pulled out my wallet, dropped a thick stack of bills on the nightstand. A silent apology. Or maybe hush money—I didn't know.
I took one last look at her before walking to the door.
She was just a stranger. A nameless woman who wandered into my night of bad decisions.
But as I turned the handle, I couldn't shake the thought that something about her… something I couldn't see yet… was going to haunt me.
I slipped out, closing the door behind me.
And for the first time that morning, I almost wished I could go back.