ACE POV
Ace Laurent had learned long ago that the world loved to watch, to whisper, to dissect every movement of the people who carried names like his. He had grown up under it, thrived in it, and eventually weaponized it. Attention was both a curse and a tool; in his hands, it was always the latter.
But last night—standing on that stage with Mia Harrington at his side, cameras flashing, the orchestra swelling—Ace had felt something rare. Something not even the most calculating of games could fabricate.
It wasn't the attention of the crowd. He was used to that. It was her.
The sharpness in her voice when she hissed not to tell her what to do. The fire in her eyes that had dared him to push further. And the fact that, for the briefest instant, her perfect mask had cracked.
Ace leaned back in the leather armchair of his father's private study, staring at the amber liquid in his glass. The house had emptied hours ago, the gala guests long departed, but his mind had refused to settle.
Mia Harrington.
The girl was a paradox. Cold as ice on the surface, yet her pulse had betrayed her the moment his words brushed too close. He hadn't missed it—the faint quickening of her breath, the tightness in her jaw when he pressed.
He smirked faintly into his glass. She hated him already. That much was clear. But hatred wasn't so different from fascination. Both burned hot. Both consumed.
And Ace knew how to turn fire into something far more dangerous.
The study door opened, breaking his thoughts. His father, Alaric Laurent, stepped inside. The man carried authority like armor, his dark suit as sharp as his tone.
"You made an impression tonight," Alaric said without preamble.
Ace set his glass down. "I usually do."
"Not on them." His father's gaze cut like a blade. "On her."
Ace's lips curved. "Mia Harrington."
Alaric nodded once. "The granddaughter of Charles Harrington. The heir. A union between our families would be… useful."
So that was it. Of course. Ace had suspected as much the moment James told him about the pairing for the auction. Nothing about their world was coincidence.
"You think I should pursue her?" Ace asked, his tone carefully neutral.
"I think," Alaric said slowly, "that alliances are forged in many ways. The Harrington fortune is secured through the girl. If she were yours, our position would be unshakable."
Ace leaned back, expression unreadable. Yours. The word sounded like possession, like acquisition. But Mia Harrington was no diamond to be slipped onto a Laurent ledger.
"She doesn't seem the type to be claimed," Ace said dryly.
Alaric's smile was thin. "Then make her believe it's her choice."
The conversation ended there, as such conversations always did. Alaric gave commands; Ace decided how to execute them.
But later, when Ace finally lay in his bed, the silence pressing around him, his thoughts betrayed him. He should have been strategizing, calculating how best to play Mia, how to dismantle her defenses.
Instead, he remembered the brush of her hand against his arm. The faint scent of roses and something darker clinging to her. The way her voice had broken ever so slightly when she told him not to think this meant anything.
He had laughed at her then. But alone, staring at the ceiling, Ace wasn't laughing.
Because for the first time in years, someone had made him feel something other than control.
The next morning, Ace found himself at the Laurent estate's training grounds. It was a ritual he rarely broke—sparring before breakfast, sweat and discipline sharpening his mind for the day.
But today, distraction gnawed at the edges of his focus. Every strike of his opponent's blade, every dodge and counter, came slower than usual. His instructor frowned, adjusting his stance.
"You're unfocused," the man barked.
Ace wiped blood from his lip where a strike had landed. "Maybe I'm just bored."
The lie tasted thin even to him. He was never bored. Not here. Not in combat.
When the session ended, he showered quickly and changed into a crisp black suit. His father's words still rang in his mind, cold and precise: If she were yours.
Mia wasn't his. Not yet. But Alaric Laurent rarely demanded without reason. And the thought of pursuing her—not for his father's empire, but for himself—was dangerous.
Because Ace wasn't sure he wanted to win her for power.
He wanted to win her because she fought him. Because she didn't bend the way others did. Because she had looked at him with defiance instead of awe, and it had felt like a challenge carved into his skin.
And Ace had never walked away from a challenge.
By evening, the Harrington gardens were lit with golden lanterns for a smaller, private gathering of select families. Ace had received his invitation that morning, as expected.
He arrived fashionably late, the hum of conversation spilling into the air. But it wasn't the glittering crowd he sought. His gaze swept until it found her.
Mia.
She stood near the fountain, her gown pale silver this time, her hair loose in soft waves that made her seem younger, more dangerous in her vulnerability. Lila hovered at her side, speaking animatedly, but Mia's attention drifted, her eyes dark with thoughts.
Ace approached slowly, deliberately, letting the sound of his steps announce him.
"Mia," he said smoothly when he reached her.
Her head snapped up, annoyance flickering instantly across her face. "Mr. Laurent."
He inclined his head. "You remember my name."
"I try to remember my enemies," she replied coolly.
Ace chuckled low, leaning closer. "Good. Because I don't plan on leaving your thoughts anytime soon."
Her eyes narrowed. "You assume too much."
"Do I?" His gaze locked with hers, steady, unyielding. "You thought of me last night. Didn't you?"
Her silence was answer enough. The faintest flush crept into her cheeks, betraying what her lips refused to admit.
Ace's smile was slow, dangerous. He had his confirmation. She hated him, yes. But she also thought of him. And that combination was lethal.
Before Mia could respond, her grandfather's voice called her name. She turned sharply, relief flashing across her face, but not before Ace saw the storm brewing in her eyes.
Charles Harrington beckoned her toward a cluster of dignitaries, his tone commanding. Mia obeyed, her posture flawless once more.
But as she walked away, Ace caught the briefest glance she cast back at him.
It wasn't hatred. Not entirely.
And that was enough.
Later that night, Ace lingered at the edge of the gardens, watching as Mia moved through the crowd with practiced grace. He observed every interaction, every smile that didn't reach her eyes.
She was a fortress, walls built so high no one dared climb them. No one except him.
And as the evening stretched on, Ace realized something with bone-deep certainty: he didn't just want to break through Mia Harrington's defenses.
He wanted to know what she was guarding.
Because whatever it was, it had shaped her into the woman who could meet his gaze without flinching, who could speak to him with venom instead of fear.
And that—more than her inheritance, more than his father's commands—was what drew him.
When he finally left the Harrington estate, the night air sharp against his skin, Ace Laurent knew the game had changed.
This wasn't about power anymore.
This was about her.
And Ace never lost what he set his sights on.