Ace
Ace knew something was wrong the moment his father asked him to "step into the study."
It wasn't the words themselves—his father asked that often enough—but the tone. Calm. Controlled. Final. The kind that didn't invite refusal.
The Laurent estate was quiet in the late afternoon, sunlight filtering through tall windows, casting sharp lines across polished floors. Ace stood near the desk, hands clasped behind his back out of habit, posture straight, expression unreadable.
Across from him, his father regarded him with the same measured scrutiny he'd grown up under.
"You'll be attending a private meeting tomorrow," his father said.
Ace nodded once. "With whom?"
Victor Laurent didn't answer immediately. He picked up a document, adjusted it with unnecessary precision, then finally spoke.
"Mia Harrington."
Something in Ace's chest tightened before he could stop it.
"For what purpose?" he asked carefully.
"Our families are collaborating on a long-term philanthropic initiative. Given that both of you are heirs, it's only logical that you be involved."
Logical.
Ace almost laughed.
"And this couldn't be handled by our respective teams?"
His father's gaze sharpened. "This is not a negotiation."
Of course it wasn't.
Ace inclined his head slightly. "Understood."
But as he turned to leave, a familiar, unwelcome sensation curled low in his stomach.
Anticipation.
The Harrington estate was different from the Laurent home.
Where the Laurent property was cold, modern, all sharp lines and glass, the Harrington estate carried history in its bones. Stone walls softened by ivy. Wide corridors that echoed with the quiet authority of generations.
Ace arrived precisely on time.
A housekeeper led him through the halls, her footsteps soundless against the marble floors, until they reached a set of tall wooden doors.
"She'll be with you shortly," the woman said, opening them.
Ace stepped inside.
The room was a private library—warm wood, towering shelves, sunlight slanting through tall windows. A large table sat in the center, documents already neatly arranged.
Mia stood by one of the shelves, her back to him.
She wore black today. Simple. Elegant. Severe. Her hair was pulled back, exposing the line of her neck. She looked composed, distant—like someone braced for impact.
She turned when she heard the door close.
Their eyes met.
The air shifted.
"So," she said coolly. "This is what being forced into cooperation looks like."
Ace closed the distance to the table, setting his jacket aside. "I could say the same."
Silence stretched between them, thick and deliberate.
She gestured toward the documents. "We've been asked to review the proposal and provide recommendations."
Straight to business. Of course.
Ace took a seat across from her. "Efficient."
"That's the goal."
Their fingers brushed briefly as they reached for the same page.
The contact was accidental. Harmless.
It felt like electricity.
Mia pulled her hand back instantly, expression unreadable. Ace did the same, jaw tightening.
Focus, he told himself.
They worked in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the rustle of paper and the faint ticking of a clock on the far wall.
Mia was sharp. Observant. She caught inconsistencies in projections he would have missed, questioned assumptions most people accepted without thought.
He hated how impressive it was.
"You disagree," she said suddenly, eyes flicking up from the page.
"With the structure," Ace replied. "It's inefficient."
Her brow arched. "It's cautious."
"It's timid."
She leaned back slightly. "Not everyone confuses recklessness with ambition."
His lips curved faintly. "And not everyone mistakes fear for wisdom."
Her eyes darkened. "You think I'm afraid?"
"I think you don't trust systems that require reliance on others."
Something flickered across her face. Too fast to name.
"And you do?" she countered. "You trust easily?"
"No," he said without hesitation.
Their gazes locked.
For a moment, the room felt smaller.
They returned to the documents, but the tension didn't fade. It coiled, waiting.
An hour passed. Then another.
At some point, rain began tapping softly against the windows.
"You've been quiet," Ace said eventually.
Mia didn't look up. "I'm thinking."
"About the project?"
She hesitated just a fraction too long. "About whether this collaboration will work."
"And?" he asked.
Her fingers tightened around her pen. "It depends."
"On what?"
She met his gaze. "On whether you can set aside your ego."
The accusation was sharp—but not untrue.
Ace leaned back in his chair, studying her. "Funny. I was thinking the same about you."
A muscle in her jaw twitched. "I'm not the one who treats vulnerability like a weakness."
He stiffened.
"You don't know anything about what I treat as weakness," he said quietly.
"I know you don't let people in."
The words landed softly.
Too softly.
"You think that makes you strong," she continued, voice lower now. "But all it does is keep you alone."
The room went very still.
Ace stood abruptly, turning away, moving toward the window. Rain streaked the glass, blurring the world outside.
"You don't get to psychoanalyze me," he said.
Mia rose as well, but she didn't move closer. "Then stop pretending you're unaffected by anything."
He laughed once, bitter. "You think you're different?"
"Yes," she said without hesitation. "Because I don't pretend."
He turned back to face her. "You hide just as much as I do."
Her expression hardened. "I survived abandonment. I adapted."
"So did I."
The admission slipped out before he could stop it.
Mia froze.
The silence that followed was heavy, fragile.
"You don't trust women," she said slowly.
Ace's throat tightened. "And you don't trust anyone."
Their similarities hung between them, unsettling in their clarity.
"You push people away before they can leave," he said.
"And you never let them close enough to betray you," she replied.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
Outside, the rain intensified.
"We should finish," Mia said finally, breaking the spell.
"Yes," Ace agreed. "We should."
They returned to the table, closer now than before, though neither acknowledged it. Their shoulders nearly touched as they leaned over the documents, awareness sharp and constant.
Once, when she reached for a page, her arm brushed his.
Neither moved away.
Her scent—something subtle, clean—made his chest tighten.
This was dangerous.
They finished the review in tense cooperation, both careful, both restrained.
When it was done, Mia gathered the papers neatly.
"I'll have my assistant compile our notes," she said.
Ace nodded. "I'll inform my father."
They stood there, facing each other, neither quite ready to leave.
"This doesn't change anything," she said quietly.
"No," he agreed. "It doesn't."
But as Ace walked out of the Harrington estate moments later, rain-soaked and unsettled, he knew the truth.
It changed everything.
Not because they had grown closer.
But because, for the first time, walking away felt like losing something he'd never been allowed to want.
And that realization was far more dangerous than love itself.