Like I'm a stranger she's obligated to acknowledge but would rather not.
She's ignoring me, but at the same time, she's not.
It's like she's here, but not really.
Ugh... Fuck me.
Last night, she slept on the couch.
No goodnight.
No massages.
Not even a glance when I walked into the room.
I could have been a piece of furniture for all she cared.
Hell, even the damn couch got more attention from her than I did.
It was as if I were invisible to her.
Me. Invisible.
The irony made me want to laugh—except I didn't find it funny.
Irritating. Annoying. Unacceptable.
She still makes breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
She still eats with me.
But the silence... Fuck, the silence.
The same silence I once liked with her, the one that used to feel comfortable, peaceful, something I could breathe in and relax—now it felt suffocating.
Like a noose tightening around my throat, reminding me with every second that I'd fucked up.
And for what?
Because I let my mouth run when I was angry.
Because I snapped at her like an idiot.
I didn't tell her to stop talking to me altogether!
I just told her to leave me the fuck alone that night—temporarily.
Keyword: temporarily.
But apparently, temporarily in my language translated to forever in hers, because now she was treating me like a damn unwanted guest.
She only talks to me when I ask her to do something, or when she checks if I want something to eat, or if I need any help.
That's it.
It's mechanical. Routine. As if she's checking off a to-do list, not actually interacting with me.
"Feed the bastard—check. See if he's still alive—check. Maintain the bare minimum of civility—check."
I almost want to ask if she's taken an online course on How to Efficiently Ignore Someone While Still Doing Your Duties 101.
I was angry and irritated when I said those words.
And yeah, maybe I regret it.
I didn't tell her to act like I was a goddamn piece of furniture in my own house.
This tension is unbearable.
It's gnawing at me in ways I hadn't anticipated.
What the fuck is this?
She's punishing me. I know she is.
She's fucking good at it, too.
I hate it.
I hate how I catch myself watching her longer than I should, waiting for some sign that she's thawing, that she'll finally look at me—really look at me.
But she doesn't.
A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts.
I straightened my posture, running a hand through my hair as if that would somehow make me look less like I'd spent the past hour brooding like a miserable bastard.
"Come in," I said, quickly trying to organize the disheveled table in front of me, shoving papers aside as if the chaos wasn't a perfect reflection of my current state of mind.
The door creaked open.
She entered—small, delicate, and fucking distant.
Her head hung low, her gaze averted, like she had rehearsed every movement to avoid looking at me.
Irritation prickled beneath my skin, sharp and unwelcome.
I wanted to grab her chin, tilt her face up, make her see me.
But I didn't move.
Her hair fell softly across her cheeks, a few stray strands slipping past her shoulder as she carried a tray with both hands.
She moved with the quiet grace that usually brought me comfort.
But now, it felt wrong. Distant. Like she was walking on eggshells around me.
She placed the tea on the table carefully, her fingers barely making a sound against the porcelain.
Then, without a word, she turned to leave.
No glance. No acknowledgment. Not even the smallest flicker of emotion.
She didn't care.
My pride screamed at me to let her go, to let the damn silence stay between us.
But then—she stopped.
My heart did, too.
"Ace," she murmured.
Her voice. Soft. Uncertain.
I lifted my gaze to her. She still wasn't looking at me.
Her fingers twitched slightly against her dress, her body tense like she was bracing for something.
"Are you free tomorrow?" she asked.
Her words felt hesitant, like she was forcing herself to say them, like they mattered more than she wanted to admit.
Her gaze remained fixed on her hands, as if she had suddenly sprouted six fingers and was utterly fascinated by them.
I opened my mouth, not even sure what I was going to say.
And then—
"No," I said.
Cold. Automatic.
Like a reflex I hadn't meant to act on.
The moment the word left my mouth, I wanted to punch myself in the face.
Fucking idiot.
She nodded. Once.
Expression blank.
Nothing.
And then she turned and left, the door closing softly behind her.
I sat there, gripping the armrest of my chair like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.
I had fucked up. Again.
Like a pathetic idiot.
For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the door, my brain screaming at me to move, to go after her, to say something—anything—that might undo the damage I kept causing.
I exhaled through my nose, running a hand through my hair before finally pushing myself up from the chair.
I took five precise steps toward the door— And then my fucking phone buzzed.
I froze mid-step.
Of fucking course.
Because the universe was an insufferable little shit that thrived on my misery.
I clenched my jaw, yanked my phone out of my pocket, and glanced at the screen. Unknown Number.
Great.
I didn't know who was it, but I already wanted them dead.
By my hands.
I swiped to answer. "What do you want?" I snapped.
"Ace, Ace, my dear boss," Ivan's voice slithered through the receiver, smooth and taunting.
I clicked my tongue and rolled my eyes.
Cockblocker.
I leaned back against the desk, pinching the bridge of my nose. "What do you want, Ivan?"
"Straight to the point," he mused, and I could practically hear the smirk in his voice.
There was a shuffling sound on his end, followed by a slow, exaggerated sigh.
"Let's meet tomorrow. 6 PM. Your place."
I frowned. "At my place?"
"Yes. Just us, boss," he said smoothly. "A private little meeting."
I smirked. "So, you're finally tired of playing cat and mouse? You coming over for a little heart-to-heart before you try and kill me?"
Ivan chuckled. "Come now, boss. You wound me. What makes you think I'd do something so predictable?"
"Oh, I don't know," I drawled. "Maybe because you hate me? And I killed someone you know– Laurie?"
There was a beat of silence before Ivan exhaled, his voice still coated in that faux pleasantness. "Ancient history, really."
"Uh-huh. And I'm supposed to believe this is just a friendly visit?"
"Believe whatever you want, boss," he said easily. "But I do have a gift for you."
I scoffed. "Let me guess. It's a bullet?"
"A bullet, a knife, maybe even something more creative," he mused. "I haven't decided yet."
I smirked, tapping my fingers against the desk. "Make sure it's something nice, then. I'd hate to be underwhelmed by your attempt at revenge."
Ivan laughed. "I knew you'd see the fun in this."
"Oh, absolutely. I love assassination attempts in my own home. Really spices up the evening."
Ivan chuckled like this was some kind of joke. "And by the way, how is your life going?" he asked, voice sickly sweet.
I exhaled sharply, rubbing my temple. "Great," I said dryly, chuckling to myself.
Ivan hummed. "Hm... I guess your little bear is making it great after all."
His words made me pause, my fingers stilling against the desk.
I said nothing, only hummed in response.
"But I am curious," he went on, his voice laced with mock curiosity. "Why is she still with you, boss?"
My grip on the edge of the desk tightened. "I don't know." I leaned back in my chair, running my tongue over my teeth. "I'm curious too."
"You pushed her away," he continued. "Said all kinds of cruel shit. Hell, you live to break her. And yet... she's still here. Still making your tea. Still eating with you. Still taking care of you like she actually cares."
I leaned back, swallowing down the irritation bubbling in my chest. "So?"
"So," Ivan said slowly, "maybe she pities you."
I froze.
"Maybe she's sticking around because she feels bad for you," he murmured.
"She sees how you're alone. How your so-called friends abandoned you. How you're just some pathetic, miserable bastard playing king of the ashes. And she—being the sweetheart that she is—probably thinks you need her."
I didn't realize how tightly I was gripping the phone until my knuckles ached.
Ivan sighed dramatically. "You know, that's just the type of girl she is."
A bitter chuckle left my lips. "You think I give a shit about her pity?"
"Do you?" Ivan shot back.
I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. "What's your fucking point, Ivan?"
"My point, boss," he emphasized the word with mock respect, "is that you better be careful."
His voice lowered, the amusement giving way to something colder. "Because pity doesn't last forever. And when it runs out, what do you think she'll do?"
Silence stretched between us.
I let out a slow, humorless chuckle. "Thanks for the pep talk. I feel so much better now."
"Anytime," Ivan said cheerfully.
And then, with a sick sort of glee, he added, "By the way, if you try any tricks tomorrow... Well, you wouldn't. Not when I was the one who managed the security branch of your house. I know every route, every entrance... even the hidden ones."
My stomach twisted.
He wasn't bluffing.
Ivan had years in my security branch.
He knew more than just the routes.
He knew where every fucking blind spot was.
He knew which doors creaked the least at night, which windows could be pried open from the outside without triggering the alarms.
He knew the timing of the guards, the moments they let their guard down.
He knew the underground tunnels, the ones even my men didn't know about.
The old escape routes built decades ago, long before I ever took control. The ones I never told anyone about.
Except—
Ivan had been there.
He had walked those halls with me.
He had trained alongside my best men, memorized their habits, their weaknesses, the way they responded to different levels of threat.
He had set up the security protocols himself.
Fuck.
He probably still had codes.
Or worse—he knew the backup codes, the ones I had in place in case of emergencies.
"You know," Ivan continued, voice light, taunting, "I wonder why you didn't change the old system after I left. Nostalgia, maybe? A little sentimentality, boss?"
I clenched my jaw.
"Or maybe," he went on, "deep down, you never expected me to turn on you. Never expected me to be the one standing at your door, holding a knife to your throat."
I could hear the smirk in his voice.
My blood boiled.
And then—click.
He ended the call.
I exhaled, setting the phone down with far more force than necessary.
My fingers itched to wrap around something—to crush it, break it, make something bleed just to silence the infernal, nagging thoughts clawing at the inside of my skull.
Was Ivan right?
Was it pity?
I scoffed, shaking my head.
No.
It wasn't.
Pity was shallow, fleeting. Pity didn't make her linger at my door, hesitate before speaking my name.
Pity didn't make her brave enough to still talk to me after everything.
Then what the fuck was it?
But that wasn't the only thing gnawing at me.
Is Ivan somehow connected to the royal family?
Because if he wasn't... then why the fuck would he need to show that tape to my so-called friends?
No one in the world had seen what happened that night.
No one except me, Hudson's father, Michael, and Laurie.
Ivan and Laurie—are they brothers or something?
It didn't make sense.
Ivan had never been deeply involved in the underworld, not in the way Laurie was.
Ivan had always been a wildcard—present, but never fully part of the game.
And yet, he knew too much.
Isaac might have had the power to dig up old ghosts. He was an underboss.
He had access to the right people, the right channels.
But Ivan?
Ivan had nothing.
So how the fuck was he pulling all these strings?
Something about this situation was wrong.
Too wrong.
My attention snapped to the door as it swung open, and she entered the room.
The door swung open, and my head snapped up.
The moment she stepped inside, the air felt different.
It wasn't something I could explain—just a shift, a tension that settled deep in my bones.
She stopped short when she saw me standing there, her body hesitating like she had walked in on something she wasn't ready to face.
Her lips parted, but no words came.
A pause. A heartbeat.
Then, finally, in a whisper that felt too fragile—"Ace."
She wouldn't meet my eyes.
Her gaze landed on my neck, lingering there like she was too afraid to look me in the face.
I narrowed my eyes.
"Yes," I said, my voice colder than I intended.
A flicker of something crossed her face.
Hurt?
No. Not quite.
Resignation.
Like she had expected that tone from me.
Like she had already decided how this conversation was going to end.
"I have something important to tell you before I go," she said.
Before she goes?
A strange weight settled in my stomach. "Where are you going?" I stepped closer. Too close.
She took a small, instinctive step back.
Irritation flared beneath my skin.
"I... I... listen to me, please," she stammered, her voice unsteady.
I could feel it now. The distance between us wasn't just physical.
It was in her words. In her tone.
In the way she was standing there like she already had one foot out the door.
Something inside me snapped.
I reached out, grabbing her arm—too rough, too desperate—and yanked her closer. "Where on earth are you planning to go?"
She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes flickering with something I couldn't name.
"Please, listen to me," she whispered.
I tightened my grip. "You can't go anywhere," I said, my voice low, commanding, like it was a law written into existence.
She flinched. Barely.
But I saw it.
Something twisted deep in my gut.
"The restaurant is shifting to Newark. I have to go there," she said, her voice fragile, like glass about to shatter. "I can't leave that work. It's good, and..."
She trailed off.
"You want money, right?" I snapped, frustration bleeding into every word. "I'll give you however much you want."
The moment the words left my mouth, I knew they were wrong.
I felt it.
Because her expression didn't harden.
It didn't turn cold.
It broke.
Like I had just proven something to her.
Like she had expected me to say exactly that.
"Do you think it's about money?" she asked, her voice trembling with something dangerously close to rage.
I clenched my jaw. "Then what the fuck is it about?"
"I can't live my life tied to someone who doesn't even understand why I'm still here," she whispered.
I exhaled sharply. "Someone? I am your—"
The word stuck in my throat.
Boyfriend.
Was I?
Had I ever really been that?
Had I ever been what she needed?
The silence between us was suffocating.
Then, softly, "Ace, I do not wish to burden you more than you already are."
Burden.
That word again.
Like she thought she was a weight on my shoulders. Like she believed she was just something else I had to carry.
I wanted to tell her she was wrong.
But the words didn't come.
"Mini..." I whispered instead, reaching for her.
My fingers brushed the side of her neck, desperate for something, anything to hold onto.
She didn't pull away.
But she didn't lean in, either.
"I'm going tomorrow," she said.
And then—
She kissed my cheek.
A soft, fleeting thing.
But it burned.
Not with passion. Not with longing.
With goodbye.
"Your friends will come back to you soon," she murmured, giving me a small, knowing smile.
Why would she say that?
Why would she—
Realization struck me like a fist to the gut.
Ivan.
His words slithered back into my head like poison.
"Maybe she pities you."
"She sees how you're alone. How your so-called friends abandoned you. How you're just some pathetic, miserable bastard playing king of the ashes."
No.
No, that wasn't—
Was it?
My pulse pounded in my skull. "I want you," I rasped, my voice betraying me, raw with desperation.
She softened.
For a second, I thought she would stay.
For a second, I thought—
Then she gently pulled away. Turned.
And walked toward the door.
I stood there, frozen, watching her go.
Something wasn't right.
Something was wrong.
"Is someone threatening you?" I asked, my voice laced with something close to fear.
She paused, her hand resting on the doorknob.
Slowly, she turned back to me.
Her lips curled into a soft, sorrowful smile.
"No," she whispered.
And then she was gone.
The door shut behind her.
And I—
I was left standing there, my hands clenched into fists, my throat tight, my chest hollow.
Silence swallowed the room, thick and suffocating.
Was she leaving because of me?
Because she was finally fucking done with this?
Or—
Was Ivan right?
Was she still here all this time because she pitied me?
Because she saw the wreckage around me, the loneliness, the emptiness—
Because she felt bad for me?
I exhaled sharply, my pulse roaring in my ears.
Is she leaving me forever?
Ivan POV:
Finally.
The time had come.
A rush of exhilaration coursed through me as I stepped out of my dimly lit room, a slow, satisfied smile creeping onto my lips.
The anticipation wrapped around me like a warm cloak, settling deep into my bones.
Today wasn't just another day.
It was a reckoning.
I had waited for this moment. Planned for this moment.
And now, Ace—the great, untouchable Ace—was standing at the edge of a blade he couldn't see coming.
As I walked down the hallway, the soft carpet muffling my footsteps, I caught sight of Isaac waiting for me.
His demeanor was as respectful as ever, a loyal shadow at my feet.
"Master," he greeted, bowing his head slightly in deference.
I nodded in acknowledgment, barely slowing my stride.
The night was waiting.
I slid into the backseat of the car, feeling the leather embrace me.
The city outside was alive, lights flashing past in a blur of neon and shadows, but none of it mattered.
My mind was already racing ahead, playing out every possibility, every move Ace might make.
Isaac merged onto the road smoothly, his driving as controlled as his demeanor.
I felt his eyes flick toward me in the rearview mirror, that small glint of curiosity, of concern, beneath his composed exterior.
"Master, what if he plans something else?" he asked, voice steady but edged with wariness.
I chuckled, tapping my fingers against my knee.
"He's an asshole; of course, he would try something."
Ace was predictable in that way. Arrogant. Cunning. But desperate men made mistakes.
And tonight, desperation would be his downfall.
Leaning back, I crossed my arms, my gaze drifting to the streets flashing by.
"The crew has arrived there, right?" I turned to Isaac, seeking confirmation.
He nodded, keeping his focus ahead. "Yes, Master. All positions are secured. The outer perimeter, the blind spots, the emergency exits."
Good.
I leaned back, exhaling slowly as a smirk tugged at the corners of my lips.
Ace thought he was untouchable in his own home. That no one could breach the fortress he had built.
But I knew his mansion like the back of my hand.
Every passage. Every hidden door. Every single trick he thought he alone knew.
I had made sure my men had full access.
They were out there now—lurking in the shadows of his estate's vast grounds, watching. Waiting.
The security cameras? Hacked.
The patrol guards? Silenced.
The emergency exits? Blocked.
Ace wasn't getting out. Not tonight.
If his so-called friends were here, things would be a bit more complicated.
I wasn't an idiot—I knew what each of them was capable of.
Liam, the tech expert, could counter anything digital, hacking his way through even the most secure networks.
Hudson, with his relentless manpower, had an army at his back, ready to burn the world for the people he cared about.
Alex, the strategist, always three steps ahead, a master at outthinking his enemies.
Leo, the weapons expert, could turn even the simplest object into something deadly.
Aiden, the semi-trained fighter, wasn't the best in the room but dangerous when provoked, especially with Ace leading him.
Because Ace had that effect—he made people stronger, more vicious, more willing to fight until their last breath.
And then there was Felix—the perfect driver.
The escape artist. He knew engines like others knew the backs of their hands, could modify a car for any situation.
And then there was Ace himself.
Unlike his friends, he didn't have just one specialty—he had them all.
Hacking? He could do it.
Strategy? He was a natural.
Weapons? He knew them like the back of his hand.
Fighting? He was lethal.
Driving? He could pull off insane stunts that would make a Hollywood director jealous.
Ace wasn't just good at one thing. He was good at everything.
And that was exactly why people feared him.
But here's the thing—no matter how skilled he was, he was still one man.
Even if he could do everything, he couldn't do it all at once.
That was the flaw of being human.
No matter how much you train, no matter how much you learn—at the end of the day, you can't do everything at once.
And tonight, Ace was going to learn just how much of a disadvantage that really was.
"You did talk to her?" I asked suddenly, my voice shifting, steel lacing the edges.
Isaac smirked. "Yes, Master. Everything as you planned."
The anticipation coiled tighter in my chest.
Ace wouldn't see it coming.
Half an hour later, we pulled up to his mansion— the familiar sprawling estate loomed against the darkening sky, its towering walls casting long shadows in the dim evening light.
The place looked quiet.
The usual guards weren't in sight. No maids bustling around. No movement behind the wide, ornate windows.
But I wasn't fooled.
Ace was inside.
Waiting.
Perhaps planning something. Perhaps realizing just how little control he had left.
I adjusted my grip on my pistol, the cool metal grounding me as I stepped out of the car. Isaac followed, his gaze sweeping the area, always cautious.
"Let's go," I uttered, my voice low but firm.
We strode toward the entrance, my heart pounding—not with fear, but with the thrill of what was to come.
"She's coming?" I asked again, scanning the surroundings, my instincts sharp.
"Yes, Master, but why does she have to come here?" Isaac's brow furrowed, the first sign of uncertainty in his otherwise unreadable face.
I exhaled a small chuckle, dark amusement curling in my throat.
"You'll know soon enough."
As I stepped inside the grand hall, the echo of my footsteps reverberated off the marble floors.
A thunder rumbled outside, lightning briefly illuminating the massive chandeliers above.
My movements froze.
There he was—the devil himself.
Ace sat in the middle of the hall, his posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other as he swirled the wine in his glass.
He exuded an air of calm detachment, the dim lighting casting shadows over his sharp features.
The faint scent of scotch and leather lingered in the air, mixing with the distant petrichor from the rain.
The sight of him ignited a fire of rage within me.
Every muscle in my body tensed as I clenched my fists at my sides, but I forced myself to stay composed.
I had waited too long for this moment to let emotions cloud my judgment.
A slow smile curved my lips as I took a step forward. "Ace."
His eyes lifted to meet mine, void of any surprise.
"Ivan," he replied, his voice cool, measured.
He took a deliberate sip of his wine, his fingers resting loosely against the glass.
There was no tension in his body, no flicker of fear, but I knew better.
"What do you want?" His question was deceptively simple, but I didn't miss the way his muscles coiled ever so slightly— subtle, but noticeable to someone who had studied him for years.
I moved with deliberate ease, taking my time as I lowered myself onto the plush couch across from him.
My posture was relaxed, almost lazy, but my mind was anything but.
Every fiber of my being was alert, hyperaware of my surroundings, of the way Ace's fingers rested against the rim of his glass, of the knife tucked beneath his ankle holster.
"Well, let's talk like adults, shall we?" I suggested, my voice laced with condescension.
I wanted to get under his skin, to force a reaction out of him, but his expression didn't waver.
A loud rumble of thunder echoed outside, the storm outside mirroring the tempest brewing within.
The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating, as if the very walls were holding their breath in anticipation of what was to come.
Then, I leaned forward slightly, my gaze locked onto his as I dropped the bombshell.
"Michael Hernandez Royal," I said, enunciating each syllable, savoring the moment. "My father. Whom you killed mercilessly."
A flicker of something crossed his face—confusion? Surprise?
It was gone before I could fully register it, masked behind that infuriating indifference.
"You are his biological son?" Ace asked, the barest hint of incredulity creeping into his voice.
"Yes."
The smirk tugging at my lips only grew as I watched the realization dawn on him.
The weight of my words settled between us like a tangible force, shifting the atmosphere in the room.
And then, he did something I didn't expect.
He laughed.
A harsh, guttural laugh that echoed through the room, bouncing off the marble floors and high ceilings.
He clapped his hands together slowly, like he had just heard the punchline of some twisted joke.
I clenched my jaw, my fingers twitching against my knee.
This bastard.
I had just revealed a truth that should have shaken him to his core, yet here he was—laughing.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his smirk deepening.
"You—Michael Hernandez Royal's son?" he repeated, his tone laced with amusement. "Well, that explains the dramatics."
I didn't react, but a slow burn of fury spread through me.
Ace sighed, shaking his head as if he found this entire situation utterly ridiculous.
"And let me guess," he mused, lifting his glass to his lips. "You've spent years plotting this... what? Revenge? Justice? Or is this just another pathetic attempt to make me feel something?"
I forced a smile. "Oh, I don't need you to feel anything, Ace." My voice was eerily calm.
"I just need you to lose everything."
Ace chuckled, taking another sip of his wine before setting the glass down with a deliberate clink against the table.
"Looks like the betraying trait flowed in your family's blood," he jeered, his amusement cutting through the thick tension like a blade.
My teeth clenched.
His laughter grated on my nerves, igniting the flames of my fury.
The arrogance. The absolute audacity.
The way he spoke—as if none of it mattered, as if I was just another fool playing a losing game—made my blood boil.
I forced myself to remain still, to keep my expression neutral, though my fingers twitched with the urge to wrap around his throat and wipe that smug look off his face.
"Betrayal?" I echoed, letting out a humorless chuckle. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "Tsk. You were the one who betrayed us."
My voice dripped with anger, with a resentment that had festered for years.
Ace didn't waver.
Didn't even blink.
He simply watched me, his eyes sharp with a knowing glint, as if he had expected my reaction.
Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist, he rolled the glass on the table.
The movement was slow, controlled, calculated—until the moment the glass reached the edge and tipped over.
Crash.
The sound of shattering crystal echoed through the hall, fragments scattering across the marble floor.
A twisted sort of satisfaction flickered in his gaze as he looked back at me, his lips curling in amusement.
"Don't make me feel guilty that I killed a few innocent people," he said, his voice laced with mockery, as if the very thought was laughable.
My hands curled into fists.
He was toying with me.
As if the lives he had taken meant nothing.
As if the people who had died at his hands were mere collateral damage.
"You went against our ethics," he continued smoothly, unfazed by the growing storm in my eyes. "So death was the only thing that could compensate for our rules."
Rules.
That word made something snap inside me.
"Your rules," I spat, my voice sharp like a blade. "Rules that you twisted, manipulated, used as an excuse to slaughter people who trusted you. Who followed you."
Ace remained seated, his eyes locked onto mine, unreadable.
Then, like it was the most amusing thing in the world, he smirked.
"You're no saint either, Mr. Jesus." His voice dripped with mockery, his smirk widening as he leaned forward slightly.
"Your family were doing the same things as I. More like worse." He exhaled a sharp chuckle, shaking his head. "So don't fucking act like some saint."
I felt my jaw tighten.
"Oh, I never claimed to be a saint, Ivan." Ace tilted his head, mirroring my expression with infuriating ease.
And then, he said something that made my blood turn ice-cold.
"Look, I just wanted to kill Hudson's father, but you know... I lost my control." He let out a slow, deliberate sigh before flashing me a careless grin.
"And killed everyone there accidentally.Oops."
He shrugged as if it were nothing. As if lives meant nothing.
I stilled.
The sheer audacity.
The absolute lack of remorse.
Ace tilted his head slightly, observing me like I was some amusing little creature throwing a tantrum.
His indifference was a slow-burning fuse to my rage.
"You tell yourself it was accidental, that it was justified." I clicked my tongue, watching his every move.
His smirk didn't falter, but I knew better.
I took a slow, deliberate step forward, lowering my voice to something quieter, deadlier.
"But we both know the truth, don't we?"
I leaned in slightly, savoring the shift in the air.
"You enjoyed it."
His smirk finally faded.
Just for a second.
But I caught it.
That flicker of something underneath—the monster he kept caged behind his control.
Rising from my seat, I moved closer, the electric charge of the confrontation surging through my veins.
My heart pounded, but I kept my expression composed, knowing this was the moment I had waited for.
I sat beside him, deliberately invading his personal space, feeling the heat of my own conviction pulse beneath my skin.
"Look, Ace," I said smoothly, my lips curling into a smile. "Tonight, I am going to kill you. Painfully."
The words hung between us like a death sentence.
A promise.
One I fully intended to keep.
Ace simply raised an eyebrow.
Not fear. Not anger.
Just amusement.
As if my threat was nothing more than an idle boast.
"Okay, can you tell me how Iris knows about Laurie?" he asked, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.
The question caught me off guard. I narrowed my eyes, suspicion creeping into my mind.
Why was he asking that?
This wasn't the reaction I had anticipated.
"When did you start talking instead of fighting?" I shot back, my instincts on high alert. Something was off.
Ace wasn't a man who wasted words—if he was talking instead of throwing punches, it meant he was stalling or digging for something.
He shrugged, as if none of this was worth his time.
"Well, I am confused this time," he admitted, his tone completely detached, as if the stakes of our conversation were nothing more than a trivial puzzle.
I leaned back slightly, watching him closely, trying to piece together what was running through his mind.
Then, an idea struck me—a way to twist the knife a little deeper.
If he wanted to talk, I would give him something to listen to.
"Well, she saw his photo in my room accidentally when she came to give me cookies," I said smoothly, watching his expression shift ever so slightly.
His jaw tightened, just a fraction, but I caught it.
"And one more thing. Surprise, surprise." I tilted my head slightly, my smirk widening as I spoke, letting the words roll off my tongue like I was savoring them.
"I happened to know about her years ago."
That got his attention.
Ace's fingers twitched—just the slightest movement, barely noticeable, but I caught it.
A crack in his otherwise impenetrable exterior.
He didn't move, didn't speak, but I knew.
He was listening now.
I leaned back against the couch, stretching my arms out lazily.
"You see, Ace," I continued, my voice dripping with amusement.
"I was watching her long before you even realized what you had. Back when she was still untouched by you—before you tainted her with your world, your filth."
His knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists.
"She was... breathtaking," I mused, dragging the words out, letting them settle, just to see his reaction.
I sighed dramatically, shaking my head as if lost in the memory.
"Big, innocent eyes, filled with curiosity." I exhaled, my gaze flickering toward the ceiling as if recalling something precious.
"That beautiful brown hair tumbling down her back, wild and soft, like silk between my fingers. And those lips—God, those lips—so soft, so fucking kissable."
"You know, she had this way of biting them when she was nervous," I continued, my voice softer now, almost reverent. "Made me want to ruin her in the best way possible."
There it was— the sharp inhale through his nose, the barely perceptible tightening of his jaw.
He was holding on by a thread.
I chuckled. Perfect.
"Shut up." Ace's voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it. A warning.
I grinned.
"What's wrong?" I tilted my head, watching him like a cat playing with a wounded mouse.
"Can't handle the idea that someone else saw her before you did? That someone else wanted her?" I paused, letting my smirk deepen.
"Or is it the fact that maybe—just maybe—she's only with you out of pity, like I said before?"
A crack formed in his mask.
Ah.
There it was.
A flicker of doubt, a moment of hesitation—small, but there.
Good.
"But now," I continued, my voice thick with something close to satisfaction, "I think I would like to marry her and fuck her every night."
And there it was again.
The flicker of darkness that passed through his gaze.
The transformation was immediate.
His carefully controlled demeanor shattered just a little, and I saw it—the fury, the possessiveness, the barely restrained violence simmering just beneath the surface.
But I wasn't done.
I let my words settle in the air, let the weight of them press against him like a loaded gun to his temple.
"You took her and dragged her into this," I gestured around us, the weight of our world pressing in.
"But I? I would have worshipped her. Kept her away from all this filth."
Ace didn't blink. He didn't move.
But I felt his rage, thick and suffocating like a noose tightening around my throat.
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