Ace POV:

Seated in the restaurant, I let the seconds crawl by, my fingers lazily trailing over the rim of my empty wine glass.

Clara was late.

Not that I gave a damn.

She had expected me to pick her up. Expected me to play into the ridiculous dance of courtship—flattery, attention, charm.

Expected me to cater to her whims.

I don't cater to anyone.

I exhaled slowly, glancing at my watch. Five minutes late. I'd give her ten before I walked the hell out of here.

Yet, as I sat there, my mind inevitably drifted back to thoughts of her— my sweet Mini.

I wondered if she ever thought of me, if I ever crossed her mind the way she constantly invaded mine.

Doubt it.

By now, she probably had someone new in her life.

Some guy who bought her flowers.

Who held her when she cried. Who rubbed her feet after a long day.

Some guy who wasn't me.

My jaw clenched. I reached for my wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid before knocking it back in one swift motion.

I could almost see it—her with him. Laughing. Smiling.

Letting someone else kiss her. Letting someone else hear those soft, breathy sounds only I had ever—

I slammed the glass down a little too hard. A few heads turned.

Mind your damn business, retards.

"Excuse me."

The voice cut through my thoughts, pulling me back into the present.

I blinked. Slowly.

Like I had all the time in the world, because honestly? I did.

Lifting my gaze, I found Clara standing there.

5'7". Long legs. Pale, flawless skin. Green eyes shimmering with interest.

She had the kind of beauty that demanded attention.

Her red lips curled into a smile. All practiced. All intentional.

The half-shoulder gown she wore accentuated her hourglass figure

"Hello," she greeted me, voice soft, almost coy.

I merely nodded, offering her a cold, indifferent acknowledgment. I didn't feel like pretending to care.

The effort was too much.

She hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing her face before she took the seat across from me.

And then?

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind. Not the kind where words aren't needed.

The suffocating kind.

The kind that left too much space for my mind to wander.

Back to her.

To the girl who wasn't here.

"So, you came here empty-handed," Clara finally broke the silence, her voice tinged with disappointment.

My eyes flicked to her, watching as she frowned, clearly expecting some grand gesture—a bouquet, a gift, some shallow, meaningless proof that I cared.

"Yeah," I replied flatly. I didn't even try to mask my disinterest.

Her lips parted slightly, like she hadn't expected that. Like she was re-evaluating her decision to be here.

Good.

She tried to cover it quickly, shifting the conversation to safer topics.

She talked about the weather. About work. About her latest shopping trip. Anything to fill the silence.

Her words were meaningless, hollow, bouncing off me like raindrops against a windshield.

The waiter approached, and Clara ordered a steak and fried rice, her voice laced with a hint of pride, like her choice of food somehow said something about her.

I didn't bother ordering anything solid. Just kept the wine flowing, letting the alcohol settle in my veins, warm and numbing.

And then—when the food finally arrived—I couldn't help it. I laughed.

Because the sight of it, of the pale, lifeless steak sitting on her plate, was just so goddamn absurd.

"What's so funny about the food?" she asked, her confusion evident in her voice.

"Your food looks like a dead person—bland and colorless," I said, my laughter escaping despite the bitterness that clung to it.

She let out a forced chuckle, clearly unsure how to respond.

She kept talking, endlessly, about herself, her work, her hobbies—anything that kept the spotlight on her.

And I sat there, drinking, nodding occasionally, but never really listening.

At some point, she reached across the table, fingers brushing against the back of my hand in what I assume was meant to be a soft, gentle touch.

I almost recoiled.

Her skin was warm, delicate. Soft.

But not the right kind of soft.

Not her kind of soft.

After what felt like an eternity, the dinner finally came to an end. I paid the bill without a second thought and led Clara back to my car.

The drive to her penthouse was silent, the tension between us palpable, though I suspected she was too caught up in her own narrative to notice.

Clara sat beside me, her legs crossed, her red nails tapping idly against her knee.

She hadn't spoken much since we left the restaurant, but I could feel her eyes on me, watching, waiting.

I exhaled slowly, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

"You were quiet tonight," she finally said, her voice smooth, measured.

"I don't talk when I have nothing to say."

She let out a soft chuckle. "You never have anything to say, Ace."

I hummed in response, eyes fixed on the road.

"I wonder why you even bother seeing me," she mused, stretching out in her seat. "You clearly don't enjoy my company."

"You assume I enjoy anyone's company."

"Good point."

We pulled up in front of her building. I shifted the car into park but made no move to turn it off. I wasn't planning to stay.

She unbuckled her seatbelt but didn't get out immediately. Instead, she turned to me, her green eyes searching my face. "So, you wanna come inside?"

I leaned back in my seat, studying her. She was poised, confident, but I could see the flicker of uncertainty beneath her cool exterior.

"You want to have sex with me, Clara?" My words were blunt, slicing through the space between us.

Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard by my directness, but she recovered quickly. "I didn't say that."

"But you were thinking it."

She smirked, tilting her head. "Maybe. Maybe not. But the real question is, would you?"

"No."

She arched a brow. "No?"

"I am taken, Clara."

"Taken?" she echoed, as if the word itself amused her.

I didn't repeat myself. I just watched her, waiting.

Her smirk widened. "By who?"

My jaw tightened just slightly, but I kept my expression unreadable. "Does it matter?"

She tilted her head, studying me now like I was the puzzle. "If you were really taken, you wouldn't have asked me that question in the first place."

I smirked, slow and sharp. "Or maybe I just wanted to see how desperate you'd be to hear 'yes.'"

Her expression flickered, just for a second. Then she rolled her eyes, forcing another laugh. "Please. You wish."

She gave me one last look before stepping out, her heels clicking against the pavement.

She took two steps, then paused, turning back.

I didn't even bother looking back as I drove off, her figure growing smaller in the rearview mirror until it disappeared entirely.

Clara was beautiful, no doubt. Any man would be lucky to have her.

She was poised, intelligent, and bold—yet utterly insignificant in my world.

She was just another person passing through, another voice I'd forget by morning.

Because she wasn't my Mini.

She never could be. No one could.

I arrived back at my mansion, the towering walls rising like a fortress, yet offering no comfort.

The grand entrance loomed before me as I stepped inside.

No laughter. No soft footsteps. No small figure moving through the halls, stealing glimpses at me like she used to.

I tossed my keys onto the marble table with a sharp clink, the sound echoing through the cavernous space.

The place felt hollow, a beautiful prison of my own making.

I stalked toward the living room, shrugging off my jacket before sinking onto the leather couch.

My fingers twitched with an old, restless need—a habit I had never shaken.

I pulled out my phone.

And there she was.

Four pictures. That was all I had.

Four stolen moments, frozen in time.

Iris, with her wide, spellbound eyes, staring at something just out of frame. Iris, scowling at her reflection. Iris, caught mid-laugh, golden flecks in her brown eyes catching the light.

I traced the screen absentmindedly, my thumb brushing over the contours of her face.

The rabid desire to see her again gnawed at me, fangs sinking into my ribs, twisting deep.

I could find her. Easily.

Just a flick of the wrist, a single command, and she'd be in front of me again.

But she wouldn't come willingly.

No, she would run.

Because I had made sure of that.

I had saved her by letting her go. A noble act. Tsk.

A rare moment of selflessness from a man who didn't believe in such things.

But what a joke that had turned out to be.

I had saved her. And in return, I had damned myself.

I shut my eyes, pressing my fingers against the bridge of my nose as if that would somehow erase the thoughts clawing their way through my skull.

Every right minded man wanted a woman like her. I knew that much. She was unique, one of a kind.

But I was a fool— a selfish, stupid dick who had let her slip away without a second thought.

And now, I was left with nothing but ghosts.

The sudden ringing of my phone snapped me out of it. I blinked, exhaling slowly as I glanced at the screen.

Susan.

I debated ignoring it.

But she was relentless. And I wasn't in the mood to deal with her leaving five voicemails just to irritate me.

I answered.

"How was the date?" Her voice came through the line, casual, but laced with something sharper.

I hummed in response, noncommittal.

"Come on, Ace, you have to move on," she pressed. "You can't keep doing this to yourself."

Doing what, exactly? Breathing? Existing?

It was all the same shit, just another day of drowning in a sea of nothing.

Her next words sliced through me.

"It's not love, Ace. It's an obsession— a toxic obsession."

A low, humorless chuckle left me. Toxic?

She didn't understand— couldn't understand— the depth of what I felt for Iris.

How could she?

She hadn't been there, hadn't felt the feelings that had formed between us.

"Look, I know you still love her. We all know. That's why we're telling you to move on," Susan continued, her voice softer, like she was offering me some kind of mercy.

I gritted my teeth.

"I hated Iris when I first met her," she admitted after a moment. "But slowly, I realized she's too naive for this world. She's too naive and innocent for you."

The words slammed into me like a hammer.

Too innocent for me?

I thought that too. Once. In the beginning.

But I had been wrong.

Iris wasn't innocent. Not in the way Susan meant.

Naïve, yes—too trusting, too foolish, too willing to believe in love when it had been the very thing tearing her apart.

But innocence? That was a lie.

A lie people told themselves when they saw her big, spellbound eyes.

A trick of the light, an illusion that made them underestimate her.

She wasn't.

Her love was like mine.

Raw. Obsessive. Consuming.

People thought I had ruined her, and maybe I had.

Maybe I had taken that softness and twisted it, left my fingerprints on her soul until she could never wash them away.

But deep down, she had always been this way.

The kind of girl who would rather destroy herself for love than walk away from it.

And wasn't that the most beautiful kind of devotion?

The kind that consumed her, rotted her from the inside out, made her bleed for me?

That's why I couldn't move on.

That's why no one else would ever be enough.

They didn't break the way she did. They didn't shatter, looking up at me with those desperate, teary eyes, like I was both her savior and her executioner.

No woman could ever look at me that way.

No one else could.

They would all try to fix me, try to tame me like I was some wounded, tragic thing.

Iris never tried. She let me destroy her instead.

She understood.

She was mine.

"Ace, find someone else and live your life instead of wasting it on some little girl," Susan's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, laced with irritation.

With that, she ended the call, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more.

Fucking idiot.

No one else would look at me the way Iris had, with resignation and love intertwined so deeply that they were inseparable.

She was scared of me.

She loved me anyway.

She let me ruin her, piece by piece, and still begged for more.

That kind of love didn't die.

That kind of love didn't fade, didn't soften, didn't let you move on like some fucking fairytale ending.

It rotted inside you. It devoured you.

I felt it— felt the way it gnawed at my insides, this sickness I couldn't shake, this craving I couldn't satisfy.

Even now, even with miles between us, she was inside me. A part of me.

I tossed my phone aside, letting out a frustrated sigh. Bitch.

If I could see Iris again—just once—without her knowing.

If I could just watch her, see if she had truly left me behind, if she had really managed to pull herself out of the abyss I had dragged her into.

Would she be happy?

Would she smile like she used to, before I touched her, before I tainted her?

Or would there be something missing?

Something broken?

Maybe that would be enough.

Maybe seeing her would be enough to quench the hunger burning inside me.

Maybe then, I could finally let her go.

But I knew it was a lie.

Seeing her wouldn't change anything. It would only make things worse.

It would only make me want to take her back.

Lock her away.

Make sure no one else ever got to see that smile, that warmth, that love that was meant for me and me alone.

I dragged a hand down my face, inhaling sharply.

Why the fuck did Iris ever come into my life?

Iris POV:

The moment those words left Jeremy's mouth, they hit me like a lightning bolt.

But not in the way he probably intended.

"What?" I blinked at him, my voice a mix of genuine surprise and confusion.

Was this really happening?

"Yes, Iris," he repeated, his tone now devoid of the fake warmth. "You were just a bet. That's why I proposed to you."

His words hung in the air, heavy, final. Meant to cut deep.

I stared at him.

I should have felt devastated. Crushed. Betrayed.

But instead—

Relief.

Sweet, overwhelming relief.

Oh, my jesus.

I wanted to fall to my knees and kiss the ground, weep tears of gratitude.

Jeremy had just solved every problem in my life with one sentence.

I had spent weeks agonizing over how to break things off, torn between guilt and obligation, trying to find a way to tell him that I didn't love him.

That I couldn't love him. Not when my heart belonged to someone else.

And here he was—handing me a get-out-of-jail- free card like some kind of saint.

God, I love you!

I wanted to scream, but not to Jeremy.

This was for whatever divine force had looked at me and thought, Alright, sweetheart, let's fix this mess for you.

I could feel the corners of my mouth twitching, my body vibrating with the effort of suppressing the giddy laughter clawing its way up my throat.

Don't smile, Iris. Don't you dare smile!

I bit my lip—hard—digging my nails into my palm under the table.

I needed to sell this.

I needed to look heartbroken.

It took every ounce of willpower I had to keep my face from breaking into an ear-to-ear grin.

I forced my lips into a wobbly pout, my brows furrowing just enough to pass as mildly upset.

Okay, now say something sad. Something tragic.

"No... I am sad," I said.

Wait.

What the hell kind of response was that?!

I cleared my throat, scrambling to fix my very unconvincing act. I brought my hand up to cover my mouth, like I was trying to hold in a sob. "I mean... I can't believe this."

Better. More dramatic. Good job, ninjaty ninja.

Jeremy nodded slowly, like he was analyzing data, waiting for me to crumble.

Any second now, he was expecting me to cry, to beg him to stay.

I almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

"I said I am breaking up with you," Jeremy repeated, his voice flat, almost bored now, like he was reading off a script.

I nodded, inhaling deeply as if processing the pain, trying to look hurt, maybe even shocked.

"I... I get it," I whispered. Soft. Vulnerable.

Jeremy crossed his arms, leaning back with pure arrogance. "You don't seem that surprised," he noted, his eyes narrowing.

Think, Iris, think.

I quickly dropped my gaze, shaking my head slightly, adding a long, dramatic pause for effect.

"...I think a part of me always knew," I murmured, like some tragic heroine in a romance novel.

Jeremy exhaled sharply, like he didn't expect that answer.

"Iris," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I didn't mean for it to be like this. But let's be honest—this was never real."

I let out a trembling sigh, gripping the edge of my sleeve like some shattered, betrayed woman. "So... was any of it real?" I whispered.

Jeremy hesitated. I saw the flicker of guilt.

But then he squared his shoulders, schooling his face back into cold indifference. "It doesn't matter now, does it?"

Oh, the drama.

I wanted to give him a standing ovation.

This was Oscar-worthy.

I swallowed hard, nodding like a girl who just had her heart shattered into a million pieces.

"...I understand," I whispered, blinking rapidly.

Jeremy seemed satisfied with that, finally letting out a relieved breath. He had won.

"Look, don't take it personally, alright? You're a sweet girl, but you're just not my type."

His type?

Oh, buddy, if only you knew—

I wanted to lean in real close and whisper, I never even liked you.

The only man I've ever wanted is a precious sadistic psychopath who has made it his life's mission to ruin me.

But I refrained.

Instead, I just nodded again, swallowing the gleeful hysteria threatening to break free.

"I just... need some time," I murmured, pressing a hand to my chest like I was struggling to breathe through the pain.

Jeremy looked pleased. He had won.

He had no idea I had won first.

Without waiting for his response, I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor with a loud screech that echoed through the café.

Heads turned. People stared. A barista mid-pour nearly overfilled a cup, and the old lady in the corner reading a paperback visibly flinched.

If I cared even the slightest, I might've been embarrassed. But I didn't.

I was too busy choking on the sheer, unfiltered euphoria bubbling inside me.

Jeremy just broke up with me. Me!

After I'd spent weeks strategizing how to dump him without looking like the bad guy.

And now? Now, I didn't have to feel even an ounce of guilt for breaking his heart because he had done it first.

I barely remembered my legs moving, but suddenly, I was outside.

The café door swung shut behind me with a soft ding, but I was already gone, nearly skipping down the sidewalk.

The second my feet hit the pavement, I felt it—pure, glorious, unburdened freedom.

The cool air kissed my flushed cheeks, and I inhaled deep, letting the fresh city scent fill my lungs.

And then, like an overinflated balloon, the energy inside me popped.

"THANK YOU, GOD!" I shouted to the heavens, throwing my hands up.

I probably looked insane and mental.

I pressed my palms against my face, trying to smother the stupid, uncontrollable grin splitting my lips.

My cheeks ached from smiling. This wasn't just relief—this was freedom.

No more pretending. No more obligatory texts or awkward dates. No more feeling guilty because my heart belonged to someone else.

Then—

"Iris!"

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

My heart slammed against my ribs as I spun around, half expecting to see Jeremy storming after me, demanding to know why I wasn't weeping over our tragic love story.

Instead, I found Quinn.

With some random guy.

I blinked. "Quinn, what are you doing here?" My voice came out higher than I intended.

Before she could answer, the guy beside her lifted a hand lazily, like he was calling dibs on the conversation.

"I called her," he said, completely unfazed by my obvious confusion.

I squinted at him. Who the hell was this guy?

Quinn didn't look at him.

She just crossed her arms and stared at me—not with concern, but with the kind of expression someone wears when they know they've just caught you doing something naughty.

"You look... happy," she mused, one brow arching.

"No," I lied instantly.

Her smirk deepened. "Oh, you definitely look happy."

I forced a stiff, awkward smile. "Little."

Quinn's eyes narrowed slightly.

The kind of look that said she knew exactly what was going through my head.

Because, of course, she did.

She knew I had been trying to break up with Jeremy. She knew that instead of misery, I was practically bursting with joy.

But the stranger? He didn't know that.

"I thought you'd be crying," he said, tilting his head slightly.

His tone wasn't mean, just laced with curiosity—like he had expected drama and was now mildly disappointed not to see me wailing in the streets.

I gasped, slapping a hand over my chest. "Oh my jesus! Yes. Crying. Very sad." I gave Quinn's arm a firm yank. "Quinn, let's go. I want to cry."

She didn't budge.

I tried again. "I need to... process this heartbreak. In private."

Quinn hummed, tapping a finger against her chin. "Mm-hmm. Because you're so devastated."

"Yes. Devastated. Shattered, even." I turned my back to the stranger, my smile twitching. "Quinn, please. I need... space to grieve."

I dragged her away before the stranger could question why my idea of "grieving" looked an awful lot like skipping.

We hurried toward Quinn's scooter, my heart hammering in my chest like I had just pulled off some great escape. And, in a way, I had.

The wind nipped at my flushed cheeks as I clung to Quinn's waist, practically throwing myself onto the backseat. "Go, drive, drive fast."

Quinn didn't move.

Instead, she turned her head slightly, just enough for me to see the deadpan look she was giving me over her shoulder. "Iris. Helmet."

"HELMET!" I echoed like a parrot, only this time in full-blown panic mode.

Quinn sighed like this was the most exhausting thing she had ever done, which was completely unfair.

She grabbed her helmet and secured it in place with a sharp click before pressing the ignition button.

Nothing.

The scooter sputtered, coughed, and then... died.

I felt my soul leave my body.

Quinn frowned, twisting the throttle like it would make a difference. It didn't.

The scooter sat there, silent and unhelpful.

"Quinn," I hissed, gripping her shoulders. "This is not the time for your scooter to have an identity crisis!"

"Relax. It does this sometimes," she muttered, shaking the handles as if she could scold the machine into working.

I didn't relax. In fact, I did the opposite of relaxing, because when I glanced over my shoulder, the stranger was still there.

Watching.

Smirking.

Like a goddamn villain.

"Who is he?" I whisper-hissed in Quinn's ear, my grip tightening on her jacket.

She barely glanced back before responding, "Jeremy's friend. Caleb."

I stiffened.

Caleb. As in, Jeremy's friend? As in, the guy who knew everything about the drama?

I swear, I felt my stomach drop into the depths of hell.

Did Jeremy send him to spy on me? To catch me not crying?

Oh my God—what if he had seen my grin? What if he knew I wasn't heartbroken but instead borderline euphoric?!

Mother Jesus!!

Before I could fully spiral, Caleb decided to speak.

"Iris," he called, his voice too damn amused for my liking. "I know about the bet, and that's why I brought your friend here. But—" His smirk deepened. "You seem happy already."

I froze.

Every neuron in my brain short-circuited. My mouth opened, then closed, then opened again like a malfunctioning fish.

He knew.

Of course, he knew.

I cringed inwardly, feeling like the dumbest girl alive.

So, naturally, I did the only thing that made sense in this situation—

I face-planted into Quinn's neck.

"Drive," I whispered, my voice muffled against her jacket.

"Working on it," she muttered, twisting the throttle again.

The scooter finally roared to life, and I nearly burst into tears of relief.

As we sped away, I didn't dare lift my head. I refused to look back.

I could feel Caleb's smirk burning into my spine like a brand, searing my pride into oblivion.

But you know what?

I was free.

And that was worth more than any dignity I left behind.

NEXT MORNING

Roll, knead, roll, knead, roll, knead.

I pressed my fingers into the dough, watching it squish and puff back up like some kind of stress-relief toy.

Honestly, I needed the relief.

My brain had been on high alert since yesterday.

But at least here, in the warmth of the kitchen, surrounded by the smell of fresh bread, I could focus on something that wasn't my questionable life choices.

I was just about to start imagining how good this bread was gonna taste—warm, soft, slathered with butter—when someone cleared their throat loudly.

Ugh. What now?

I stepped aside automatically, not even bothering to look up.

My unspoken rule here was simple: keep your head down, do your job, don't get involved.

No conversations, no fights. Nothing except kneading, baking, and surviving.

Well... except for that one time with Jeremy, when he proposed to me without even talking to me before.

But then, a voice I did not expect called out my name.

"Iris."

I paused, my hands still deep in the dough. The voice was male. Unfamiliar.

Which meant... not my problem. Meh.

I hummed in acknowledgment but kept my gaze locked on the dough like it held the secrets to life itself.

And then—

"Hey, Caleb!"

The second voice belonged to some girl, and it was way too casual for my liking.

Wait. Caleb?

I snapped my head up so fast my neck cracked.

And there he was. Freaking Caleb. Standing in the kitchen like he belonged here.

My eyes nearly popped out of my head as I watched him casually take a tray of cookies and shove them into the oven, like he did this for a living.

He works here?

When?! HOW?! And, most importantly— WHY?!

I stared at him, my brain desperately trying to reboot.

Meanwhile, he just turned to me with a smug little smirk, like this wasn't absolutely insane.

"Hey," he said, like we were besties bumping into each other at the mall.

Instead, I forced a stiff nod, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something I'd regret.

I needed to leave.

Now.

Without a word, I grabbed the dough and turned to walk away, my mind scrambling for an escape plan.

Maybe I could pretend I had food poisoning. Or an allergic reaction to dumb smirks. Or—

A hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my forearm.

I froze.

The sudden contact sent a jolt up my spine, my skin burning where his fingers had brushed against it. Too close.

I yanked my arm back instinctively, stepping away before I even processed the movement.

Caleb's eyebrows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across his face. But I ignored it.

I ignored everything except the growing irritation bubbling in my chest.

"Yes, Caleb?" I asked, my voice flat.

He hesitated, watching me carefully. Then, with a sigh, he said, "I didn't tell Jeremy that you were screaming happily outside the café."

His voice was smooth, almost amused, but there was something else lurking beneath it. Something sharp.

My breath caught.

I hadn't realized how much I'd been dreading that.

The idea of Jeremy knowing the truth—that I was happy about our breakup—was worse than if he had just screamed at me.

It would've fed his ego, given him proof that I was heartless or cruel or whatever else he wanted to believe.

But Caleb didn't tell him.

Relief crashed into me like a wave, but I tamped it down.

I wouldn't let Caleb see it.

So instead, I nodded stiffly. "Thank you." My voice came out clipped, but I didn't care.

With that, I turned and walked away, ignoring the way my hands trembled slightly as I gripped the dough.

But the questions wouldn't stop circling in my mind.

How hadn't I noticed him here all these months?

How long had he been working here?