Mia POV
The morning after the party, Mia woke with a heaviness that had nothing to do with the late hour she'd gone to bed. She lay still against the silk sheets of her four-poster bed, staring at the ceiling as sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains.
Ace Laurent.
Damn him.
She had gone to bed determined to think of anything else, to push the memory of his mocking tone and unreadable eyes out of her mind. And yet, there he was, uninvited, lingering like smoke in her thoughts. His smirk. The way he'd looked at her as though he could see more than she wanted anyone to see.
Mia clenched her fists in the sheets. She had met countless men at countless events, each one vying for her attention, each one easily dismissed. Why, then, had this one stayed lodged in her head?
Because he pushed back, a treacherous voice whispered. Because he wasn't afraid of you.
She shoved the thought aside and sat up, gathering the silk robe from her chair and tying it around her waist. She would not give him that power. Ace Laurent was nothing more than a spoiled heir who thought the world bent to him. And if her pulse had quickened during their exchange, if her composure had cracked for the briefest second, that was nothing but irritation.
By the time she reached the breakfast room, her face was its usual mask of calm.
Her grandfather was already there, seated at the head of the long table, his silver hair catching the morning light. He was reading the financial section of the newspaper, his coffee untouched.
"Mia," he greeted without looking up. "You're late."
"I needed rest," she said evenly, taking her seat.
He hummed, folding the paper with practiced precision. His eyes, sharp despite his age, flicked to her. "Rest is earned, not indulged. Remember that. The Harrington name doesn't sleep."
Mia forced a polite smile. "Of course, Grandfather."
He studied her for a long moment, then shifted. "Tomorrow evening is the charity gala. I expect you to attend. The press will be there, and appearances must be upheld."
Mia's stomach tightened. Another night of forced smiles, shallow conversations, and judgmental eyes. Still, she inclined her head. "I'll be there."
Her grandfather's gaze lingered on her face. "You look pale. Don't let them see weakness."
"I won't," she said softly.
When breakfast ended, Mia retreated to the gardens, her sanctuary. The roses were in bloom, filling the air with sweetness that almost masked the bitterness in her chest. She found Lila waiting on the stone bench near the fountain, her bright eyes lighting up when she saw Mia.
"You survived last night!" Lila teased.
"Barely," Mia muttered, sinking beside her.
Lila grinned knowingly. "So? What did you think of Ace?"
Mia shot her a glare. "I think you and James conspired against me."
"Conspired is such a harsh word. We introduced you."
"You threw me to the wolves."
Lila leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Come on, Mia. Admit it. He got under your skin."
Mia stiffened. "He's arrogant. Insufferable."
"And interesting," Lila said with a wicked smile.
Mia didn't answer. She couldn't. Because denying it felt like lying, and admitting it felt like surrender.
The next evening arrived too quickly.
Mia stood before her mirror as her maid fastened the final clasp of her gown. Deep emerald silk clung to her figure, the color chosen deliberately—it was striking, commanding, a warning to anyone who thought to test her. Her hair was swept into a sleek chignon, her lips painted crimson. She looked untouchable.
She prayed she felt that way.
The Harrington car carried her to the gala, flashbulbs already popping as photographers crowded the entrance. Mia stepped out gracefully, her face composed, her posture flawless. She could hear the whispers—Harrington heiress, the chosen granddaughter, colder than her diamonds.
She ignored them.
Inside, the ballroom shimmered with opulence. Crystal chandeliers, gold-trimmed columns, music played by a live orchestra. Guests mingled in gowns and tuxedos, their laughter a low hum beneath the clink of glasses.
Mia's gaze swept the room, searching, though she would never admit for what.
She found him instantly.
Ace Laurent stood near the far wall, surrounded by a cluster of admirers. He was impossible to miss: tall, broad-shouldered, his dark suit perfectly tailored. His expression was polite but detached, as though the world around him were an annoyance he endured out of duty.
Their eyes met across the room.
It was a split second, but it stretched endlessly. His gaze was steady, piercing, and Mia's heart gave a traitorous lurch. She quickly looked away, forcing her breath steady.
He doesn't matter, she reminded herself. He's just another Laurent. Cold. Calculating. Dangerous.
"Mia," a voice interrupted. James. He and Lila approached, his arm around her waist, their smiles too knowing.
"You look beautiful," Lila said, squeezing her hand.
"Thank you," Mia replied, her tone polite.
James cleared his throat. "Ace is here."
"I noticed," Mia said dryly.
James's grin widened. "Good. Because the auction pairs start soon."
Mia blinked. "Pairs?"
"For the presentation," Lila explained quickly. "Couples escort the items being auctioned off. It's symbolic—wealth supporting charity, that sort of thing."
"And?" Mia pressed.
James looked far too pleased with himself. "You're with Ace."
Mia's blood ran cold. "Absolutely not."
"Too late," James said with a shrug. "Your grandfather approved it. Apparently, Harringtons and Laurents together make for good press."
Mia's hands curled into fists at her sides. Of course. Her grandfather would see opportunity where she saw disaster.
Before she could argue further, Ace appeared. As if conjured by her rage.
"Miss Harrington," he said smoothly, inclining his head. "It seems we're partners tonight."
Mia forced a brittle smile. "Lucky me."
His lips curved faintly. "Careful, people might think you're enjoying yourself."
She wanted to slap him. Instead, she let him offer his arm, her touch light against his sleeve as they walked toward the stage. The orchestra swelled, cameras flashing, the crowd murmuring.
They were perfection on display: two heirs, flawless and untouchable, representing dynasties older than the room they stood in.
But beneath the glamour, Mia's heart pounded. She could feel the heat of him beside her, steady and unyielding. She hated that her pulse quickened, hated that she was aware of the curve of his jaw, the strength in his stride.
On stage, their gazes met again.
"Smile," he murmured so low only she could hear.
"Don't tell me what to do," she hissed back.
He chuckled, the sound dark and soft. "Stubborn. Just like I thought."
Her mask slipped for the briefest second, her eyes narrowing. "And you're insufferable."
But his gaze didn't waver. For one breathless heartbeat, Mia felt exposed—as though he saw past the gown, past the diamonds, past the walls she had built.
Then the moment broke, applause rising as the auction began.
When it ended, they exited the stage together, the spell shattered but the tension unbroken.
Mia pulled her hand free the second they were out of sight. "Don't think this means anything."
Ace tilted his head, studying her with infuriating calm. "I don't. But you do."
Her breath caught. "You're wrong."
His smirk deepened. "Am I?"
Before she could retort, Lila appeared, dragging James with her. "You two were incredible!" she gushed. "The papers will be all over this tomorrow."
Mia's stomach twisted. The last thing she wanted was to be linked with Ace Laurent in the press.
But the look in his eyes told her it was already too late.
That night, as Mia finally slipped into bed, her body aching from the performance of smiles and poise, her mind betrayed her again.
Ace Laurent. His voice. His eyes. The way her heart had betrayed her, racing at the sound of his laugh.
She closed her eyes, forcing the thought away.
But it lingered, dark and dangerous.
And Mia Harrington hated herself for it.