ara's POV
The rooftop glittered like a scene stolen from a billionaire's dream.
String lights glowed golden across sheer white drapes. A glass DJ booth pulsed to the beat of luxury. Ice sculptures, gold-dusted hors d'oeuvres, and waiters in white gloves moved like shadows across marble floors.
I stood at the edge of it all, cradling a drink I couldn't pronounce in a dress I couldn't afford.
"I shouldn't be here," I muttered under my breath.
"You say that every time we crash Clarke's parties," Percy said with a grin, popping a strawberry into her mouth. "And yet, here you are. Serving face in velvet."
I tugged at the hem of the burgundy gown Clarke had insisted I wear. The fabric clung to my waist and hips like it had been sewn by a goddess, flowing into a quiet train stitched with golden lilies.
"You did borrow everything," Percy added with a wink. "But you're a broke beauty with a face and body that eats runways. Own it, girl. I mean it—people would commit crimes for that waistline."
I snorted softly, but the sound didn't quite reach my eyes.
Because she was right.
I was broke. Beautiful, maybe—but still broke. And this glittering rooftop wasn't mine. I wasn't from Clarke's world. I was from long nights at the coffee shop, calluses from taking extra shifts, and bruised hope.
I had a dying mother in a charity hospital, a sixteen-year-old sister who depended on me for everything, and a runaway father who hadn't looked back in years.
But Clarke had insisted I come. She was celebrating her 21st in style—backless rose-gold dress, senator father in tow, the whole elite crowd orbiting her like she held the moon.
It was her night. The city practically knew it.
So I smiled. Pretended I wasn't panicking.
And turned toward the skyline, letting the breeze slap a little clarity into my face.
That's when I felt it.
A chill—slow, creeping—gliding across my neck. Not wind. A stare.
I looked up.
High above, behind sheer black curtains on the private balcony, a man stood alone. Tall. Still. Unmoving.
And watching me.
My heart dropped into my heels.
He wasn't just good-looking. He was unfairly, ruinously handsome.
Sculpted in that sharp, old-world way that made your breath catch before your brain could function.
His suit was pitch black. Fitted like it had been stitched to his sins. A crystal tumbler sat in his hand. And his eyes—storm-grey and knife-sharp—locked onto mine like he already knew my name.
Why did he look so familiar?
And more importantly, why was he watching me?
He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just raised his glass in a lazy salute. A single slow smirk ghosted his lips, sharp as his cheekbones.
"Alara?" Percy nudged my side. "You okay?"
I didn't look away.
"Who's that man?"
Percy turned to follow my gaze.
"Oh… damn. That's Ace Wolfe."
I blinked. "The Ace Wolfe?"
"Mmhmm," she said, lowering her voice. "Heir to Wolfe Empire. Old money. Tech, fashion, media—he basically owns half the modern world. Clarke said he only came because her dad begged. Rumor is, he hates parties."
Of course. A senator's party was exactly the kind of place someone like him would grace with silence.
I turned back to look at the balcony.
But he was gone.
Just like that.
Gone—but the weight of his stare still clung to my skin like silk.
⸻
The rooftop came alive again. Laughter, glasses clinking, camera flashes like fireflies. Clarke was dancing now, glitter caught in her hair, twirling through her birthday like a socialite in a Vogue spread.
I tried to breathe.
But I could still feel him.
I slipped away toward the quieter hallway near the elevators, heart still hammering. The music dimmed to a muffled hum. Gold sconces lined the walls. Velvet carpet. Everything still sparkled.
And then…
He was there.
Leaning casually against a marble column, as if he'd stepped straight out of a billionaire fever dream.
Ace Wolfe.
Closer now, he was even more dangerous. His height, his presence—everything about him felt too deliberate.
Like a man used to being obeyed.
I froze.
"Leaving so soon?" he asked, voice smooth and rich like dark bourbon.
"I needed air," I replied, lifting my chin.
"I watched you all night."
My eyebrows shot up. "That's not creepy at all."
He didn't smile.
"I don't say things to flatter. You're not like them."
"Let me guess," I said, folding my arms, "I 'don't belong here'?"
He stepped closer. The air grew heavy.
"I didn't mean it as an insult," he said. "Just an observation. One I rarely get wrong."
I forced a laugh. "Right. So what? You just observe and make judgments from balconies now?"
"I don't judge," he said slowly. "I choose."
I tilted my head. "Do all your conversations sound like Bond villains flirting?"
That earned me the faintest twitch of a smirk.
"I make very good offers."
My breath caught. "What kind of offer?"
Before he could answer, a sharp voice interrupted.
"Mr. Wolfe," a suited man said as he approached quickly—one of his bodyguards, earpiece glinting. "It's urgent."
Ace's jaw tensed. He looked back at me.
"Give me your number."
The command in his tone startled me. Not demanding. Just… inevitable.
I hesitated for a beat—then gave it to him.
He didn't say another word.
Just turned away and walked down the corridor, his bodyguard falling in behind him like a shadow.
I stood there frozen, still tasting the tension he left behind.
What the hell just happened?
My phone buzzed a moment later.
A new message.
Unknown Number: We're not done. – A.