Alara Grey
"You're kidding me, right?" Clarke practically screamed from across the penthouse living room. "He bought you a penthouse? Sent a black card? And now you're having private dinners with Ace freaking Wolfe?"
I barely had time to answer before Percy chimed in from the kitchen, arms crossed, spoon in her hand like a weapon.
"Let's just say it," she scoffed. "Alara slept her way into a billionaire's lap."
The room went still.
Clarke turned slowly. "What the hell did you just say?"
Percy raised a brow, unbothered. "Come on. You think he gave her all this for nothing? Girls like us don't land men like him unless we're doing a whole lot more than sipping wine."
"Say that again," Clarke snapped, standing fully. "And I'll remind you who invited you into this apartment. You're lucky you're even breathing this air."
I didn't need defending. But damn, Clarke was fast.
"I didn't sleep with him," I said coldly, leveling Percy with a stare. "Not that it's any of your business. But I didn't."
"Then why all this?" Percy gestured around the luxurious space like it offended her.
"Because he made me an offer," I replied. "A contract. And I signed it."
Clarke blinked. "Wait. Like… marriage?"
I nodded.
Her mouth fell open. "You're going to marry Ace Wolfe?"
"Temporarily. It's… complicated."
Percy snorted. "Everything about this screams mistake."
"No," I said, stepping closer. "What screams mistake is throwing shade at someone who just might be your only connection to the top floor."
Percy's mouth opened, but she closed it just as fast.
Right then, the doorbell chimed.
Clarke turned. "Another package?"
I headed for the door, my heart already beating too fast. The uniformed concierge handed me a black velvet box and a sleek white envelope. No note. Just my name in thick silver script.
The envelope buzzed a second later. My phone.
Ace Wolfe.
I picked up.
"Did it arrive?" His voice was cool. Rich. Detached as ever.
"Yes," I said, voice tight.
"Good. It's what you'll wear tomorrow. My parents have expectations."
I opened the box slowly.
Inside was a couture dress—pure silk, deep emerald, with hand-stitched beadwork and a plunging back. It looked like it belonged in a vault. Not on me.
"And the necklace," he added. "Matches the emeralds in your eyes."
I swallowed. "You've been staring at my eyes?"
He didn't answer. Typical.
"Do you always send your future wives designer armor to meet your parents?"
"Only when I need them to look like queens."
The line went dead.
Clarke walked over, looked inside the box, and let out a low whistle.
"Damn. I take it back. Forget coffee shop shifts. I want a billionaire contract too."
I laughed. But inside?
I was already unraveling.
Because tomorrow, I'd be walking into the Wolfe estate.
Not as Alara Grey, the broke barista with a sick mother.
But as the woman Ace Wolfe had chosen.
And for once, that terrified me more than anything.