Watching the wall of grief and fear rise in her eyes at the mention of the name, Ace felt a pang of regret. Even his more measured approach had been too much, too soon.

The sharp intensity in his gaze softened, replaced by a flicker of self-reproach.

He stood up and took a step back from the bed, deliberately creating space between them, trying to appear less like a captor.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice much gentler than before. "That was out of line."

The apology was so unexpected it startled her. She looked up at him, her expression a mixture of confusion and suspicion. Men like him didn't apologize.

Ace met her gaze directly, his own unwavering and sincere. "Knocking you out and bringing you here was wrong. But I saw no other choice."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "I could not stand by and watch you walk back into a house where you are so obviously being harmed."

At the mention of harm, her eyes flickered. She thought of Ivette's hands, of the scars that she lived with every day.

"I know this is a lot to process," Ace continued, sensing her fragile state. "You have every right to be angry and afraid."

"What do you want from me?" she asked again, her voice low and tired.

This time, Ace gave her a real answer.

"I meant what I said. I want to marry you." He held up a hand as he saw the look of disbelief return to her face. "I know it sounds insane. Just hear me out."

He pulled the chair closer, but not too close, and sat down, creating the atmosphere of a negotiation, not an interrogation.

"First, we are both victims of Ivette Terry's scheme. She wanted to destroy you, and she was more than happy to drag the Griffith name through the mud in the process."

"Right now, every gossip columnist in New York is waiting to see what happens next. If we do nothing, your reputation is annihilated, and I look like a callous billionaire who uses and discards women."

His logic was cold and brutally honest. She couldn't argue with it.

"But," he said, his tone shifting, "if we get married, the narrative changes completely."

"It's no longer a scandal. It's a whirlwind romance. I become the man who takes responsibility, and you, as the future Mrs. Griffith, will have a status and a shield that no one will dare to challenge."

"No one will ever treat you the way Ivette did again. The Terry family will lose all control over you."

He painted a picture for her, a future where she was safe, powerful, and free from the torment of her past. It was a tempting, intoxicating vision.

Alexandrea was silent. She had to admit, the offer was a lifeline.

But one thing still held her back. The contract. Demario.

"Why me?" she finally asked, the question that mattered most. "You could easily clear your name and walk away. Why choose the most complicated option? Why tie yourself to me?"

Ace looked at her, a deep, searching gaze. He could have told her about seeing her save the child, but that would feel like a transaction, like he was holding her goodness over her head.

He chose a different reason. A simpler, more powerful one.

"Because I've chosen you. I want you," he said, his voice low and firm. "Is that reason enough?"

The raw, possessive honesty of his words made her heart skip a beat.

He didn't give her time to overthink it. "I'm not asking you to love me. Think of this as a contract. An alliance. I give you sanctuary and freedom. You give me your hand in marriage. We both get what we need."

Framing it as a transaction, a business deal, made it infinitely easier for her to process. It was a language she understood.

She looked at the man before her. He was powerful, yes, but he was also logical. He had identified their common enemy and proposed a mutual solution.

A tiny, fragile seed of trust began to sprout in the barren ground of her heart.

She didn't say yes. But she didn't say no, either.

"I need time," she whispered. "I need to think."

It was a monumental concession.

Alexandrea finished her sentence, and her fingers instinctively curled into the silk duvet. She gripped the fabric so hard her knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white.

She lowered her eyelashes, staring at the intricate stitching on the blanket. She needed to look anywhere but at Ace Griffith. His gray eyes were too sharp, too invasive. They felt like they could peel back her skin and read the ugly, broken things hiding underneath.

The massive bedroom was suffocatingly quiet. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic hum of the central air conditioning pushing cold air through the vents.

She drew a slow, shaky breath into her lungs. When she finally forced her head up, a defensive, mocking shield had slipped back over her features.

"Sir, everything you are saying... it sounds like a perfectly laid trap," she said, her voice quiet but laced with a bitter edge.

"I cannot fathom why you would risk so much for someone like me. It makes absolutely no sense."

Ace raised a dark eyebrow. He didn't interrupt her. He simply leaned his large frame forward slightly, a silent command for her to keep talking.

"There are thousands of socialites in New York," Alexandrea said, her teeth sinking into her lower lip until she tasted a faint hint of copper. "Why choose a woman whose reputation is already in the gutter?"

She forced herself to use the ugliest words she could find, testing him. "A ruined, scandalous problem who was just caught in bed with a stranger last night?"

Hearing her degrade herself with such casual cruelty caused a deep crease to form between Ace's brows. A flash of unmistakable displeasure darkened his gray eyes.

He stood up abruptly.

His tall, broad-shouldered shadow instantly swallowed Alexandrea where she sat on the mattress.

She flinched, her body shrinking backward against the headboard. Her pulse hammered in her throat. She thought she had finally pushed him too far, that the anger she was so used to seeing in men was about to erupt.

But Ace didn't yell. He didn't strike her.

He simply leaned over, planting both of his large hands flat on the mattress on either side of her hips. He caged her completely within the strong brackets of his arms.

"Reputation?" His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated against her skin. It carried a weight that left absolutely no room for debate. "I never believe the reputations other people try to shove down my throat."

He stared directly into her wide, panicked eyes. "I only believe what I see with my own two eyes."

Alexandrea froze. Her breath hitched. "What did you see?"

"Three weeks ago. Fifth Avenue. Pouring rain," Ace said slowly, dropping the words into the space between them like heavy stones.

Alexandrea's pupils dilated. The memory hit her chest with the force of a physical blow.

"An out-of-control taxi. A little boy running into the street," Ace continued, his gaze never leaving hers, painting the chaotic scene with brutal precision.

"And a fool in a white dress, without an umbrella, who didn't hesitate for a single second to throw herself into the traffic."

Alexandrea's heart skipped a violent beat. The air vanished from the room. She stared at the man hovering over her, her mind spinning in absolute disbelief.

"You... you were there?" The words trembled past her lips.

Ace nodded once. "I was in the car right behind you. I watched you shield that child with your own body. I watched your arm get torn open on the asphalt."

He lifted one hand from the mattress. He reached out and gently traced the pad of his index finger over the newly healed, raised pink scar on her forearm.

The sudden, warm friction of his skin against hers sent a violent shiver down Alexandrea's spine.

"A girl who would throw her own life away to save a stranger," Ace said, his voice dropping to a rough, devastatingly tender whisper. "Could never be the shameless, ruined woman Ivette claims she is."

A massive, crushing ache swelled in the back of Alexandrea's throat. Her chest seized. For ten years, she had been buried under a mountain of lies and filth. For ten years, she had been a monster in the eyes of the world.

And now, this man had looked right past the mud and saw exactly who she was.

A single tear broke free without warning. It slid down her pale cheek and splashed onto the silk duvet, leaving a dark, wet stain.

Ace let out a heavy sigh. He moved his hand from her arm to her face, using his rough thumb to catch the next tear before it could fall.

"So," he murmured, his thumb resting against her cheekbone. "Do not ever use those words to insult my future wife again."

The thick, iron walls around Alexandrea's heart cracked wide open. A desperate urge to lean into his touch, to let him save her, flooded her veins.

But then, the image of Demario's smiling face flashed behind her eyes. The heavy, suffocating weight of Bret Terry's contract slammed back into her reality.

This sudden, overwhelming warmth was a poison she couldn't afford to touch. Hope was a luxury she could not afford, a fire that would burn her brother first. The warmth of his touch felt like a brand, marking her as a traitor to the only person she had left to protect. The guilt was immediate and suffocating. The moment she let herself rely on it, Demario would be the one to pay the ultimate price. The thought hit her like a bucket of ice water, instantly extinguishing the tiny spark of hope he had just ignited.

Her spine snapped straight. The warmth drained from her body, leaving her stiff and cold under his hands once again.

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