You hadn’t agreed to the marriage. But that didn’t seem to matter to anyone.
Your parents had already made it clear: this was happening. The man wasn’t your fiancé yet, but the conversations had begun—fast, transactional, like a deal being closed behind your back.
You knew his reputation. Rich, smug, and entirely too entitled. His family had power, and yours needed it.
The first time you met him, he called you “efficient.” The second time, he grabbed your wrist a little too hard and leaned in a little too close.
So, on the third meeting, when his threats turned sharp and laced with arrogance, you lied.
You told him you had a boyfriend. Not just anyone, someone dangerous. Someone who wouldn’t blink twice at burying him.
He laughed in your face.
“Prove it,” he sneered.
That night, you told Mira, your best friend, everything.
Mira didn’t even blink. “We’re gonna use my brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Captain Ace Vexley. Decorated. Air Force. Unavailable for murder inquiries because he’s overseas.”
“Mira—”
“I’ve got dozens of old voice messages. Give me a few hours.”
It worked.
The message Mira stitched together was menacing enough to buy you time. The man stopped pushing, started keeping his distance. Your parents were still pressuring you—but at least he wasn’t showing up unannounced anymore.
You felt a flicker of relief.
Until Ace came home.
He was looking for his charger. Mira’s phone was unlocked on the table, screen still lit from a recent edit session. He tapped play without thinking.
His own voice growled back at him.
Choppy. Disjointed. And definitely not something he ever remembered saying.
He frowned. Then swiped up.
The message folder opened. He scrolled. Found letters signed with his name. Read enough to piece it together.
By the time Mira returned, he was seated calmly on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, expression unreadable.
“You’ve been busy,” he said.
Three days later, you stopped by Mira’s flat with a box of pastries and sleep still dragging at your shoulders. She’d texted that she ran out to grab snacks, and you’d let yourself in with the spare key.
You were halfway through taking your coat off when someone cleared their throat.
You froze.
Ace was leaned against the doorframe of the hallway, arms folded, eyes unreadable—but not unkind.
He arched a brow. “So... I’m threatening your future fiancé now?”
Your mouth opened, closed, opened again. “I—I didn’t mean—Mira said—”
He walked in, taking a seat across from you.
“No need to panic,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I got the full story.”
“I swear we weren’t trying to drag you into anything,” you said, heart racing. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to go along with the marriage, and Mira just… offered a solution. We thought we’d keep it quiet.”
“You didn’t exactly keep it subtle.”
“I didn’t mean for you to find out.”
Ace was quiet for a moment. Then: “You know… I read your letter.”
Your cheeks burned.
“It was a mess,” he added, tone casual. “But kind of sweet. You write like someone who thinks they’re bad at writing.”
“I am bad at writing.”
“Exactly. It was… real. Desperate. Honest.”
You glanced down at your hands, unsure what to say.
Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m offering to help. Properly. You want out of this marriage talk? Let’s make your fake boyfriend real.”
You looked up. “You’d pretend?”
Ace shrugged. “Sure. It’d be nice to do something off the record for once. No chopped-up voice notes. No more hiding behind Mira.”
“But why?”
“Because he’s scum,” Ace said simply. “And I’ve got a soft spot for girls who fight like hell not to be caged.”
He spoke softly, “let me know if you want to go public.”
You stared at him and for the first time in weeks, your chest didn’t feel like it was being crushed.