PROLOGUE

Liliana

They say weddings are supposed to be the happiest day of your life.

But mine?
It started with roses, violins, and a veil that cost more than some people’s college tuition.
And ended with a phone call.

I still remember the exact moment my world fell apart—the cold slide of my phone in my hand,
my assistant’s panicked voice whispering, “Liliana… the company. It’s collapsing. We’re done.”

I blinked. Once. Twice.

And when I looked up, my fiancé was already backing away.

He didn’t even try to hide it—the disgust in his eyes, the shift in his posture. Like I’d suddenly
become worthless. Like love was conditional, and I’d just broken the terms.

“I can’t do this,” he muttered. “I’m not marrying a bankrupt heiress.”

Then he walked away.

Just like that.

No apology. No second thoughts. Just… gone.

There was this horrible silence after. Dozens of guests, staring. My mother’s face white. The
priest frozen mid-sentence. And me?

I stood there like a statue. Humiliated. Hollow. And oddly… calm.

I looked down at the bouquet in my hand. “I will throw it up, and I will marry whoever catches it”
I thought. And then, for reasons I still can’t explain, I tossed it.

The bright red roses soared through the air and landed at the feet of a man no one recognized—
filthy clothes, scruffy beard, watching from the back corner like he didn’t belong.

He picked them up.

And before I could talk myself out of it, I walked straight toward him.

“You caught the flowers,” I said, my voice sharper than it should’ve been. “Congratulations.”

His eyes were dark. Intense. But kind. “Excuse me?”

“Will you marry me,” I said.

Gasps. A few nervous laughs. Someone dropped their champagne glass.

But I didn’t care.

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Because in that moment—standing in a designer dress with my pride in pieces—I refused to let
that altar define me.

“I’m serious,” I said. “will you marry me or not?”

The man looked at me like he saw something no one else did. Not pity. Not mockery. Just…
stillness.

Then he nodded. “Yes.”

And that’s how I ended up marrying a stranger who looked like he hadn’t eaten in days—on the
same day the man I loved left me over a phone call.

The whispers started before the priest even found his voice again.

“She’s lost it.”

“She’s marrying a homeless man?”

“Is this a joke?”

Maybe it was. Maybe life was just one cruel joke dressed in white lace and shattered
expectations.

But I didn’t flinch.

I stood at the altar beside a man whose name I still didn’t know. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak.
He just looked at me with an unreadable expression, as if trying to decide whether I was bold,
broken, or both.

I guess I was both.

The priest cleared his throat. “Miss Hart… are you sure—”

“Yes,” I said.

My voice didn’t waver. My pride wouldn’t let it. And maybe deep down, I just needed to feel like
I had control over something—anything.

He looked at the man beside me. “And you, sir… do you agree to take this woman as your wife?”

There was a pause.

A long one.

His gaze didn’t leave mine. His voice, when it finally came, was low. Rough. And steady.

“I do.”

It was the most ridiculous, reckless, and impulsive decision I had ever made.

But when I slid that ring on his finger—my ex-fiancé’s discarded band—I felt strangely… free.

Not happy. Not healed.

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But free.

He didn’t kiss me after.

He didn’t hold my hand.

He just walked beside me as we left the altar together, two strangers tethered by desperation,
pride, and a marriage that made no sense at all.

I didn’t even ask his name until we reached the back steps of the chapel.

“What do I call you?” I asked.

He hesitated for a second before saying, “Jace.”

Just that. Jace. No last name.

“You hungry, Jace?”

He blinked. “A little.”

“Well,” I said, brushing off my dress, “you married a mess. But I make a killer grilled cheese.”

His lips twitched. Almost a smile.

And so I walked down the church steps in heels that hurt like hell, with mascara running down
my cheeks and a stranger by my side who smelled like the streets.

Not realizing I had just married a man worth more than a hundred lifetimes of everything I’d just
lost.

Not knowing my life hadn’t ended that day.

It had just begun.

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 Chapter One
I woke up in a silk robe, a diamond ring on my finger, and a legally binding marriage certificate on
the kitchen counter.

No fairytale glow. No soft morning-after kisses. Just reality—loud, messy, and quietly mocking
me.

The silence in my penthouse was almost offensive. It stretched between the clinks of my spoon
against a coffee mug, reminding me that I’d married a total stranger less than twelve hours ago.

Jace.

He hadn’t said much last night. Just followed me home like a shadow—calm, quiet, unreadable.
I’d given him the guest room, handed him a towel, pointed to the shower, and left him to it.

I didn’t expect to see him this morning. I thought maybe he’d vanish in the night, take the ring,
and disappear back into the shadows of the city where I found him.

But then I turned around.

And almost dropped my damn mug.

The man standing in my kitchen was not the scruffy, bearded stray I’d married yesterday. No.

This man?

He was dangerous.

He wore one of my ex boyfriend’s tailored suits that I kept in the back closet—black, sharp,
expensive, and somehow tighter across his broad shoulders than I remembered. The tattoos
running along his hands peeked from under the cuffs. Clean-shaven jaw. Dark hair still wet from
the shower. Sharp cheekbones. Full lips. And eyes that looked like they could cut glass if they
wanted to.

He wasn’t just handsome.

He was beautiful.
And he radiated power, even barefoot.

I blinked, stunned, my brain trying to reconcile the man in front of me with the one who stood at
the back of my wedding just a day ago with holes in his shirt.

“Good morning,” he said casually, pouring himself coffee like this was normal. Like he belonged
here.

“What the hell…” I whispered, more to myself than him.

He smirked. “Surprised?”

“That’s not… how you looked yesterday.”

“Guess soap and a razor do wonders.”

I swallowed, because damn. They really did.

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“You—” I cleared my throat. “You clean up… well.”

“I figured if I’m going to be someone’s husband, I should try to look the part.”

I hated that my stomach flipped. That I was very aware of the way his dress shirt hugged his
body. That his voice was now smoother, like warm whiskey instead of gravel.

“So, uh…” I tried not to let my eyes drop to his chest again. Or his arms. Or the sharp cut of his
jaw that looked criminally edible now that it wasn’t hiding under that scruff. “You found the
suits.”

He sipped his coffee like we were discussing the weather. “The closet was open.”

Of course it was. The one thing I forgot to close.

“My ex boyfriend's,” I said, nodding toward the suit he wore. “But now he got away from me.”

Jace’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shifted—like he filed the detail away in
that steel-trap mind of his. “Fits like it was made for me.”

I hated how true that was.

The man looked like a damn model for billion-dollar fashion campaigns. It was deeply unfair.

“Don’t get used to it,” I muttered, turning my back to him under the excuse of getting more
coffee. “This whole thing… it’s temporary.”

I felt his gaze settle on me from behind, calm but heavy. “I assumed.”

There was a pause. I hated how aware I was of his presence in the room—how the air felt
warmer, thicker, like he dragged heat with him.

“You regret it yet?” he asked quietly.

I froze, fingers gripping the edge of the counter. The question wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t mocking.
Just simple. Honest.

I thought about yesterday—the whispers, the pity, the cameras already circling my family’s
downfall. I thought about the way my ex walked away like love was a transaction and I’d
defaulted.

“No,” I said, surprising myself. “I don’t.”

Jace didn’t respond right away. When I finally turned to face him again, he was watching me like
he could see through my skin.

“I figured you were either incredibly brave,” he said, voice low, “or incredibly heartbroken.”

“Maybe both,” I said.

He nodded once. Then set down his cup.

“I’ll be out of your way soon,” he said, tone calm. “You don’t need to worry. I don’t expect
anything. No strings. No pressure.”

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But that wasn’t what bothered me.

What bothered me was that he wasn’t asking for anything. That he seemed so unbothered. So…
in control.

“Who are you, really?” I asked suddenly.

He tilted his head. “Your husband. Legally, anyway.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No,” he said quietly, “it’s not.”

But he didn’t give me anything more.

Instead, he set down the empty coffee cup and started toward the door.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Out.”

I blinked. “Out where?”

He turned, and something dark flickered in his eyes. “To get a job.”

My mouth dropped open. “A job?”

“Unless you’re planning on paying your fake husband to sit around and look good,” he said, voice
smooth with just enough edge to make my skin tighten, “I figured I should start pulling my
weight.”

Then he smirked, just a little, like he knew exactly what effect he had.

And walked out, leaving me speechless in my own damn kitchen.

The door clicked shut behind him, and I just stood there like an idiot in a silk robe and a storm of
questions.

A job?
Was he serious?

Most men would’ve jumped at the chance to freeload in a penthouse, especially one they’d
mysteriously married into. Not him. Jace had barely touched the guest bed, wore silence like
armor, and acted like I was the one intruding on his life.

It was infuriating.

And strangely… attractive.

God, I hated that.

I wasn’t the kind of woman who let herself get distracted by a jawline. Especially not after the
public disaster that was my wedding. I was supposed to be focused—on saving my family’s

6
company, repairing the damage, clawing my way back from the humiliation.

But there I was, replaying the image of Jace buttoning that black suit like it belonged to him.
Like he was used to power.
Not begging for scraps.

Something didn’t add up.

No street beggar walked with the kind of confidence he did—measured, controlled, like the
world owed him something. He’d moved through my home with ease, touched nothing but
noticed everything. Even the way he scanned the room… sharp, calculated.

Not desperate.

Strategic.

I wasn’t sure what that meant yet.

But I was going to find out.

Later that day, I sat in my office—what used to be my father’s—staring at the stack of legal
documents piled on my desk. Half the board was threatening to resign. The other half was
circling like vultures, waiting for me to make a mistake they could use to vote me out.

And then there was the press.

“Runaway groom leaves heiress at altar during bankruptcy scandal.”

“Liliana Hart Marries Unknown Man in Wedding Meltdown.”

I could practically hear the reporters banging on the glass.

I closed my laptop, shoved the headlines away, and focused on one thing: damage control.

But before I could make a single call, my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

I hesitated.

Then picked up.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

My breath caught. “Jace?”

“Yeah. Just wanted to let you know I got the job.”

I blinked. “What job?”

“Security. Downtown.”

“You… you’ve been gone three hours.”

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“I’m fast.”

There was a faint smirk in his tone that made me want to throw something at the wall.

“What security company?” I asked, already suspicious.

“It’s private,” he said simply. “Elite clients.”

Of course it was.

He paused, then added, “Don’t worry. I won’t bring attention to your name. I told them I was just
a guy who got lucky.”

My heart skipped. “You don’t strike me as someone who believes in luck.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I believe in timing.”

And then he hung up.

Just like that.

No explanation. No follow-up.

By the time Jace came home, the sky was dark and the city lights were casting soft golden
reflections against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I was curled up on the couch in my robe, pretending to read a report but really just listening for
the click of the door.

I told myself it wasn’t because I was curious. Or worried. Or ridiculously drawn to him in a way I
couldn’t explain.
I told myself a lot of things these days.

The door opened like it belonged to him.

He stepped in with that same calm stride, like he wasn’t walking into the apartment of the
woman he’d married twelve hours ago on a whim.

“I didn’t expect you back so late,” I said.

He looked at me like I’d surprised him. “You thought I wouldn’t come back at all.”

“No.”
Yes.
Maybe.

He didn’t respond. Just tossed his keys into the tray by the door like he’d lived here his entire life.
His sleeves were rolled up, veins snaking down his forearms. The faint bruises on his knuckles
didn’t escape my attention.

“Rough first day?” I asked, nodding toward his hand.

He looked down, flexed his fingers. “Client got aggressive.”

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I frowned. “And you still have a job?”

“I’m good at what I do.”

I set the report down. “You’ve done security before?”

A pause. Barely a beat. But I caught it.

“A while back,” he said. “Feels natural.”

Too natural. Too polished. The way he carried himself, the way his eyes never stopped moving—
even when relaxed. It was more than instinct. It was training.

I studied him quietly, but he didn’t flinch under my gaze. Didn’t squirm or deflect.

He let me look.

“Hungry?” I asked finally, pushing off the couch.

He raised a brow. “You’re cooking?”

“I own a fully stocked kitchen,” I said dryly. “Might as well use it.”

He chuckled under his breath, then followed me into the kitchen.

For a while, we just existed in silence. The warm scent of butter and garlic filled the air. I could
feel him behind me, not too close, but close enough to make my skin buzz.

“You’re different from most rich girls,” he said, leaning against the counter.

I glanced back. “That’s supposed to be a compliment?”

“It is.”

I set the pasta to boil and turned to him. “You keep calling me rich, but if you read a headline
lately, you’ll know I’m pretty much a breath away from bankruptcy.”

He looked at me, quiet again. “Yeah, but you still gave a stranger your last name.”

“It’s mine,” I said. “Not my ex’s. Not my father’s. Mine.”

A spark of something passed through his eyes—interest, maybe. Respect.

“And you didn’t even hesitate,” he said. “Back at that church.”

I swallowed. “You were there. You saw what he did.”

“Still,” Jace murmured. “It takes something rare to stand in front of a hundred people and make
a different choice when everything falls apart.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

So I stirred the pasta.

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When I finally turned, I caught him watching me—not just admiring me, but studying. Like he
was looking for all the pieces that made me tick. Like he’d already figured some of them out.

“Stop doing that,” I said softly.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like you know me.”

“Don’t I?” he asked. “We’re married, after all.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Please. You don’t even know what I like for breakfast.”

“Scrambled eggs. No toast. Black coffee.”

I stilled.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just sipped his water like he hadn’t just blown my mind.

“How do you know that?”

“I watched.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. Before the wedding. You sat outside the chapel alone for fifteen minutes.”

I blinked. “You were watching me before you came inside?”

“I was going to leave,” he said. “But then you threw the bouquet.”

My heart skipped.

And there it was again—that strange, tangled thing in my chest. Something between fear and
fascination.

I should’ve felt uneasy.

A strange man knowing what I ate for breakfast, watching me from the shadows before I even
knew his name?

But I didn’t feel afraid.

That was the scariest part.

I felt seen. As if someone had finally looked past the headlines, the perfectly curated image of
Liliana Hart—the polished heiress, the broken bride—and caught a glimpse of the woman
underneath.

“You watched me,” I said quietly.

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t explain.

“What else did you see?”

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His gaze lingered on mine. “You looked like someone who’d been holding everything together for
far too long.”

That hit harder than I wanted it to.

I looked away, heart thudding, breath snagging.

“You didn’t throw the bouquet by accident,” he added.

“No,” I said softly. “I didn’t.”

Silence stretched between us—thick, charged, intimate.

I didn’t know how to respond to this version of him. Cleaned up, shaved, wearing my ex-fiancé’s
abandoned suit like it was made for him. Gone was the scruffy stranger from the church steps.
This man—this Jace—stood tall, sharp-jawed, and devastatingly composed.

Even with nothing but his body language, he radiated power.

Control.

Like someone who knew how to lead men. Or command them.

“How did you end up on that church step?” I asked, voice softer now. “You don’t belong there.”

His jaw tensed slightly. “Don’t I?”

“You’re hiding something.”

He smiled then, but it wasn’t warm. It was bitter. “Aren’t we all?”

My pulse quickened. I didn’t want to push too hard—not yet. But there was something about
Jace that pulled at my instincts.

A puzzle missing its edge pieces.

I turned back to the pasta, scooped some into a bowl, and slid it across the island toward him.

“Eat,” I said.

He picked up the fork slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he should.

“Still don’t trust me?” he asked.

“I don’t trust anyone,” I replied. “Especially the ones who smile with their secrets still bleeding
through their teeth.”

He let out a low chuckle, but there was no amusement in it. “Smart girl.”

I stepped back, leaning against the counter, arms folded. “You said earlier you were going to find
a job. But something tells me you didn’t need one.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just took a slow bite of the pasta and looked at me like I was the

11
one being studied now.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because men who need jobs don’t come back with bruised knuckles and a suit that fits like it
was tailored this morning.”

His gaze darkened—just slightly.

Then he smiled again. “I’m not used to anyone noticing the details.”

“I’m not like most people.”

“No,” he said quietly, eyes steady. “You’re not.”

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