Brittni paced the length of her luxury condo in the Gold Coast, her heels clicking frantically on the hardwood. She held the cheap engagement ring in her fist, the metal digging into her palm.
She remembered Ace's hands. They were rough, calloused, always stained with dust or paint. She had once found them charming, a sign of honest work. Recently, she had found them embarrassing to hold at industry mixers.
She opened Instagram again. She went to Jefferson's post-the one at Soho House.
There was a notification she had missed.
Ace_Builder liked your post.
Her blood turned to ice.
"He saw it," she whispered. "He saw everything."
The 'like' wasn't a mistake. It wasn't support. It was a goodbye note.
She dialed her executive assistant, Sarah.
"Track Ace Hubbard's social security number," Brittni ordered, her voice shaking. "I need to know where he went. Check the rental databases, check the Greyhound tickets."
Ten minutes later, her phone rang.
"Ma'am..." Sarah sounded terrified. "I... I can't."
"What do you mean you can't?"
"Ace Hubbard's records have been flagged," Sarah stammered. "I tried to run a credit check, and my screen went red. It says 'Classified Access Only.' I can't even access his tax history anymore. It's all gone."
"What do you mean flagged? He's a construction worker!" Brittni screamed.
"It's like he... like he's been erased, Brittni. Or like he never existed."
Brittni dropped the phone onto her silk sheets.
She felt a profound sense of insecurity wash over her. It wasn't just that he was gone; it was that the man she thought she knew was a ghost. She felt like she had lost an anchor she didn't realize was holding her steady.
Jefferson called again. She answered, her voice icy.
"Jefferson, did you see Ace today?"
"That loser? No. Why? Did he finally run out of rent money?" Jefferson laughed, a sharp, condescending sound.
"He's gone. And I think I made a mistake."
"Babe, you're just stressed about the IPO," Jefferson cooed. "Forget him. You're a queen. You don't need a peasant."
Brittni hung up. She walked to the mirror. She didn't look like a queen. She looked like a woman who had traded her soul for a social media tag.
At the Hubbard Estate, the heavy oak doors swung open.
Two silent footmen bowed as Ace stepped into the Grand Hall. The air was chilled, smelling of beeswax and old power.
Harve Hubbard stood at the end of the hall, beneath a massive chandelier. His arms were crossed.
To his right stood Jaiden, looking polished in a navy suit, his face twisted in a smirk.
To his left was Dosha. Her dark hair was sharp, her eyes predatory. She watched Ace like a cat watching a mouse.
"The prodigal returns," Jaiden said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Did you enjoy playing in the dirt?"
Ace didn't look at his father. He walked straight toward Jaiden. He stopped two feet away, invading his personal space.
"I'm not the prodigal, Jaiden," Ace said calmly. "I'm the landlord. And you're sitting in my house."
Jaiden's smile falters. His eyes narrowed.
"Enough," Harve boomed, stepping forward. His presence filled the room. "Let's eat. We have much to discuss regarding the Foley merger."
Ace turned and walked toward the dining room, leaving his brother standing in the hall, looking suddenly smaller.
