Undercover Hate

Chapter Twenty: When Harry Pretended to Date Sally

When I wake up, everything feels out of place. For one, I'm still in my dress from last night, a long, shimmering red gown that now clings uncomfortably to my skin. The fabric is wrinkled, and I feel sticky, my hair tangled from tossing and turning. I rub my eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, and when I roll over, I see him.

Ace.

He's already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, scrolling through something on his phone. His jaw is set, his focus entirely on whatever task has his attention. There's no trace of the man who danced with me, who held me in his arms, who let his guard down for a split second. This Ace is all business.

I stretch, feeling a sharp twinge in my back from sleeping in the damn gown, and groan softly. "Hey," I murmur, my voice still groggy.

Ace glances up briefly, his eyes flicking over me with little interest. "Morning," he says, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. I feel a pang of guilt, remembering our fight and the reckless way I acted last night. I need to apologize—again.

"Ace..." I start, shifting uncomfortably. "About last night. I'm sorry. I know I messed up. I shouldn't have been drinking like that, and I wasn't focused."

He doesn't respond immediately, his gaze dropping back to his phone. The silence stretches on, making my heart thud uncomfortably in my chest.

"I'm serious," I press. "I know this mission is important, and I'll do better. I'll lock in."

Finally, he sighs, setting his phone down on the bedside table. "It's fine," he says, but the way he says it makes it clear it's not fine. "We've got work to do. Just focus on that."

The dismissiveness stings. I want to push for more, but I know it'll only make things worse. He's already pulling away, and it feels like he's retreating to his emotional fortress—strong, cold, and impenetrable.

I sit up, trying to shake off the feelings of inadequacy. "Can you... can you unzip me?" I ask, my voice smaller than I intended.

His eyes meet mine, and there's a flicker of something—hesitation, maybe. But then he nods and moves closer, his fingers brushing against the zipper at the back of my dress. The touch is gentle, almost too gentle for someone so stoic.

His knuckles graze my spine as he pulls the zipper down, and to my shock, a shiver runs down my back. I freeze. The way his hands feel, the way his touch lingers on my skin—it's unexpected, confusing. His hands are steady, methodical, yet the sensation is almost electric, sending a wave of goosebumps down my arms.

"Thanks," I mutter, standing up quickly before I can let my thoughts spiral. I can't afford to overthink this. Not now.

I retreat into the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind me, and catch my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, and I shake my head in disbelief. No. I refuse to let a simple touch affect me. Not when we've got bigger things to worry about.

I strip off the dress and slip into my usual gear—black, tight-fitting pants, a leather jacket, boots. My armor. I brush my teeth with an almost aggressive energy, determined to wash away the awkwardness and guilt clinging to me.

I stare at myself in the mirror for a moment longer, gripping the edge of the sink. My reflection looks... different. Disheveled, yes, but there's something else—something behind my eyes that I can't quite place. I'm exhausted. Physically, emotionally. Everything feels too much, but there's no time for weakness. Not when I need to be sharp for the mission. Not when Ace is counting on me, even if he won't admit it.

The black dress pools at my feet, a reminder of the night before—of missteps and mistakes I'd rather forget. I slip into my standard outfit, the leather jacket fitting like a second skin. The familiarity of it brings a small comfort. It's like armor, keeping the world at bay. My combat boots lace up tight, the soles hitting the bathroom tile with a satisfying thud.