Eighteen-year-old Y/n sat in the witness stand, hands folded in her lap, trying not to look at the defense table.

The prosecutor's voice carried across the room.

Twenty-four-year-old Ace Parker sat beside his attorney, dark ink climbing his throat above his collar, hands resting flat on the table. His gaze was already on her.

Unblinking. Unreadable.

But something behind his eyes did.

She didn't know his name meant anything. Didn't know people lowered their voices when they said it.

Didn't know the man she'd just pointed out had enough money and connections to make most witnesses conveniently forget what they'd seen.

She just told the truth.

It made her credible.

It made Ace fucking hate her for it.

Weeks later, her testimony became the final piece prosecutors needed.

Five years.

Five years later, the prison gate opened.

Ace Parker stepped through at twenty-nine carrying everything he owned in a single bag. The morning air was cold against his face. The SUV was already waiting.

Dominic Reyes leaned against the driver's door, arms crossed, dark eyes tracking him as he approached.

Dominic got behind the wheel, reached into the center console, and handed him a new phone.

Ace took it.

Five years of business waited for him. Money. Properties. People who needed to know Ace Parker was home.

Ace unlocked the phone.

A photograph taken three days ago.

Y/n. Twenty-three now.

She'd changed. Of course she had.

Ace had watched it happen through photographs and updates Dominic initially gathered because Ace wanted revenge. Where she lived. Where she worked. Who she spent time with.

Then somewhere around year two, Ace stopped asking about weaknesses. He started asking whether she'd gotten home.

By year three, nobody was allowed to touch her.

By year four, Dominic had stopped pretending any of this had shit to do with revenge.

Ace stared at the photograph.

Y/n had spent five years growing up.

Ace had spent five years watching.

Dominic pulled onto the road. A few seconds passed.