Paris — Two Days Remaining
Paris softened as the week thinned, the city loosening its grip as if even it understood endings.
Inside the estate, the rhythm had changed. Doors were left ajar instead of closed. Voices dropped when Amaiyla passed. Luggage sat half-packed in the corridor outside her room—obedient, unfinished, waiting for a decision no one had asked her to make.
Nothing here felt settled.
Amaiyla couldn't breathe in it anymore.
That was how she ended up in the winter garden.
It was the only place in the estate that still felt unsupervised—too exposed for secrets, too quiet for surveillance to linger long. Glass walls rose around her, misted faintly by the cold, the pale Paris sky pressing close overhead. She had come there to think. To slow the spiral tightening in her chest.
To remind herself she still had a body separate from plans.
She stood near the citrus trees, fingers brushing a leaf she hadn't planted, watching condensation slide down the glass like something trying to escape.
She didn't hear Tammy enter.
That, too, was intentional.
Tammy's Move — The Polite Knife
"You'll miss this," Tammy said lightly.
Amaiyla didn't startle—but her spine straightened.
Tammy stood several steps behind her, coat immaculate, posture relaxed, as if she belonged to the space. As if she had always known Amaiyla would come here when the walls closed in.
Her gaze lifted toward the ceiling, where the Paris sky hovered pale and distant. "It has a way of making people feel untouchable," Tammy added. "Glass does that. It convinces you you're protected."
Amaiyla didn't turn. "I don't miss places," she said. "I miss people."
Tammy smiled—slow, approving. Almost indulgent.
"That," she said, "is exactly what makes you dangerous."
Amaiyla's shoulders tightened. "Or disposable."
"Mm," Tammy hummed. "Only to men who confuse ownership with power."
Amaiyla turned then. "You're talking about my father."
"And your future husband," Tammy replied smoothly. "John Hollingsworth understands leverage. It's why he didn't hesitate."
"He didn't agree," Amaiyla said flatly. "He decided."
Tammy's eyes warmed—not with sympathy, but recognition. "Fathers so rarely see the difference."
Silence stretched between them—tight, deliberate, alive.
"How did you know I'd be here?" Amaiyla asked.
Tammy's smile didn't falter. "Because when women like you are about to be moved," she said, "they look for places no one thinks to guard."
That landed harder than any accusation.
"Why are you really here?" Amaiyla asked.
Tammy took a step closer—not invasive, not hurried. Precise.
"Because you're running out of time," she said softly, "to decide whether this marriage is something being done to you… or something you're willing to shape."
Amaiyla's breath caught. "You think I still have a choice?"
"I think," Tammy replied, her voice careful as a blade being turned in a steady hand, "that if you don't define the terms, your father already has."
Another step. Close enough now that Amaiyla could smell her perfume—clean, deliberate, expensive.
"Xander isn't your father," Tammy added. "But men inherit habits. He's trying very hard not to repeat his."
Amaiyla felt her pulse betray her, loud in her ears.
"And is he succeeding?" she asked.
Tammy's smile sharpened—not kind, not cruel. "That," she said, "depends on what you allow him to take from you before you leave Paris."
She stepped back then, giving Amaiyla space only after she had taken something else.
Tammy turned and walked away, heels echoing softly against the stone.
The sentence stayed behind.
Like a fingerprint on glass.
Restraint — The Almost
Amaiyla found Xander on the balcony after midnight.
Paris lay beneath them in shards of gold and shadow, the city restless, unrepentant. Xander stood with his back to her, jacket abandoned, sleeves pushed to his elbows as if he'd already stripped himself of defenses. The tension in him was visible—contained so tightly it had nowhere to go.
"You're quiet," she said.
"You're avoiding me," he replied, without turning.
The truth of it landed between them.
She stepped closer. The air shifted, sharpened.
"I'm trying not to complicate what's already ending."
A low sound escaped him—not quite a laugh. Bitter. Controlled."Paris doesn't wait for permission to ruin people."
They stood too close. Close enough that the absence of touch felt deliberate—almost cruel. Her breath brushed his shoulder. He didn't move away.
"You still think about him," Xander said suddenly.
Connor's name stayed unspoken. It didn't need to be said to exist.
Amaiyla held his reflection in the glass. "Guilt doesn't disappear just because desire shows up."
That made him turn.
Fully this time.
His eyes were dark now, stripped of polish, jaw set with something he refused to call jealousy. Or want.
"And what do you want," he asked quietly, "right now?"
Her pulse betrayed her.
"You," she said. No hesitation. "And that terrifies me."
For one suspended beat, he didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Then he stepped back—as if distance were an act of mercy.
"Good," he said evenly. "It should."
The restraint in his voice hurt more than anger would have.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
He looked at her like the truth cost something."Because my father taught me women like you exist to test men," he said. "And I need to know if he was right."
Her voice softened—not weak, but precise."By punishing me?"
"No," he said. "By punishing myself."
That was when she reached for him.
Not dramatic. Not pleading.Just honest.
Her fingers brushed his wrist—warm, grounding, real.
He went still.
The fracture wasn't loud.It never is.
But something in the space between them finally gave way.
The Crossing
It wasn't rushed.
That was what made it lethal.
They kissed like people who had already crossed the line—and were only now admitting it. Not frantic.
Not careless.
Measured.
Deep.
As if they were testing how much could be taken without breaking.
Amaiyla felt the control in him even as it slipped. The way his hands framed her instead of gripping. The way he paused, recalculated, then leaned in again—each choice deliberate, each hesitation its own confession.
This wasn't impulse.
It was decision.
The bedroom arrived without ceremony.
No door slammed.
No urgency shouted.
Just a quiet closing of space, of options.
There were no promises.No absolution.No pretending this was anything other than what it was.
Urgency braided with restraint.
Hands lingered longer than they should have. Touches asked permission even as they claimed ground. Foreheads pressed together—not for romance, but for anchoring. As if either of them might drift apart if they didn't hold still long enough to remember where they were.
Xander stopped once.
Just once.
His forehead rested against hers, breath uneven for the first time since she'd known him.
"If we do this," he breathed, thumb barely brushing her skin, "everything I've kept contained stops listening and i won't be able to pretend you don't matter."
Amaiyla didn't look away. Didn't soften the truth.
"It stopped being simple the moment you chose to protect me," she said.His voice was low. Steady. "And I chose to stop resisting and I chose to want you anyway"
That was the moment restraint failed—not explosively, but completely.
The door closed with a sound so soft it felt intentional.
Paris went on without them.
After — Before the Last Day
Amaiyla woke to pale morning light and the solid weight of Xander's arm across her waist.
For one suspended moment, the world narrowed.
No Connor.No father.No future demanding obedience or sacrifice.
Just warmth. Just breath. Just the quiet proof that this had happened.
Then reality crept back in—inevitable, unwelcome.
Xander was already awake, staring at the ceiling like a man inventorying damage.
"You regret it," she whispered, so close it felt like a secret they were both afraid to hear aloud.
"No," he said immediately. His hand tightened at her waist, betraying him.Then, slower, more honestly: "I fear what it changes."
She turned toward him, searching his face as if it might give her permission. "So do I."
He didn't pull away.He didn't tighten his hold either.
The space between those choices hummed—new, deliberate, charged.Restraint settled over them like a held breath, heavier than possession ever could have been.
Outside, Paris waited.Inside, nothing was where it had been.
...
Tammy watched them at breakfast.
Not openly. Not in any way that could be accused.
She watched reflections instead—the way Amaiyla's posture had shifted, no longer defensive but not relaxed either. The way Xander stood half a step closer than protocol allowed, close enough to register as instinct rather than intention.
They didn't touch.
That was the tell.
Amaiyla no longer filled the quiet with politeness. She let silences exist now, let them stretch until Xander was the one who adjusted—angling his body, lowering his voice, orienting himself toward her without realizing he was doing it.
And Xander—always precise, always measured—had stopped creating distance when he spoke to her. He didn't step back. He didn't claim space.
He held it.
Between them.
The air carried something unspoken but agreed upon. A shared awareness. A line crossed and carefully not crossed again.
The distance was different now.
Charged.
Intentional.
Dangerous.
Tammy lifted her cup, hiding her smile behind porcelain and steam.
Because control had never required obedience.
Obedience was crude. Temporary.
Attachment, once formed, rewired behavior from the inside out.
And attachment—
once awakened—
always demanded payment.