Morning After — Paris
I woke to the peaceful kind—the charged, watchful kind that presses against your chest and reminds you that something has shifted.
The light was wrong. Pale. Paris-gray instead of gold. The curtains were still half-open, the city blurred beyond the glass, distant and indifferent. My body felt heavy in a way sleep alone couldn't explain—weighted with memory, with consequence.
Then it came back to me.
Xander.The hotel.The wine left untouched on the table.His mouth on my skin.My hands in his hair.The way he'd said my name like it was both a warning and a confession.
I turned slowly.
The other side of the bed was empty.
Cold.
My chest tightened before my thoughts could catch up. I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest, heart racing—not from regret alone, but from something sharper. Something more unsettling.
Absence.
From the bathroom came the muted sound of running water. A door closing. Movements measured, efficient.
Control being reassembled.
Of course.
Xander Reyes didn't wake up tangled in consequences.He woke up and fortified.
When he emerged, he was fully dressed—not yesterday's clothes, but fresh, immaculate. Dark shirt, sleeves buttoned, watch secured at his wrist. His hair was still damp. His expression smooth, composed, distant.
As if nothing had happened.As if I hadn't shattered something we couldn't put back together.
"Good morning," he said calmly.
I stared at him.
That was it?
My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "Is it?"
A pause. Brief. Controlled.
"We need to leave for the estate in an hour," he said, already checking his phone. "Traffic will be heavier this morning."
No mention of last night.No acknowledgment.No aftermath.
The space between us wasn't physical.
It was deliberate.
I swung my legs off the bed, anger burning through the ache in my chest. "So that's it?"
His eyes flicked to me then—sharp, assessing. "That's what?"
I stood, the sheet slipping just enough to remind him—us—of exactly what he was pretending not to see.
"What happened," I said. "Or are we filing that under poor judgment and moving on?"
Something tightened in his jaw. He looked away first.
"That," he said evenly, "was a mistake."
The word landed harder than I expected.
"A mistake," I repeated, quieter now.
"Yes." He met my gaze again, and this time there was something dangerous beneath the calm. "One we don't repeat."
My throat burned. "Because of Connor."
He didn't answer.
"And you?" I pressed. "Was I a mistake too?"
He stepped closer—not touching, not softening—but near enough that I felt his presence like pressure against my skin.
"No," he said quietly. "You were a risk."
That was worse.
I laughed once, sharp and hollow. "So you slept with me, and now you're back to strategy."
"I never left it."
I turned away before he could see how much that hurt.
"Congratulations," I said, grabbing my clothes. "You win. You're still in control."
"Amaiyla—"
"No." I spun back, eyes blazing. "Don't say my name like you care. Don't pretend this was mutual detachment. You don't get to erase what happened just because it doesn't fit your plan."
For a fraction of a second, his expression cracked.
"You think this doesn't cost me?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," I shot back. "I do. Because you're already armored. I'm the one bleeding."
Silence slammed down between us.
Then—measured, restrained—he said, "Connor will find out."
I froze.
"And when he does," Xander continued, "they'll use it. Against you. Against him. Against me."
"So you punish me first?" I whispered.
"I protect you," he corrected.
By pretending you don't want me.By acting like last night didn't matter.
My voice broke despite my effort. "You don't get to decide that alone."
His gaze dropped—to my lips, my throat, the place where his mouth had been only hours ago.
Desire flared. Unmistakable.
Then he stepped back.
That hurt most of all.
"We'll discuss logistics at breakfast," he said coolly. "Get dressed."
And just like that, he walked out.
Later — Breakfast
The dining room felt colder than the bedroom.
We sat across from each other like diplomats after a ceasefire neither side trusted. He read reports. I stirred my coffee too long.
Every accidental brush of knees was avoided. Every glance cut short.
And yet—
Every part of me still remembered him.
Across the room, a woman laughed softly.
Tammy Veraga.
She stood near the window, effortlessly elegant, watching us with too much interest to be coincidence. Her gaze moved between us—measuring, cataloging.
Noticing.
Calculating.
When our eyes met, she smiled. Warm. Open. Disarming.
As if she already knew.
And somehow, I was certain of one thing:
Whatever space Xander was trying to create between us—It wouldn't last.
Because the distance wasn't cooling the fire.
It was feeding it.
...
(Paris — Late Morning)
Tammy Veraga chose her moment carefully.
She didn't approach right away. She waited until Xander was pulled aside by a call—his posture stiffening, his voice dropping, attention diverted just long enough to leave me exposed.
Alone.Unshielded.Perfect.
"Mind if I join you?"
Her voice was smooth, unthreatening. Warm in a way that felt practiced—but never false.
I looked up. She was already holding a coffee cup, already positioned like she belonged at the table.
"I don't think we've been introduced," I said carefully.
She smiled. "Tammy."
No last name. Deliberate.
"Amaiyla."
"I know." Her eyes flicked—briefly, deliberately—toward Xander. "Hard not to."
The way she said it made my stomach tighten.
She sat across from me without waiting for permission.
"Paris suits you," she said. "Though you look… distracted."
I straightened. "Do I?"
She tilted her head, assessing. "Like someone who slept poorly. Or too well."
My fingers tightened around my cup. "You don't waste time."
Tammy laughed softly. "Life's too short for polite circling. Especially in families like ours."
That landed harder than it should have.
"Our families?" I asked.
She studied me—measured, curious, cataloging—then said, "You're John Hollingsworth's daughter. That makes us adjacent whether we like it or not."
I exhaled slowly. "Then you know this marriage isn't my choice."
Her smile didn't falter—but her eyes sharpened.
"No," she said. "It rarely is."
I looked away. Hearing it from her made it feel older. Structural.
"You don't strike me as someone who accepts things quietly," she continued.
"I don't," I said. "Not anymore."
"Good." She leaned in just slightly. "Because your father didn't raise a pawn. He raised leverage."
My pulse jumped. "You don't know my father."
Tammy held my gaze. "I know men like him."
The silence between us thickened.
Then, casually—too casually—she asked,"Did he explain why Xander, specifically?"
My chest tightened. "Because it was… convenient."
"Convenient," she echoed. "That's one word for it."
"What's the other?" I asked.
Her smile returned—but this time it didn't reach her eyes.
"Necessary."
Footsteps approached.
Xander.
His presence altered the air instantly—controlled, alert. His gaze went straight to Tammy.
"Enjoying your conversation?" he asked.
"Immensely," Tammy replied smoothly. "Your fiancée is… perceptive."
His jaw tightened. Just enough for me to notice.
"She's also not here to be interrogated," he said.
Tammy rose gracefully. "Of course. I'd hate to cross lines."
Her eyes returned to me—gentler now. Almost kind.
"We should talk again," she said quietly. "Soon."
Then she walked away.
I turned to Xander. "She knows something."
He didn't deny it.
"She knows how to ask questions," he said. "That's not the same thing."
"You don't believe that," I said.
His eyes darkened. "No. I don't."
We stood there, tension coiled and unsaid.
"What aren't you telling me?" I asked.
He hesitated.
That was answer enough.
Ending Beat
Across the room, Tammy paused near the window, watching our reflections in the glass.
Not smiling.
Calculating.
The first move had been made.
And I had the sudden, chilling sense that my father wasn't the only one playing a long game.