Amaiyla — POV
Paris changed at night.
It softened. The sharp edges dulled, lights bleeding into gold and shadow, as if the city itself understood that some truths were easier to face once daylight loosened its grip.
I stood on the balcony again—barefoot this time, silk robe loose against my legs, the cold stone leaching up into my skin. Somewhere below, laughter drifted through the streets. Life continuing. Uncomplicated. Untouched.
Behind me, the suite was quiet.
Too quiet.
I knew Xander was there. I always did. I felt him the way I'd learned to—like a shift in gravity, like the room subtly reordering itself around his presence.
"You're going to catch a cold," he said at last.
I smiled faintly. "You always sound like that when you're worried."
"I'm not worried."
I turned slowly.
He stood near the doorway, sleeves rolled back, dark shirt open at the collar. No jacket. No tie. No armor. Just him—and somehow that made everything more dangerous.
"You're lying," I said.
His jaw tightened. "You're provoking."
"Maybe," I admitted. "Or maybe I'm tired of pretending we don't both know what tonight is."
His gaze locked onto mine, unwavering. "Tonight is the last night."
"Yes."
"And you're engaged."
"Yes."
The words hung between us, heavy, undeniable. There was no space left to soften them.
"Then don't come closer," he said quietly.
I didn't move.
Neither did he.
The space between us vibrated—tight, electric, like a held breath stretched too long.
"Connor called earlier," I said suddenly.
That did it.
Not a break—just a fracture. Fine as glass. But I saw it. His shoulders went rigid, his expression sharpening into something darker. More dangerous.
"And?" he asked.
"And I didn't answer."
His gaze dropped—to my mouth—before he caught himself.
"Why tell me that?" he asked.
"Because I don't want you thinking this is carelessness," I said. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
He took one step toward me.
"I told you," he said, voice low, strained, "I don't want to be another mistake you justify later."
I swallowed. "You're not."
"You don't know that."
"I do," I said softly. "Because I've never felt like this before."
The truth left me too easily.
That scared me more than anything else.
He exhaled slowly, like a man standing at the edge of something he'd sworn never to fall into.
"This will complicate everything," he said.
"I know."
"It will hurt people."
"I know."
"And I won't pretend this means nothing afterward."
That was what broke me.
"Good," I whispered. "I don't want it to mean nothing."
He crossed the room in two strides.
His hands framed my face—firm, careful, like he was committing me to memory even as he fought the instinct to pull away. His forehead rested against mine, breath warm, uneven.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
I didn't.
I kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It was urgent—months of restraint collapsing into one reckless, perfect decision. His response was immediate, hands sliding into my hair, holding me like he was afraid I might vanish if he loosened his grip.
The world narrowed to heat and breath and the way my name sounded when he said it like that.
He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me inside, the balcony doors closing behind us with a soft, final sound. My robe slipped from my shoulders, forgotten, and his mouth followed the path it left—slow, deliberate, reverent enough to make my chest ache.
"This isn't conquest," he murmured against my skin. "This is choice."
I pulled him closer. "Then choose me."
That was all it took.
The night fractured into moments—his hands mapping me like something precious, the way he moved with disciplined intensity, like even now he was fighting not to lose himself.
But he did.
So did I.
Afterward, tangled in sheets that smelled like us, Paris glowing faintly beyond the glass, reality crept back in.
I traced a hesitant line along his shoulder. "What happens tomorrow?"
He didn't answer right away.
When he did, his voice was quiet. Honest.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we face what this costs."
I nodded, throat tight.
Because for the first time, the guilt didn't outweigh the truth.
And the truth was this—
No matter what came next…
Paris had already changed us.
...
Amaiyla — POV
Morning After — The Cost of Wanting
Morning came quietly.
No dramatic sunrise. No cinematic clarity. Just pale Parisian light slipping through the curtains, settling over skin that still remembered the night before.
I woke slowly—aware first of warmth, then weight.
Xander.
He lay beside me, one arm draped over my waist like it belonged there. Like it had always known the shape of me. His breathing was steady, controlled even in sleep, brow faintly furrowed as if his mind never fully surrendered.
For a moment, I didn't move.
I let the truth settle.
We crossed a line.
Not impulsively.Not recklessly.
Deliberately.Carefully.
And somehow… irreversibly.
I shifted slightly, testing the space.
His arm tightened instantly—reflexive. Possessive.
"You're awake," he said, voice low, rough with sleep.
I stilled. "Yes."
He opened his eyes.
There was no softness in his gaze this morning. No teasing. No denial. Just sharp awareness—and something heavier beneath it.
Like last night had clarified rather than confused him.
Neither of us spoke.
Then he withdrew his arm and sat up, turning his back to me, elbows resting on his knees. The distance rang louder than any argument.
"That can't happen again," he said.
The words struck hard and clean.
I pushed myself upright, pulling the sheet tighter around me. "You don't mean that."
"I mean exactly that."
"Then don't talk to me like it was a mistake," I snapped. "You don't get to rewrite last night because the sun came up."
He turned slowly, eyes dark. "I'm not rewriting it. I'm containing it."
"Containing?" I scoffed. "Like everything else in your life?"
His jaw flexed. "Like something that could destroy more than just us."
Anger flared—hot, sharp—tangled with something more fragile. "You're acting like I dragged you into something you didn't want."
"I wanted it," he said immediately.
Too immediately.
"That's the problem."
The admission lingered between us.
"Xander…" I started.
He stood, pacing once before stopping at the window, as if he needed physical distance just to think.
"You're engaged," he said quietly. "To a man who's already unstable about this arrangement."
"You think I don't know that?"
"And your father—"
"My father doesn't get to decide what last night meant," I cut in.
He turned then, eyes sharp. "He already has."
That landed deeper than I expected.
I swallowed. "And what about you? What does it mean to you?"
For the first time since I'd known him—
He hesitated.
"That," he said finally, "is what I'm trying to keep from becoming dangerous."
I stared at him. "You think caring is dangerous?"
"I think caring makes people exploitable."
There it was.
The truth he never said outright.
I stood, reaching for the robe draped over the chair. "You don't get to pretend last night weakened you. It didn't. It scared you."
His lips thinned.
"Maybe," he said. "But fear keeps me sharp."
"And what does it do to me?" I asked quietly.
He didn't look away.
"It puts you at the center of something you didn't ask for," he said. "And I won't let that happen again."
I stepped closer. "You don't get to decide that alone."
His voice dropped. "That's where you're wrong."
The air tightened—charged, unresolved.
Then—
A knock.
Sharp. Intrusive. Final.
Xander's expression shifted instantly. Control snapping back into place like a blade sliding into its sheath.
"Yes?" he called.
"Breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes, Mr. Reyes," the staff said politely. "Ms. Veraga has joined the estate."
Tammy.
My stomach sank.
Xander closed his eyes briefly.
"This," he said quietly, turning back to me, "is why last night was a liability."
I lifted my chin. "Or a truth."
His gaze searched mine—something unreadable flickering there. Something unfinished.
"Get dressed," he said. "Paris ends today."
He reached the door, then paused.
Without turning back, he added softly—
"But don't mistake restraint for regret."
Then he was gone.
I stood there alone—heart racing, body still echoing with him, mind splintering under what came next.
Because if that was restraint—
I didn't want to see what happened when it broke.