Polite Knives
Morning did not arrive gently.
It came sharp and white, sunlight slicing through the tall windows of the Paris estate like a blade drawn without warning. Amaiyla woke with the uneasy sense that something had already begun without her consent.
The sheets still smelled like him.
That alone disoriented her.
She dressed slowly, deliberately—choosing composure over comfort. By the time she stepped into the corridor, her heartbeat had steadied, but the awareness beneath her skin had not. The house was awake. Alert. Listening.
Xander waited near the staircase, immaculate as ever—jacket buttoned, posture precise, expression unreadable. If the night had marked him, he gave nothing away.
"You're late," he said calmly.
"I didn't know there was a schedule."
"There always is." A pause. Then, quieter: "Especially today."
That stopped her.
"Why today?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he guided her forward, his hand hovering just behind her back—not touching, but close enough to remind her he could.
The dining room doors stood open.
Tammy Veraga was already inside.
She wasn't seated. She never was. She stood near the windows, fingers resting lightly on the back of a chair, posture relaxed in a way that suggested dominance rather than ease. Her suit was pale—almost gentle in color—but the tailoring was sharp enough to cut.
Her gaze lifted the instant Amaiyla crossed the threshold.
Not surprised.
Expectant.
"Amaiyla Hollingsworth," Tammy said, smiling as though this were a reunion rather than a first meeting. "You look exactly like your father's contingency plans."
Amaiyla froze.
"Tammy," Xander said smoothly.
"Oh, relax," Tammy replied lightly. "It's a compliment. John always plans for worst-case scenarios. Children included."
She extended her hand.
Amaiyla took it, grip steady despite the warning bells in her head. "You must be Tammy Veraga."
"Inconveniently memorable, yes."
They released hands. Tammy gestured to the table.
"Please. Sit. I dislike interrogating people on an empty stomach."
Interrogating.
The word lingered.
They sat—Amaiyla across from Tammy, Xander at the head. The placement was deliberate. Tammy noticed everything: posture, distance, the subtle way Xander's chair angled toward Amaiyla without him seeming aware of it.
Breakfast arrived. Staff vanished. Doors closed.
The room quieted.
Tammy lifted her cup. "So," she said pleasantly, "how was Paris last night?"
Amaiyla swallowed. "Quiet."
Tammy smiled. "That's not what quiet looks like."
Xander stiffened. "You're crossing a line."
Tammy didn't look at him. "I'm mapping terrain."
Her gaze returned to Amaiyla. "Did you sleep?"
"Yes."
"With regret?" Tammy asked gently.
Amaiyla's fingers tightened around her fork. "Is that relevant?"
"Everything emotional is relevant when power is involved."
Xander leaned forward. "You invited us to breakfast—not a deposition."
"And yet," Tammy said calmly, "here you are."
She sipped her coffee.
"Amaiyla," she continued, "do you believe your engagement is meant to protect you?"
Amaiyla hesitated.
Xander's gaze burned into her—warning and plea intertwined.
"I think," Amaiyla said slowly, "it's meant to protect my father."
Tammy's smile sharpened. "Excellent. Awareness is rare."
"That's enough," Xander said.
"No," Tammy replied softly. "It isn't."
She leaned back, folding her hands. "Your father didn't choose Xander because he's powerful. He chose him because he's controllable."
Xander's jaw tightened. "Careful."
"By people like me," Tammy continued, unbothered. "And men like your father."
The walls felt closer now.
"So what am I?" Amaiyla asked quietly. "The price?"
Tammy studied her. "You're the leverage."
Silence slammed into the room.
Xander stood abruptly. "We're done."
For the first time, Tammy looked at him—really looked.
"Sit down," she said.
He didn't.
"You're performing," Tammy continued evenly. "And you're very good at it. The devoted fiancé. The shield. The strategist."
Her eyes flicked to Amaiyla.
"But performances crack under intimacy."
"You don't know anything about us," Amaiyla said, pulse roaring.
Tammy smiled slowly. "I know you didn't come down the stairs together."
Xander went perfectly still.
"And yet," Tammy added, "you smell like each other."
The words shattered the air.
Amaiyla stood. "This is inappropriate."
"Of course it is," Tammy agreed. "That's why it's useful."
Her tone shifted—no softness left.
"Your father believes obedience keeps you safe," Tammy said. "Xander believes proximity does. Connor believed love would."
Amaiyla flinched.
"Three men," Tammy continued, "three strategies. None of them asked what you would choose."
"I did," Xander said tightly.
Tammy's gaze snapped to him. "Did you?"
A beat.
He didn't answer.
Something cracked open in Amaiyla's chest.
"I'm not a test," she said quietly. "And I'm not a shield."
Tammy's expression flickered—approval, brief but real.
"No," she agreed. "You're the variable."
She stood, smoothing her jacket. "Which makes you dangerous."
Amaiyla swallowed. "What do you want from me?"
Tammy stepped closer, voice dropping.
"I want you to question your father," she said. "Publicly or privately—I don't care. I want him unsettled."
"Why?"
"Because men like John Hollingsworth," Tammy said softly, "only tell the truth when they think they're losing control."
Xander stepped in front of Amaiyla—not aggressive, but instinctively protective.
"She won't be used."
Tammy met his eyes. "Then stop using her yourself."
The words cut deeper than accusation.
Tammy picked up her bag.
"Enjoy the rest of Paris," she said lightly. "Last days are when people make mistakes."
At the door, she paused.
"Oh—and Amaiyla?"
"Yes?"
"Decide who you're aligning with soon," Tammy said. "Everyone else already has."
The door closed.
Silence flooded the room.
Amaiyla turned to Xander. "Are you protecting me," she asked quietly, "or performing for your father?"
For the first time since she'd met him—
Xander didn't know the answer.
And that terrified him.